tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62544360019343890712024-03-13T09:26:06.134-07:00Vaguely SpeakingThe workings of my internal dialogue, externally expressedGretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-76694475715144928852011-05-17T11:56:00.000-07:002011-05-17T11:56:13.394-07:00Making out, why Google chat is awesome and morning tweetsMy new favorite conversation from my very dear friend (you may want to sit down... this one's a doosey):<br />
<br />
<div class="chat out"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><span class="salutation" style="color: purple;"><b>Gretchen:</b> </span>oh! and my morning tweet (I thought you would appreciate): Ah, coffee. The warm hug everyone deserves in the morning. Except you, Brett Favre. You're still an asshole.</div></div><div class="chat in"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><span class="salutation"><b><span style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
Kristy:</span></b> </span>LOL</div></div><div class="chat out"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><span class="salutation"><b><span style="color: purple;"><br />
Gretchen:</span></b> </span>since you're not on twitter I feel the need to share</div></div><div class="chat in"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><span class="salutation"><b><span style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
Kristy:</span></b> </span>love it</div><div class="msg Nth">absolutely</div></div><div class="chat out"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><b><span class="salutation"><span style="color: purple;"><br />
Gretchen:</span> </span></b>and this not drinking thing really makes me clever in the morning</div><div class="msg Nth">weird</div></div><div class="chat in"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><span class="salutation"><b><span style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
Kristy:</span></b> </span>haha, i wouldn't know!</div></div><div class="chat out"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><span class="salutation"><b><span style="color: purple;"><br />
Gretchen:</span></b> </span>I don't really recommend it. It was simply an observation.</div></div><div class="chat in"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><b><span class="salutation" style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
Kristy: </span></b>i love you!!!!!</div></div><div class="chat out"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><span class="salutation" style="color: purple;"><b><br />
Gretchen:</b> </span>haha I love you too!!!!!!!!</div><div class="msg Nth">wanna make out?</div><div class="msg Nth">lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala</div></div><div class="chat in"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><span class="salutation"><b style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
Kristy:</b> </span>lalalalalalalalallala</div></div><div class="chat out"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><span class="salutation"><b><span style="color: purple;"><br />
Gretchen:</span></b> </span>oh my god. I love us</div></div><div class="chat in"><div class="msg 1st"><div class="icon"></div><span class="salutation"><b style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
Kristy:</b> </span>ME TOO!</div><div class="msg 1st"></div><div class="msg 1st">And that's how The Awesome does it. </div></div>Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-7488333038152690722011-05-16T16:48:00.000-07:002011-05-16T16:48:49.872-07:00Breaking Up Is Hard To Do. So's Your Mom.Dear Cyber-Universe,<br />
<br />
Have you ever had to break up with someone you still love, someone you can't imagine living without, someone you've been with for a long time, because you know waaaay down deep inside that in the long run, it's better that you two go your separate ways? Because I just did that. Here I am... less than 6 months from 30, in the middle of the healthiest, most fun, hottest relationship of my life, and I decide that it's time to end it. And I still stand by my decision, but I have people all around me telling me what a good guy he is, how wonderful he treated me, how much he still loves me (these are MY friends... jerks), which I'm left to sit there, feeling like the jerk who broke a good heart.<br />
<br />
It's one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, but I know I HAD to do it. We're trying to remain friends. What are the odds that we'll both still <i>want</i> to be friends after a while?<br />
<br />
Sometimes the only thing that gets me though is the thought that this HAS to be the worst of it. It simply must get better.<br />
<br />
Any advice out there? Kind words? Hell, even call me an asshole... you wouldn't be the first.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-67014859332214206882011-03-03T12:26:00.000-08:002011-03-03T12:26:16.341-08:00No... Thank YOU, Charlie Sheen, you lion-blooded Warlock, youEveryone always says to not fall down the Rabbit Hole. But, man, does Charlie Sheen make it look like a bucket of AWESOME. Below are a few choice quotes that I intend to meld into my daily ramblings as often as possible.<br />
<ul><li>"I’m not bi-polar, I’m <em>bi-winning</em>. I win here and I win there."</li>
<li>"The last time I used? What do you mean? I used my toaster this morning."</li>
<li>"I am on a drug. It’s called Charlie Sheen." </li>
<li>"Most of the time — and this includes naps —I’m an F-18."</li>
<li>"I closed my eyes and in a nanosecond I cured myself." </li>
</ul>Remember when he really started losing it this time? (<i>this time</i>... man, it would be awesome to be a celebrity) When he beat up Brooke Mueller in Aspen? Well, I was home, visiting my mom in my tiny little town just outside Aspen when that happened. And just like when Michael Jackson died... no one there gave a <i>shit</i> about it. <br />
<br />
<u>True story:</u><br />
<b>Me to my older rancher friend with a fu manchu mustache:</b> Did you hear?! Michael Jackson died!<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><b>Fu manchu: </b>I should give a fuck? And that affects me, how?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>(not related... but, because I didn't know how to spell "fu manchu," I had to look it up. And I'll be DAMNED if Wikipedia told me that he didn't have a fu manchu mustache at all... he had a horseshoe (or "biker") mustache. All this time, I've been living a lie.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/95/Hulk_Hogan2.jpg/220px-Hulk_Hogan2.jpg" width="132" /> </div><div style="text-align: center;">Horseshoe (or "Biker")<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <img border="0" height="200" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/d/dc/The_Face_of_Fu_Manchu.jpg/220px-The_Face_of_Fu_Manchu.jpg" width="136" /> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> Fu Manchu</div><br />
<br />
Also, Charlie Sheen needs his own network. Not JUST a show... a damn network. I think he should go use his Warlock powers to take Oprah and her ass-network out and turn it into the CSN, Charlie Sheen Network. You'd watch it, you know you would. It's like the <i>real</i> version of the Truman Show. Fuck. Yes. Win.<br />
<br />
Also, in the battle of Lion Blood and Unicorn Blood, who would win?Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-15538233448033911662011-02-26T15:33:00.000-08:002011-02-26T15:33:58.306-08:00Three years and forever counting...Valentines Day marked three years since I've seen my brother. Tomorrow marks three years since he died. At 21 years old. Of a burst aneurysm in his heart. It's amazing how many feelings come flooding back this time of year. Anger. Desperation. Gut wrenching pain. Sadness. Depression. Bitterness. Helplessness. And the calming feeling that all these things I've been worried about lately, really don't matter at all.<br />
<br />
I went to therapy after he died because I stopped taking care of myself and landed in the emergency room (of dehydration... nothing too serious, but it was enough to knock some sense into me). I only lasted two sessions in therapy, but one thing my theropist had me do was write Derek a letter. It wasn't for anyone else to read, I wasn't going to send it to anyone... she just told me to write. So I wrote. It's not a long letter. There's more humor than sadness. More hope than depression. I read it at least once a year. And I cry every time. But it's what gets me through some of those toughest times.<br />
<br />
There are certain things I can't do without thinking about him... certain songs that still get me... certain people that are still hard to be around... but it's getting better. <br />
<br />
I'm not going to share the letter I wrote to him, but one sentence from it reads:<br />
<blockquote>Your boys are leaving for Iraq once again in a few short days. What I wouldn't give for you to be going with them. I know they would do anything for you to be there with them. Spending time with them, getting to know them and seeing the pain in their eyes proved what a wonderful friend, son, boyfriend and brother you were... and without even trying.</blockquote>So here's to you , Derek. I know you're out there, with a shit-eating grin on your face, looking down and looking after all of us. I love you. Ooo-Rah! <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZi3mSjKEraGMZQVrRZjftpMnEpNABVs8bBKlBD1-3FqfR-iNJkp0YGPQzEove4kFQOMkH_JavbOICIrTGuodsY8w5gOpS1NIRJAMMCgzR9EBKYeFe5cQR0ut9vw7ZjCcwRG8dfTOdDXM0/s1600/Country+Jam+07+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZi3mSjKEraGMZQVrRZjftpMnEpNABVs8bBKlBD1-3FqfR-iNJkp0YGPQzEove4kFQOMkH_JavbOICIrTGuodsY8w5gOpS1NIRJAMMCgzR9EBKYeFe5cQR0ut9vw7ZjCcwRG8dfTOdDXM0/s320/Country+Jam+07+005.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlok8ysaMIMrwE2iu0QuY188DSJ_wdXoqWvKegt65XvSeyfv4z05kswyoNsqmMNpac6YlMbjeez7e9D330zysKuGpw0wWSHd8I0PnSv5XfbLiRQM825YC8tMt3Pu_yjdLAWSgo_0Z4txzx/s1600/Country+Jam+07+034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlok8ysaMIMrwE2iu0QuY188DSJ_wdXoqWvKegt65XvSeyfv4z05kswyoNsqmMNpac6YlMbjeez7e9D330zysKuGpw0wWSHd8I0PnSv5XfbLiRQM825YC8tMt3Pu_yjdLAWSgo_0Z4txzx/s320/Country+Jam+07+034.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhns59yVJ2ZlDY_AURM6JrBxy-qmqo6RCeylb5NssycLmciYQ_wJDyRtY9rna_Nx_TenqH1g90KqEvStvQ68Hl6l_OqT2x-Ag7XEqOdTmO7TTd9t_SkBHdpzzCTcw8VEoXQy58gPlL79N0b/s1600/DerekUSMCOfficial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhns59yVJ2ZlDY_AURM6JrBxy-qmqo6RCeylb5NssycLmciYQ_wJDyRtY9rna_Nx_TenqH1g90KqEvStvQ68Hl6l_OqT2x-Ag7XEqOdTmO7TTd9t_SkBHdpzzCTcw8VEoXQy58gPlL79N0b/s320/DerekUSMCOfficial.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-45768297070360831192011-01-04T11:53:00.000-08:002011-01-04T11:53:42.728-08:00Sunrise, Boozy Lobsters and Crazy People<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/fcf74ee6.jpg" width="238" /><br />
<i>This is what it looks like when you get up at dark-thirty to catch a flight. Kinda makes it worthwhile.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Between furlough days, the holidays, and travel days, I've been pretty busy. The pic above is from the window of my flight leaving Santa Barbara going to Los Angeles on my way to Tahoe for Christmas. (Jesus that makes me sound like a snob)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/d57f53b9.jpg" width="238" /><br />
<i>This lobster is hammied.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've been drinking. A lot. And it's fun. This lobster was guarding my champagne at a local seafood restaurant during happy hour a few days before New Years.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/6aba4f5f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/6aba4f5f.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>It's no wonder I drink so much...</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
Then, it was time to go back to work, and deal with all the crazies. No wonder I drink. Sweet baby Jesus, please find me a new job.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It was a good Holiday Season. I went a little crazy, but that tends to happen. I'm lucky to still have friends and JD to support me and pull me out of my crazyhead when I need them too. More pics to come, and petty posts, I promise.</div>Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-60720865767868444242010-11-18T10:57:00.000-08:002010-11-18T10:57:38.445-08:00Laundry vs BoozeTomorrow is my first day of being furloughed. I have high hopes for the additional weekend day. My tentative plan: wake up at the same time I would if I were actually going to work. Work out for at least 45 minutes. Make a healthy breakfast. Do the 16 loads of laundry I have been avoiding but now must take care of because I'm out of underwear and I can't afford to go buy more since I'm furloughed. Play Frisbee golf. Go to Happy Hour (after all, it is still Friday).<br />
<br />
What will most likely happen: wake up at 11 hungover because even though last night was Thursday, it's like Friday since I don't have to work the next day so I should drink as much as possible, crawl to the kitchen to inhale a banana. Take a nap on the couch. Throw up said banana. Take another nap. Watch reruns of America's Next Top Model. Make a real breakfast (with cream cheese and lots of carbs) around 2pm. Watch more America's Next Top Model. Go frolfing. Meet friend(s) at happy hour (what?! It's Friday!) to start the cycle over again.<br />
<br />
Anyone want to lay down some bets? Over/Under? <br />
<br />
I'm trying so hard to be an adult, but sometimes it's just so boring and predictable. That, and I really like booze. And cheese. And unicorns.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-28835317878764482572010-11-10T16:49:00.000-08:002010-11-10T16:49:27.513-08:00Friends who are kocked up, Disneyland and FurloughWell hello there! It's been so long! First I <i>must </i>apologize for leaving that horrific post of my disgusting food up for so long. It made ME not want to visit my blog. My stomach still turns just thinking about it.<br />
<br />
So, I must be honest... the goings on recently have not been very exciting. I have quit all of my <a href="http://vaguely-speaking.blogspot.com/2010/08/does-it-still-count-as-exercise-if-im.html">extracurricular activities</a> (although, as the boyfriend, JD, pointed out this morning while I was in the shower poking at my foopah -- that lower belly fat that simply doesn't go away -- commenting on how I miss drinking beer and "being active" since I quit everything... he claims I never quit... I simply <i>retired</i>. Semantics, my friend, semantics). And although I may not be doing too many active things other than working out my thumb via rapid-clicker-fire on the couch... many of my friends have bee <i>gettin' busy</i>... in the dirty sense. I know this because HOLYSHITTHEYAREALLKNOCKEDUP. All of them. Knocked up. Like little Mormon kids. <br />
<br />
Some have already had their first kid and are on to their second, some are just going in for the first helping, some are married, some are living in sin preparing to raise a bunch of heathens... I don't judge... I don't care... just stop making me buy you presents and then forcing me to watch you open every. single. one. I'll buy you a present to take home and open. If I have to watch you open it in front of me, I'm going to run up screaming, snatch it back, and run away. Far, far away.<br />
<br />
I promise you this: When I get knocked up and have a shower were I invite everyone I've ever met so I can get all kinds of free shit (half of which I won't know what to do with because <i>oh my god, I put that WHERE? and WHHHHYYYYYY?) </i>I will NOT sit there and open every single present, admire it, get up to thank the gift giver, admire again, and comment on the cuteness, or practical-ness, or thoughtfulness of the gift. And don't waste your money on a card. Write who it's from on the freaking bag in sharpie and put that money toward the gift. Or toward yourself. I don't care. But I don't like to read. It's going to be a civilized party, like a wedding, where you get to open and comment on your gifts in the privacy of your own home, which allows you to be completely honest and return things at will. And everyone gets drunk. You're welcome.<br />
<br />
Now, I usually don't mind buying gifts for people who are crossing off one of those items on life's to-do list. However, we're in a recession. And I just got furloughed. That's right. The government makes the official announcement that we are no longer in a recession, and I get freaking furloughed. 20% across the board. Friday's off, and one day less pay a week. All I have to say is: ouch. My problem with getting paid less, or going on a budget, is that I always tend to go out and <i>totally</i> blow my wad in one foul swoop the day after I start anything official.<br />
<br />
In unrelated news, I'm going to Disneyland this weekend.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-9043074481832616792010-11-02T13:47:00.000-07:002010-11-02T13:47:46.151-07:00What the HELL am I eating?!We're in a recession, so I've been cooking more at home. I have also been on Weight Watchers for the last four months and have lost a pretty decent amount of weight (and is also a reason to cook more at home). So when I sat down to eat today's lunch, which consisted of leftover "Vietnamese Noodle Salad" I was okay with it. Until I looked at it. All I saw was worms.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/photo-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/photo-4.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>What the hell have I been eating?! Now it's just sitting on my desk, staring at me, threatening to jump out of the Tupperware container and suck my brains right out of my head.<br />
<br />
I think I really need to rethink some of my cooking choices. Seriously... anyone have an idea?Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-17360067353057069622010-10-21T16:21:00.000-07:002010-10-21T16:21:52.078-07:00I'm a Member of the Mile High ClubWikipedia says <i>(so it much be true)</i> that "The Mile High Club (or MHC) <i>(<-- Seriously? MHC? It needs an acronym?)</i> is a slang term applied collectively to individuals who have sex while on board an aircraft in flight." <br />
<br />
Question: When was the last time you were in an airplane, and you were cruising at 5,280 feet? Probably NEVER. Because if you were, you'd CRASH right into the ROCKY MOUNTAINS. And it would be about half-way up the mountain, not just grazing the peak and rolling down the other side. No... you'd go SPLAT! Right into the side.<br />
<br />
If being a member of the "MHC" (<-- so lame) means you've boned at a mile high, well, then, I'm a member, and have been for longer than I'd like to admit. Growing up at 6,700 feet will do a lot of things for you:<br />
<ul><li>Give you amazing stamina for sports/running/marathon-between-the-sheet nights due to the lack of oxygen your brain gets from being up so high</li>
<li>The sun in a friendly reminder that it's hot. put some damn sunscreen on because you're 6,700 feet closer to the sun than you would be if you were at the beach and damn that shit is hot and intense.</li>
<li>There's nothing to do above 5,280 feet because there are no decent sized cities, so you learn how to drink, and drink a lot.</li>
<li>On the bright side, you can <i>really</i> booze it up if you even get down to sea-level.</li>
</ul><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c4/Airbus-Bordtoilette.jpg/220px-Airbus-Bordtoilette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="thumbimage" height="206" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c4/Airbus-Bordtoilette.jpg/220px-Airbus-Bordtoilette.jpg" width="220" /></a>I had a point to this post... oh! right. The MHC is lame and untrue and you don't have to bone in the micro-shitter on a plane to be a "member." How does that conversation go, anyway? "Hey... wanna put your ass on the counter inside that bathroom by aisle 24?" "Only if you're foot goes in the toilet" "But then it'll turn blue!" "Whatever, douche, my ass will forever be infected. "Oh hang on, I think that fat guy is taking a crap in there. He's been in there for a long-ass time" "Speaking of asses... get on the counter, biotch!" Ew. diseases. Gross. <br />
<br />
And also, every single person I grew up with is also a member due to the need to entertain ourselves because the town was so small, and because we lived at such a high altitude. And when you have nothing to do at 16... you drink. Then eventually, you bone. It's the natural progression of things.<br />
<br />
Mile High Club my disease-infested-ass.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-39065553125851001932010-10-07T16:44:00.000-07:002010-10-08T11:05:07.717-07:00Inside the BeltwayWashington D.C. is an amazing town. It's where laws are debated, passed, and vetoed. It was designed to be the most intimidating city on the planet (and actually IS the most intimidating city on the planet). It holds almost as much history as Jamestown, Virginia (the first English settlement in America, for you non-American-history peeps), and it has some of the best museums in America honoring people and cultures from all over the world.<br />
Even though I was there for work, and was stuck in conference rooms for the majority of the time I was there, I still managed to get out and have a blast (sacrificing sleep in the process). Seriously. Here's my timeline (and I'm not sure how I survived):<br />
<ul><li>Friday</li>
<ul><li>Arrive at 6pm</li>
<li>Dinner at 7pm</li>
<li>Drinks until 4am (totally excessive) Saturday</li>
</ul><li>Saturday</li>
<ul><li>Up at 10am</li>
<li>Meeting from 12pm-9pm</li>
<li>After dinner drinks til 10pm</li>
<li>Excessive drinking until 2am Sunday</li>
</ul><li>Sunday </li>
<ul><li>Up at 6am</li>
<li>Meeting from 7am-5pm</li>
<li>Drinks at 6pm</li>
<li>Dinner at 7pm</li>
<li>Passed the **F** out at 11pm</li>
</ul><li>Monday </li>
<ul><li>Up at 6:30am</li>
<li>Meeting from 8am to 12:30pm</li>
<li>Lunch meeting from 12:30 to 2:30pm</li>
<li>Depart for airport (to arrive back in CA at 11pm. HOWEVER...)</li>
<li>Missed connection in Denver, stay night in Denver with old high school friend.</li>
<li>In bed at 1am (3am East Coast Time) </li>
</ul><li>Tuesday </li>
<ul><li> Up at 10am to catch 12:30 flight</li>
<li>Home by 3pm</li>
</ul></ul>I. Might. Die. <br />
<br />
However, the <i>places</i> I did all the excessive consumption is what makes DC amazing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://www.ebbitt.com/images/newsroom/grants_bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="http://www.ebbitt.com/images/newsroom/grants_bar.jpg" border="0" height="158" src="http://www.ebbitt.com/images/newsroom/grants_bar.jpg" width="200" /></a><u>Old Ebbitts</u>, the 4th busiest restaurant in the country, one of the oldest, open til 3am, with a late night menu starting at 11pm, the best bartender on the planet (Brian, the Scot who loves Reggae music) and not one, but THREE amazing bars to choose from. Also a standard stomping ground for Congress and the President (many of them).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/01/84/51/5c/best-mojito-ever-with.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/01/84/51/5c/best-mojito-ever-with.jpg" border="0" height="149" src="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/01/84/51/5c/best-mojito-ever-with.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><u>Ceiba</u>, only the best mojitos, shrimp and taco nachos and fish tacos in the city, and within walking distance from Old Ebbitt Grill and the White House.</div><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://www.drewkopf.com/candidates/president/images/art/willard/willard-photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="http://www.drewkopf.com/candidates/president/images/art/willard/willard-photo.jpg" border="0" height="150" src="http://www.drewkopf.com/candidates/president/images/art/willard/willard-photo.jpg" width="200" /></a><u>The Robins Nest</u> at the Willard Hotel, this is <i>only</i> the place where the term "lobbyist" was originated. There's enough history here to knock Mrs. Deveroux, by High School History Teacher over (and she wasn't a petite woman).</div><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">These are just a few. There are more, but I will have to reserve them for another post. For now, I bid adieu to the place that has given me so many wonderful memories, so many sleepless nights, and rarely changes from year to year.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/065d43e0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/065d43e0.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</div><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></div>Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-11322493853420962682010-09-23T16:54:00.000-07:002010-09-23T16:54:20.411-07:00Borrowing Money from FriendsDo you ever borrow money from friends? Do you lend money to friends? I'm not talking about a HUGE amount, like a down payment to a house, or thousands of dollars to bankroll their illegal midget fighting habit in the basement (I'm not sure if that means midgets fights are illegal, or if the midgets themselves are illegal... as in, not in America legally). I'm talking about a hundred dollars, <i>maybe</i> two hundred dollars at a whack. Sure, we all borrow and lend ten bucks here and there, but at what point does it become too much?<br />
<br />
I have recently realized that the only time I lend friends money is when I think I will benefit in some way. Don't have enough to go out with me to that really nice dinner? I'll spot you some cash. Can't quite afford those airplane tickets so we can go on vacation? No problem, we'll just put it on my card and you can pay me back later.<br />
<br />
It. Has. To. Stop. Right. Now.<br />
<br />
There are now two people who owe me money, my best friend and my boyfriend. And I've tried to cash in, however, they are both perpetually broke and can't pay me back right away. However, each has dealt with the situation very differently. Allow me to clarify...<br />
<br />
The BFF, Tabby (as mentioned earlier when I thought <a href="http://vaguely-speaking.blogspot.com/2010/06/wait-our-boyfriends-grew-vaginas.html">our boyfriends grew vagina's</a>) and I went on vacation to New York. I bought her plane tickets for her 30th birthday (I know, I'm awesome), and we were going to stay with her friends who live in the city, so it was supposed to be pretty cheap. Oh, I must mention... Tabby doesn't have a job, hasn't had a job for quite some time, and it currently enrolled in grad school, but does not have financial aide. That is all good, no biggie, good for her for furthering her life. Problem being? The trip ended up much more costly than anticipated (New York pricey?! No way!), so I spotted her some cash here and there just so we could both enjoy the trip. By the end of the trip, she ended up owing me around $350. This was in May. It's now almost October. AND she's paid me back everything BUT $100. No problem. She wants to work out a payment plan, add interest, etc. (One of the many reasons I love her... she's got amazing pride and won't back down for anyone).<br />
<br />
The BF, JD, wanted to BUY ME a plane ticket to fly to Detroit to meet his parents, attend a wedding where I would meet all of his hometown friends AND hit up the family BBQ for Labor Day. Aw... how nice! <i>HOWEVER...</i> The man bought the tickets on Priceline, named his own price, then was disappointed when we weren't flying during a convenient time. Like an asshole, I piped up and offered to pay for the <i>difference</i> in the price of the tickets. So, here's what <i>actually</i> happened... (brace yourself, there are numbers and math coming up) (jeebus I love bullet points)<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Price of original tickets: $600</li>
<li>Fee to cancel ticket on Priceline: $200</li>
<li>Cost of new tickets: $750</li>
<li>Amount I'm owed from JD (in his mind): $400</li>
<li>Amount he was willing to pay me last week: $300 (never received)</li>
<li>Amount he is willing to pay me this week: "$100-$200" after I requested payment</li>
</ul><br />
Now I'm pissed, irritated, and want to scream at him to grow up and give me my damn money! Am I wrong? I'm sure some of this is my fault... I offered, I didn't lay down the rules ahead of time, I'm just NOW asking for payment... but really, do I have to ask for payment from my own boyfriend when he's the one who owes me money? I don't know how this works, but I'm never doing it again, I'll tell you that much.<br />
<br />
Except maybe if there's a real midget fight that needs to be bankrolled. Damn that would be awesome.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-72163289268495317192010-09-10T15:33:00.000-07:002010-09-10T15:33:57.491-07:00Extra Points for Wearing It NOT on Halloween<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.halloweenandcostumes.com/images/Product/medium/4134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.halloweenandcostumes.com/images/Product/medium/4134.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But seriously... how bad do want it?!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(<a href="http://www.buycostumes.com/Fraggle-Rock-Red-Adult-Costume/68736/ProductDetail.aspx">Feel free to purchase for me anytime now</a>)</div>Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-54705147750286669482010-09-09T15:59:00.000-07:002010-09-09T15:59:59.134-07:00Goooooooiiiiiiooooonnnnnssss!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Detroit Lions have a fight song. This crazy guy comes out of some random tunnel after they score (field goal, touchdown, ANY score). He sings the fight song. I LOVE it. But, at the end, they all scream "Gooooooo Lions!" except that no one pronounces the "L" in "Lions" so it sounds like Goooooiiiiiioooonnnnsss! Listen carefully, you'll hear it (ignore my hysterical laughing in the background. I just couldn't contain myself. Also, keep in mind this was a preseason game, which is why no one is there. Maybe.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzHR5LPUYehK05xT7vydVVARCK0-N_1AAcNiHaOTrdUhle99UHP6sLeCyZDIgOR-KESCRAFb7FdFP84V2MhfQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-42823128094644612832010-08-27T14:56:00.000-07:002010-08-27T15:15:07.184-07:00Does It Still Count As Exercise If I'm Drinking The Entire Time?I like to consider myself a pretty active person. I'm not the <i>most </i>active, but, I mean, I live in California, so there are all kinds of tree-hugging, bike riding, dirty feet, granola eating hippies (sorry *mom*) that like to show us normal people up when it comes to exercise (and the worst part? They don't even consider it exercise... it's "getting closer to nature" or "enjoying Mother Nature" or some other bullshit like that). On the other hand, if I lived in the Midwest, I could just stay home and bake pies all day and eat pies all night. That <i>is </i>what mid-westerners do, right? Please tell me it is, because if it's not, then I need to rethink my retirement (you know, the time when you quite working, so you no long have clients to impress, you've been married for 458 years, so it doesn't really matter that you gained a bunch of weight because you've stopped boning your spouse a long time ago anyway, and you get to stock your house full on candy for when the grand-kidlets come over so you can get them all cracked out on sugar then send them home with their parents.). So if pie making and eating is not on the short list of things mid-westerners do, I might sink into crisis mode.<br />
<br />
Shit! I just realized I don't even LIKE pie.<br />
<br />
While I come up with Plan B, let's get back on track...<br />
<br />
I do the following sports on a regular basis:<br />
<ul><li>Softball</li>
<li>Bowling</li>
<li>Frisbee Golf</li>
<li>Competitive Sailing</li>
</ul>I also do the following things <i>while </i>doing the above mentioned sports: DRINK.<br />
<br />
So, my loyal readers/followers/posse (can posse be plural? posses? posse'? posses'?), I pose this question (wow, 'pose' is really close to 'posse'): Does it still count as exercise if I'm drinking the entire time I'm doing said activity? Sometimes I actually work up a sweat. Sometimes I smoke a cigarette. (Look at me! Dr. Seuss, y'all) But I'm still active, right?!Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-60747401600972897772010-08-20T16:38:00.000-07:002010-08-20T16:38:18.580-07:00My Apologizes To My Future ChildrenYou know those anti-depressant commercials that make you want to slit your wrists? There's the weird one with the little sulking white blob thing that gets all happy and bounces around at the end, and there's that lady who walks around to sad music feeling sorry for herself.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibBeB8M_bhERNLvw1qO4WdV9Rq3MLjP37mzD4jqS3JuB8nHsqMBulS5B7ELcoFSJt7rt9J9c_9Sgqx2ZsqindjN66JXHNkfiOJxi73RvSFfuq0QAywR33o7kJ6Bm_DQB400716cni08rs/s1600/prestiqdoll.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibBeB8M_bhERNLvw1qO4WdV9Rq3MLjP37mzD4jqS3JuB8nHsqMBulS5B7ELcoFSJt7rt9J9c_9Sgqx2ZsqindjN66JXHNkfiOJxi73RvSFfuq0QAywR33o7kJ6Bm_DQB400716cni08rs/s200/prestiqdoll.png" width="200" /></a><a href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTClohBzrDQWW1kPrdE4jLBl5_Sg-YY5-hD6WDmsbqGL55zH_Q&t=1&usg=__P9GY9Hkdn-Ytr0YHV975Fr3dsCg=" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTClohBzrDQWW1kPrdE4jLBl5_Sg-YY5-hD6WDmsbqGL55zH_Q&t=1&usg=__P9GY9Hkdn-Ytr0YHV975Fr3dsCg=" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Well, it just dawned on me that I might be the only person I know who wants to PUNCH HER FACE IN, as opposed to giving her a hug. Man am I going to be a pain-in-the-ass mom one day.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-54905118670354448802010-08-12T16:41:00.000-07:002010-08-12T16:41:27.932-07:00Lunching with the Ex. Also, things I do to drive myself crazy.I just had lunch with my ex... the one with the <a href="http://vaguely-speaking.blogspot.com/2010/06/running-into-exes-not-axes-although-it.html">awkward grocery store run-in</a>...<br />
<br />
Things I said would or wouldn't happen that did or didn't:<br />
<ul><li>What I said I wouldn't do: Have lunch with him. </li>
<li>What happened: We had lunch. I swore that wasn't going to happen. But he called at my office from his office phone. Sneaky, very sneaky. Why I said is still something I'm trying to blame on someone, but haven't figured out who yet. I'll get back to you on that.</li>
<li> What I said I WOULD do: Tell him that he's a selfish asshole (but in nicer words). </li>
<li>What I didn't do: I didn't tell him how I think he's a selfish asshole for doing what he does to girls (not in the dirty-sex way... THAT is just fine).</li>
<li>What I said I WOULD tell him: That I'm on to his evil ways and will spread to word to all other females I come across</li>
<li>What I DIDN'T do: I didn't tell him that I know the REAL reason he broke my heart and that I plan to ruin his life with it.</li>
<li>What I said I WOULDN'T do: Make this a regular thing.</li>
<li>What I did/didn't do: I didn't say "no" to the invitation to go to a movie next week. BUT... I didn't say 'yes' either. </li>
</ul>All in all, it was actually a nice time. There's a reason we had such a good time together. Because we're both <i>a good time. </i>If (and I emphasis the IF IF IF IF IF) he wants to be JUST FRIENDS, then I might consider it. However, if he wants to get the stick-it-in-okay, then I'm out. <br />
<br />
So... THAT just happened.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-81471388941242618232010-08-09T16:00:00.000-07:002010-08-09T16:00:14.259-07:00Where's My Beer?! Oh yeah! Here it is...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://babyblogaddict.com/wp-content/uploads//2009/05/beer_holster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://babyblogaddict.com/wp-content/uploads//2009/05/beer_holster.jpg" width="240" /><br />
Beer Holster to the rescue!</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I, um, do a lot of things around the, um, house (one-bedroom apartment), where, um, I need (want/require) a beer, but I can't carry it because I'm being too, um, productive with my hands (playing video games). Yeah, that's why I need this! (Not because I usually always have a beer open, but can rarely locate it, even though I have a one-bedroom apartment and don't have a lot of crap laying around, yeah, I still lose it all the time). So, please, support my (drinking) habits and keep me happy.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-86041253079314124852010-08-05T13:56:00.000-07:002010-08-05T13:56:10.082-07:00The Obligitory Birthday FortnightAugust 2nd was the last birthday I will ever have in my 20s. A friend (who is 30, with a house and a husband and a child), was sure to point that out a few days prior to my actual birthday. I hadn't thought about it until RIGHT THEN. I freaked out for... about 4 seconds, then didn't care anymore. Age is not what matters. How awesome you are is the only thing that counts. And, since I'm pretty damn awesome, I really don't have anything to worry about.<br />
<br />
It's been a tradition that started in college, that you don't just get one day, or the weekend closest to your actual birthday to celebrate. Oh no. You get an entire fortnight. And since everyone seems to be catching on that this will be the LAST fortnight in my 20s (I mean seriously, do these people just sit around thinking about this shit all long?!), it's a BIG fortnight. I had a softball game on the actual day-of (hence the misleading hippy-vibe I am giving off in the picture below--team uniforms), but the team surprised me at the dive bar across from the field with drinks and a cake! We lost the game, and I was burping up a very strange cake/beer situation in the middle of the 3rd inning, but it was pretty awesome.<br />
<br />
(What is REALLY AWESOME is that it says "Adolf" on the chalkboard to the left of my head in the picture below. AND I'm wearing hippy-Nazi red) <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0jN0GitFU216RIva68wDHrG065qHdkWfgaVDcEY_jDmrZx4YZRwPuyZoSCsmanBBBQ5zY5EJIKnadg1gkJHU0e7PNT6g3W87RjcD22pV20vIIUdu454qikZodPiR44KPXxaQ3xb7eci7/s1600/candles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0jN0GitFU216RIva68wDHrG065qHdkWfgaVDcEY_jDmrZx4YZRwPuyZoSCsmanBBBQ5zY5EJIKnadg1gkJHU0e7PNT6g3W87RjcD22pV20vIIUdu454qikZodPiR44KPXxaQ3xb7eci7/s320/candles.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN8QPk6diCTxT0B0RcQjxd5UcZ1Nj5C9ZBEiBru9TtC1fJ83vQkQPoHfpjAmV_zbOj1N0xsCM6qshWWIc3XgguhMrXuSNJuqRdL_kolxonBsMRwKKKZ_Zm0A2iFr4I6yU9eAudS6wnIG15/s1600/bday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN8QPk6diCTxT0B0RcQjxd5UcZ1Nj5C9ZBEiBru9TtC1fJ83vQkQPoHfpjAmV_zbOj1N0xsCM6qshWWIc3XgguhMrXuSNJuqRdL_kolxonBsMRwKKKZ_Zm0A2iFr4I6yU9eAudS6wnIG15/s320/bday.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
This weekend there are two surprise-days happening. One where I get to wear yoga pants (my friends are awesome) and one where I'm going to see an airshow.<br />
<br />
AND THEN, on Monday, I'm going to see Miranda Lambert at the Ventura County Fair for the second time in two months. (see?! Told you I was awesome).<br />
<br />
Now that I've spent at least 5 minutes of your time talking about ME, I want you to wish me a happy birthday fortnight and move along with your day.<br />
<br />
Be sure to check back soon. Why? Because I said so.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-9896668584205515412010-07-23T16:25:00.000-07:002010-07-23T16:25:51.131-07:00Working from home, or getting paid to watch the Game Show Network? Also, blowjobs and metaphysical crapMy office is getting a new paint job (not as fun as a blow job, but about as messy) and new carpet this weekend and the first part of the week next week. I spent all day yesterday packing, moving boxes, moving furniture, labeling, lifting things over my head, and wish works comp could kick in ASAP (but that would require me to get hurt first, so... never mind). The state of my office is currently this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/photo.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>The actual state of my office is usually just as cluttered, but more in a metaphysical way... (I don't actually know what metaphysical means, and when I googled it I only got far enough in the definition to know that it's something about philosophy and it's not easily defined. I figured that was close enough and went with it. Frankly, I'm surprised you're still reading this fine piece of literature at all).<br />
<br />
So... there will be some magical men who come into the office this weekend to paint (NOT give blow jobs... at least not that I'm aware of), then on Monday and Tuesday, different magical men will come to lay carpet (giggity). I have no idea how they are going to do this. But what I DO know is that I get to work from home on Monday and Tuesday. So... my question remains:<br />
<br />
Am I getting paid to work or am I getting paid to watch Game Show Network?<br />
<br />
I'll be sure to let you know.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-33513174754205847212010-07-20T16:40:00.000-07:002010-07-20T16:40:21.982-07:00Things I Want That You Should Buy MeFrom time to time I will be posting things that I want, but can't justifying buying for myself. Therefore, I will be posting them here, hoping and praying and holding my breath that YOU will buy it for me. There will be cheap things, expensive things, out of reach things and possibly fake things (don't you DARE include unicorns with fake things... THEY ARE REAL!).<br />
<br />
You might also want to purchase some of these things... and if you actually end up buying them, I would really appreciate it if you would buy two and give me one. Why? Because I'm awesome, of course!<br />
<br />
First on my list, are these <a href="http://www.animicausa.com/shop/vmchk/Kitchen-and-Tabletop/Magnetic-Vase/tpflypage.tpl.html">amazing vases</a> that will help me make more friends. Okay, it doesn't actually SAY that on the description, but I'm pretty sure if I had these at my house, people would want to come over. Oh, and when you buy them for me, please also include a tablecloth, a pretty one, because I think you need a tablecloth to trick everyone into thinking you have floating vases.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.productwiki.com/upload/images/magnetic_vases.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.productwiki.com/upload/images/magnetic_vases.jpg" width="319" /></a><a href="http://www.animicausa.com/shop/vmchk/Kitchen-and-Tabletop/Magnetic-Vase/tpflypage.tpl.html">Amazing, Friend-Making, Magnetic Vases</a><a href="http://www.productwiki.com/upload/images/magnetic_vases.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-90191282064776527982010-07-14T11:25:00.000-07:002010-07-14T11:25:17.347-07:00Celine Dion, Pictures in Port-a-Potties and ME!It seems I've taken a bit of a hiatus recently... I promise not to do that very often. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Please come back! Jack! Come back! Jaaaaaack! (insert Celine Dion music here)<br />
<br />
Just to keep you up to date, some things I've done (and haven't done) while I haven't been blogging (and because I feel the need to use bullet points whenever possible): I...<br />
<ul><li>Marched in the 4th of July Parade, carried the Arizona flag, and did NOT have anything thrown at me over the AZ immigration law</li>
<li>Went to Tahoe and rode 20+ miles on a bike over two days (this is good for me)</li>
<li>Due to the above mileage, I bruised my taint on the damn bike seat</li>
<li>Was convinced to join Weight Watchers (possibly because 20+ miles on a bike was considered to be pretty awesome)</li>
<li>Have NOT attended a Weight Watchers meeting yet</li>
<li>But HAVE looked at buying a food scale</li>
<li>Have NOT bought the food scale</li>
<li>Am rethinking why I just brewed beer if I'm going to join Weight Watchers and will not be allowed to drink any of it. Assholes.</li>
<li>Finally got motivated to fix the array of random crap that is wrong with my car (and have agreed to hand over my first-born as payment)</li>
<li>Wore a very short, low-cut dress to the dealer to try and get a deal on the work being done (did not work) (maybe it will work better after Weight Watchers actually starts) (also, if it's called a "dealer" why don't they actually cut DEALS? They should be called "Screwers" or "We Don't Actually Care About Keeping You Happy/Fed/Clothed/Sheltered")</li>
<li>Ordered an iPhone 4</li>
<li>Found out they are SUPER back-ordered and don't actually work that well. Damn.</li>
</ul> So... the sun finally came out. It's almost the middle of July and <a href="http://vaguely-speaking.blogspot.com/2010/06/june-gloom-oil-spills-sinkholes-and.html">June Gloom</a> has finally left us. Took long enough. It's supposed to be 100 degrees for the rest of the week. And that's the forecast for the area NEAR THE OCEAN. I plan to drink a lot. And also have some water. However, the unexpected visit of Mr. Sunshine has me in a particularly wonderful mood. It's like I've found my rainbow. The Lovers, The Dreamers, and Me. There's no leprechaun though. Double Damn.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/Country%20Jam/CJ-Port-a-Potty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/Country%20Jam/CJ-Port-a-Potty.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As promised, here is the pic of me in the porta-a-potty at Country Jam... please keep in mind that at this time, I had already been drinking for 4 straight days, have been shitting in these very same port-a-potties for the same amount of time, and have also been camping, in a tent, with two other girls.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-34779328161514683312010-07-07T12:00:00.000-07:002010-07-07T12:00:21.484-07:00You Look Like a Girl Who Can Take Care of Herself"I'd tell you to watch out for that guy over there, but you look like a girl who can take care of herself."<br />
<br />
What. The. Fuck. Does. That. Mean.?<br />
<br />
I'm not a cage fighter. I'm not a stick figure. I'm healthy, yes. Black guys love my ass (true story). But I'm also not a pie-eating, couch surfing Midwesterner (no offense to any of the above).<br />
<br />
My question is: when someone says that "you look like a girl who can take care of herself" ... what exactly does that mean? Does it mean you look like a bitch? You look tough? You look confident? You look like you really know how to flick the bean? I need some clarification so I know if I should go beat this person's ass or not.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-36650371147346324232010-07-02T15:06:00.000-07:002010-07-02T15:12:10.483-07:00Happy 'Merika Weekend!I loooooove me some American pride. I cry during the Star Spangled Banner, I get chills whenever there's a fly-by, and celebrating the birth of our fine nation is one of my favorite holidays. I am an all-American girl from a small town who knows how to shoot a gun, flies a flag outside her apartment and will spend more time at the monuments in Washington, DC than at the bars. The sad part is, most people would jump to the conclusion that I am a redneck, white trash, a card-carrying member of the NRA (and since when would that be a BAD thing?)... rest assured, I am none of those things. In fact, I'm pretty classy y'all. I sail. I'm a member of the Yacht Club. I've been out of the country more than most (and not just to Canada and Mexico). I live in Santa-Fucking-Barbara for Pete's sake.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>But I digress...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/SB%20Tea%20Party%202009/SBTeaParty2009004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://i71.photobucket.com/albums/i124/sbgretch/SB%20Tea%20Party%202009/SBTeaParty2009004.jpg" width="320" /></a>Somehow, I have managed to get myself a spot in the 4th of July parade. I will be carrying the Arizona flag down the main drag in Santa Barbara before jetting off to two BBQs and some fireworks. How these things happen I have no idea. It's probably because I'm awesome.<br />
<br />
I just want everyone to take pause this weekend, think about why most of us get an extra day off of work, why we allow ourselves to stuff our faces with pig-parts no one wants to think about and the wonders of barely and hops. Happy Birthday 'Merika! Thank you for being you!Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-74552961835590121872010-07-01T16:39:00.001-07:002010-07-01T16:39:39.540-07:00The Crazy BenchThere's a bench across the street from my office where all the homeless people camp out to sing, preach, beg and play instruments. However, they all seriously suck at playing their instrument of choice. I mean, you're homeless, there's no place for you to go, no house for you to clean, no one to pick up from school or camp or practice, (and let's face it, I'm pretty sure your to-do list isn't very long... 1.Eat 2.Beg 3.Sleep 4.Repeat)<---I'm fucking Dr. Suess over here... (I mean, not actually <i>fucking </i>Dr. Suess because he's dead, I'm pretty sure, and it would be gross to fuck a dead guy, I just mean that I'm awesome at rhyming) the least you could do is learn how to play your ONE instrument decently. Is it too much to ask?!<br />
<br />
Anywhoo... I work on the second floor, and when I look out my window and across the street, this is what I see. Today at work, I went crazy. Crazy like goofy, hyper, annoying and needy. So I decided instead of risking my career, I'd go join the crazy people on the bench for a bit. However, I got out there, and no one was there.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://desmond.yfrog.com/Himg249/scaled.php?tn=0&server=249&filename=l6wt.jpg&xsize=640&ysize=640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://desmond.yfrog.com/Himg249/scaled.php?tn=0&server=249&filename=l6wt.jpg&xsize=640&ysize=640" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I know, totally not a flattering picture, but I have a point here...</i></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
Are you thinking what I'm thinking?<br />
<i>"What the FUCK is up with her hand?!"</i> I decided the crazies were channeling my hand and took it over. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">In the end, the bench worked. After 5 minutes I moved from the sun to the shade, then 15 minutes later I stood up, leaving the crazies behind, and headed back up to the office. So maybe it's not the homeless' fault that they are crazy. Maybe they catch it from the bench (I left my crazy there, so someone's bound to pick it up, right?), maybe it's the bench's fault. <br />
<br />
Aw, who are we kidding, homeless people suck.</div>Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6254436001934389071.post-81937248568380057432010-06-30T17:03:00.000-07:002010-06-30T17:03:48.175-07:00A 12 day hangoverJust wanted to let all my interwebs know that I'm alive... I'm just still hungover, and my hungover storytelling is not quite up to par. However I will leave you with a few facts from the weekend:<br />
<br />
<ul><li>The last picture I took on my camera was of me, sitting in the port-a-potty peeing.</li>
<li>Hand sanitizer is NOT a good substitute for toilet paper.</li>
<li>Keith Urban is a whiny bitch, but he's pretty good eye candy.</li>
</ul>Pic of port-a-potty to come soon, I promise.Gretchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07003588150994944110noreply@blogger.com0