PS....

....what is it about three glasses of red wine that makes you want to put on your headphones and belt out love songs at the top of your lungs?

Read: Cannot wait to move into an apartment. Anywhere. Need a night of cheesy love song belting while drunk on wine.

[Promise to Sugar Bear: wine night will be before classes start. Because after I will be studious, responsible, sober student of veterinary medicine whose only interest is gram negative bacteria and mucopurulent green pus.]

How to make free long distance calls and other ideas that (might) land you in jail eventually.

Today dad and I wandered into the Apple store to check out the MacBooks (don't get excited, we were looking for him). While dad was playing with the laptop, trying to get the hang of the awesome fingering abilities (which I sooooo had to hold back a snort when the cute little Apple Dork mentioned the 'fingering abilities'), I picked up the iPhone because I love it's fingering abilities (*snicker*).

All of a sudden I had an intense impulse to test out the phone. Calling St. Kitts. Twenty-five minutes later I got off the phone with SugarBear and an idea was formed. Who needs calling cards and long-distance phone plans when you can just wander into any Apple Store on a Saturday afternoon and make calls at any of their 20 working phones? Considering how busy they are on weekends, you could potentially make a call at the phone near the front of the store and then meander down to the back corner for another call. I'm pretty sure they won't catch on. Just make sure to mix up the days/times you go, since if there are regular calls at 2pm every Saturday to Japan you can bet their will be cops standing at the door eventually.

And I don't think you can call St Kitts as your one phone call in jail. So going there really isn't worth it.

I love the iPhone.

(since my graphics programs are limited [anyone have photoshop for me?] the funny line under "your credit" should read "What the Hell is Credit? It's FREE.)

(seriously? anyone? free photoshop?)

In other news, my family is insane. While I don't actually have confirmation from a shrink, I'm pretty sure its true.

At dinner tonight my dad described someone as my soulmate and I vehemently denied it because to me Soulmate implies love and marriage and making out. And that was not the case with this person. So my mom begins to agree with me about the Soulmate = Romantic Affiliation part and dad starts seriously defending his definition that Soulmate = Person With Whom You Have Strong Affinity (not to be confused with affinity of chemical substances). Mom tells dad to look it up in Websters, the dogs are panicking because they hear yelling but can't stay away because there's food involved, and I'm just sitting there in disbelief at how a simple comment can become a full-fledged battle royale.

Until we find that Soulmate is not in the dictionary. As if it doesn't exist.

Of course, Wikipedia has a very full and diverse definition here. But then they also have an incredibly colorful definiton of the formerly Canadian turned British pop group b4-4 that states (and I'm For Serious here) "the group performed impromptu rimjobs for the CEO of Sony USA" among other interesting tidbits. So can we really rely on Wiki for important information like the definition of Soulmates?

I'm of the mind that they don't exist at all. But then, I'm still in one of those Glass Half Empty of Vodka phases. So perhaps my opinion shouldn't count either.

This is like the best thing in the entire world. True Story.

Note To Self: lay off on the wine until after writing blog entry for the evening. Or at least save as draft until the morning when head is clearer before publishing.

Heaven is a thin little chocolate covered minty refreshing cookie. Hell is knowing the box isn't for you.

I had my first workout with the trainer at the Y today. My mom kept scoffing at my use of the word "trainer". She corrected me with "instructor". As in: "Those people at the Y are only there to instruct you in the use of the machines, dear."

Ha. Hahahaha.

Hugh absolutely KICKED MY ASS. (yes mom, I said ass. Twice now.)

They start out with an interview to find out more about my personality and fitness history. Of course, the interview can't be held sitting at a table. Instead, I was put on the treadmill at an incline of FIFTEEN and speed of 3.5 MPH. Because it's Super Easy to talk when you are heaving for oxygen.

Gradually, as we finished up our chatting, Hugh brought the incline down and had me alternate walking/jogging with an increase in the jogging time. I was pleasantly surprised to find that as the time passed I was actually able to jog for extended periods of time without feeling like someone was standing on my chest. Seems I've been trying to train my body incorrectly for some time now. Perhaps eventually I'll even be able to run one of those hashes. Baby steps.

On my way out my new Husband-To-Be told me I have a little Dirty Sexy goin on.

How proud he would have been to see me at my next stop. On the way home I stopped at Publix because this weekend is the last weekend to buy Girl Scout cookies.

[I'll pause while you run out to the store for a "loaf of bread".]

I promised some people on GC that I would bring them cookies when dad and I head down there in early April. (Did I mention this trip? No? Later then.) Anyhow, I bought the requested boxes and a few extras as bribes for new friends backup for the customs dogs treats for mom and I. As I walked away from the table $21 lighter and 6 boxes heavier I came to realize that I am now a Girl Scout Cookie Whore. And everyone is staring at the hypocritical girl in her spandex workout gear power walking across the parking lot with the evidence right in her arms.

Thus I will take all 6 boxes and place them safely in my carry-on without opening a single one. Because to be honest, I like the idea of fitting into a size eight (yeah, you heard me right) better than the idea of being a Cookie Whore with a thin mint habit that rivals that of meth addicts.

Thoughts. (Someone should really stop me from thinking. Hello? Anyone?)

I've been wondering lately about this disappointment that I can't seem to shake. Perhaps it's not all about the F word (fail) after all. I think I'm also disturbed at the thought that I just couldn't hack it. Seriously.

I once had a boyfriend who told me in the course of a conversation about travels that he just couldn't see my living in a third-world type of environment. I remember this conversation pretty well because of the hugemongous fight that ensued, where I adamantly defended my ability to adjust to any type of environment. I felt that I was open-minded enough, and flexible enough, to handle living anywhere.

But maybe he was right.

I suppose we all have our limits. I used to believe that I was so self-reflective, and that I knew myself so well, that I had complete control over my limits. But in retrospect, none of us can truly know our limits until we're put to the test. And it's not a huge negative that I failed that test. Because at least I tried.

Saskia, I want you to meet Saskia. You two should get along pretty well. Just make sure you both work on your Active Listening Skills - cause your gonna need them.

Terror Alert: Code YELLOW.

Seriously folks. Our gov'ner should be calling out the National Guard, declaring a State of Emergency. The pollen count has reached a critical high.

And my poor poor car is just sooooo sad. Normally she shines bright and green and happy. Now she's a dull chartreuse and no matter how many times I wash her she is just COVERED 5 minutes later. Unfortunately I have not been able to convince my parents that it's about time we cut down the Centenarian+ Oak Tree that canopies our drive. Thus, each year, I live with this:

You can see the dust from HERE!

Ack! My nose runs just looking at this!

My leaf collection. I'm pretty sure I could make a whole new tree.

My windshield. Boo.

What is the point of having a sunroof?

The left side of the shot is the part of the window that doesn't get washed by the wipers. The right side shows one day's worth of junk since driving yesterday. You also have a nice reflection of the hateful tree that causes this nightmare.

I have to clean my wipers before I can use them to clean my window.

Sadface Car.

"View" from the sunroof.

Course I don't want to imply my car is the only victim of the Pervasiveness of Pollen. Here are some pics from around the house:

Patio table. So clean you want to eat off of it, right?

Grapefruit tree via a sea of haze. On the plus side, the buds will bloom soon and that is a scent I want to bottle and sniff all year.

Even the dog's water bowl falls victim to those wretched pollen thingies.

Sadface patio.

Sadface Front Porch.

Sadface Railing.

This is just a small image of the amazing powers of Pollen. It's EVERYWHERE. I'm seriously concerned that if enough of it gets together it will learn to combine into some massive Blob-like form and chase me.



The Bane of My Existence.

Oh, and have you ever smelled pollen hanging in the air? It's like the lovely scent of honeysuckle, except that this honeysuckle hails from the 7th Circle of Hell.

On a lighter note, here are some shots of the cutest Ball of Fluff ever. Well, top ten anyhow.

I am not amused by your camera flash.



Bask in my glory, mere mortal.

You can't handle this amount of cuteness. I'm so cute that to photograph me in color would melt your eyes.

I am weary of your attentions. Leave me now. I must rest.

Oh, Hai. Don't mind me. Just checkin out your butt.