Things I Adore, Things I Abhor

[I used to do this post regularly. If you don't believe me, read the evidence.]

5 Things I Adore:

• Hugh Laurie. Must. stop. renting. House. from. Netflix. Obsession. worsens. daily.
• Manda of Whoa Camel. That girl is the shizzle. Nothing but props to the mighty Zombie fighter.
• Toasted Raisin Bread with butter. Even if it is organic raisin bread that set me back $4.99 and has sunflower seeds in it. Most disconcerting.
• Sleeping in my bed. Boom and I slept in the bed for the first time in 2 months. It felt freaking awesome.
• Fwengebola. No, I don't know what it means, but he's my new blush (blog crush). Too, too funny and has the same amount of sex I do. (yes, that means none.)

5 Things I Abhor:

• Water stains on the ceiling. The unpleasant discovery made whilst writhing orgasmically on my bed. Good thing I clarified they were water stains, eh?
• Birthdays of deceased people. I should have had a lemon meringue pie in your honor, dad, but it was just a little too much to contemplate.
• People who don't make eye contact. Would it really kill you to say a pleasant Hello, co-worker? Frankly, I'd be fine if it did turn out to be toxic to you.
• Lack of available companionship in this damn town. The same profiles from 4 years ago are on match.com -- and they are still searching for dates. Yep, that plan is going to work.
• Hummers. The vehicle, not the activity.

So, not bad for a hump-less Hump Day. I'm sticking with the positive -- Adore wins!

Tell all your single friends, this girl needs a life.

XO, JamieSmitten

I'm in Love!

Meet my new man. He plans to accompany me everywhere for a long, long time.





He knows he's not my first. That honor goes to battle scarred google who will stick around because he's that kind of guy. He's also 0.6L size and sometimes, you need a little guy:





To go all Gray's on you, SERIOUSLY, people, SERIOUSLY. Buy a Sigg aluminum water bottle. You'll save a gazillion acres of landfill and you won't feel guilty when I take your plastic bottle out of the trash and put it in the recycling bin.


I recommend you go to BayingHound and buy your Sigg from Rachel. She has tons of variety and will email you when out of stock items are restocked. She even sent me a free one of these and I can't tell you how much fun that's been.


If you are one of those 'must purchase goods in actual stores rather than online' dinosaurs, Dick's Sporting Goods is carrying Sigg bottles too. What do you have to lose? If you hate it, you can RECYCLE IT.



Tell all your single friends, make love, not landfill.*





XO, JamieSmitten




*Also available on a Sigg bottle!!!!!

When Basic Skills Atrophy

Is it just me or is everybody losing some of the abilities we formerly took for granted?

I have accepted the fact that no matter how many Thank You notes I write, my handwriting has gone to shit. I spend too much time tapping away at a keyboard and not enough time wielding the mighty pen. Since I'm conscious of the deterioration, I write more slowly if anyone other than me is expected to read it.

I no longer have phone numbers memorized. Before the memory function was a standard feature in phones, you had to actually REMEMBER the number or fumble through an address book. [Digression: My Grammy had one of those AWESOME telephone lists where you slid the pointer down to the appropriate letter and then pushed the button to magically reveal the right page. Looked like this:


I'm not sure if I loved this because it reminded me of the game Mystery Date (where you turned the door knob to reveal a boy!), but it was one of my favorite things to play with at Grammy's house.] With cell phones and memory dial, I can barely remember my VoIP number. That's got to be contributing to brain cell death.

Final and most damning evidence? On Sunday, I was UNABLE to transport ice cube trays to the freezer without sloshing half the contents on the floor. I remember using ice cube trays. In fact, I used them well after most of my friends had moved to automatic ice-makers. So, it has probably only been about six years since I last traversed the 2 feet between sink and freezer. I had even pre-opened the freezer door and cleared a shelf, but to no avail. So there I was with coffee splattered all over the floor, freezer door and front of the refrigerator. Because I only went to the dollar store to buy ice cube trays so I could make espresso cubes for my iced americanos.

Tell all your single friends, I used to have mad skillz.

XO, JamieSmitten

Tasty!

Salt and Vinegar potato chips with sour cherry gels. Texture isn't great, but it's an interesting flavor combination.


And no, I haven't been drinking.



Yet.



Now what wine will pair well with..........





Tell all your single friends, I'm not eating junk food, I'm creating a flavor sensation.




XO, JamieSmitten

Help! She's Making Me Match!

It is just plain weird. I'm a Scorpio. I'm supposed to be the one in control. But that isn't the way it works in my relationships. Well maybe with men, but certainly not with my girl friends. I'm not complaining -- if it weren't for my forceful female friends, I'd languish at home with Boom and reruns of House.

So one of my determined female friends has just informed me that I will be having a profile on Match.com and I will be expected to date men, not just mock their spelling and grammar from the safe harbor of the sofa. I tried to explain that I've done Match.com. Heck -- I've done eHarmony, SantaMatch, Inkdate, Plentyoffish, and AnimalAttraction. I regularly scan GreenSingles looking for that perfect 6'4" animal loving well-read vegetarian with broad shoulders who lives on the west coast and only needs me to complete the picture. I try.

But I'm not trying hard enough is the feedback from DFF. She also knows me well enough that she has already said she will help write the ad, pay the money, and post the darn thing. Her enthusiasm is almost invigorating. Until I remember the actual dates I had from my previous Match.com foray.

Date #1: Lunch date at a local hangout. His profile was positively erudite and I was enthralled. When I found out a co-worker was also emailing him, I quickly suggested lunch and he said yes. I probably wore a little too much lipstick, but damn it, I was excited. He was tall and good-looking in that imperfectly charming way that I like (see previous post) and he was interesting. We didn't lack topics and the lunch ended only when we both had other places we had to be. Then came the email two days later. "I had a nice time, even though we didn't feel a connection." What?! I fired off a way harsh response that I hadn't realized I was auditioning for soulmate, etc. He responded tersely that clearly, I was a lunatic and thank goodness we hadn't planned another date. Miffed. For quite some time, I was. I ran into him a year later while walking Boom and he literally took two steps back and said, "Oh. That's a really big dog," with a hint of fear in his eye. Couldn't handle either of us, so it would seem.

Date #2: Drinks at a local bar. His profile was a little spare, but I was able to glean doctor and well traveled. That should do nicely, I thought at the time. Of course, a veterinarian would have been better, but I'm open, right? No immediate physical attraction, but he wasn't bad looking, just a little too buttoned down. We talked easily and found out that we both had divorced parents, dads with wanderlust who took up with inappropriate women, and mothers who lived in Florida. Things took a turn for the worse when he bemoaned the lack of chess partners in Richmond. "There's nobody at my level." It soon became clear that he was snobby. He was also persistent and insisted on walking me home, foiling my perfect plan of having an easy escape route. Fortunately, Neighbor John (slayer of mice and a charming gay man) arrived home as I was holding the line on the front porch so Stuffy McChessSnob didn't get any ideas. I called out to him in my most flirtatious manner that he certainly had been out late and he had some explaining to do. He approached warily, but soon read the situation and stayed chatting with me until S McCS took the hint and beat feet.

I'll spare you my non-Match.com blind date story -- although the part where he asks to be dropped off on the side of the road is pretty funny. Suffice to say, I'm not much of a dater.

But if DFF says I should be, well maybe she's right.

So I'm going to do it. I'm going to post a profile. Sometime soon. Really. If you have any suggestions on how to sell the Smitten, please leave them in the Comments section.

Tell all your single friends, if you know a 6'4" veterinarian with broad shoulders and a wicked sense of humor, he's needed at Match.com STAT!

XO, JamieSmitten

Hot Like Fire

In no particular order. Because I feel the need for some hotness.

I need to go to bed -- because this guy almost made the list:

Tell all your single friends, Smitten needs a man.

XO, JamieSmitten

Not Really Any Different

My adorable four year old niece came to town a few weeks ago for lunch and a trip to the children's museum. Lunch went well -- as I had cleverly picked a place with PB&J on white bread (fancy!)and applesauce as a side dish -- but I was not prepared for the experience that is a children's museum.


[Note: I LOVED going to the Toronto Science Museum when I was a kid and have enjoyed the science museum in Richmond as well. How was I to know a children's museum would be so different?]


Well let me just tell you, children's museums are no different than the dog park. My evidence? Read on:

• Pack mentality rules. If one dog races over to the water bowl, 11 others follow. If one child picks up a bucket to collect plastic "apples" pneumatically shooting out of tubes, every other child will go to the same side of the four sided apple tree and fight over the one apple that came out on that side. And what kind of life skill is apple picking anyway? Seriously, that would not be a good career bet in Richmond.


• Fancy bows in the hair mean trouble. The sissy dogs with bows are always the ones that pick a fight and then run yelping back under their owner's feet when a dog even barks at them. Similarly, the little princesses with bows in their hair attempt to control all in their immediate domain. In the cafeteria section, one little despoTina commandeered every piece of fake cake and plastic sundae and screamed bloody murder when another child came near. Yes, I took a plastic sundae when she looked the other way. Sue me.


• Repetitive actions are more fun if you are under 7 years of age. Older dogs will chase the ball a few times, but it takes a young dog to retrieve for hours. This children's museum has a pretend grocery store and checkout line. I watched in ever growing horror as the children picked boxes off the shelf, stood in line, and watched passively as another child rang up their purchases. There wasn't even play money. It was like a Stepford mini-mart.


• Look where you walk. Pretty standard rule at the dog park considering the varied manner of canine output. But would you expect it at the children's museum? Stickers, discarded on the museum floor, are amazingly resilient and survive the car ride home and a walk to the ice cream store before affixing themselves to the oriental rug in the foyer. There's some sand issues too and some sort of kitty-litter-like substance that covers the dinosaur bones in the excavation pit.

So, like the dog park, I recommend short visits if it will make your little one happy.

Tell all your single friends, hold out for the science museum.

XO, JamieSmitten

Oh My God I Feel Good

Now I remember why I enjoyed smoking pot.

All of a sudden I can feel the curve between my big toe and my second toe and it throbs with life. It is positively orgasmic. I've missed that feeling.

I'm a little drunk too, so let's not give all the credit to the herb.

Tell all your single friends, you DO want to go the van between sets.

XO, JamieSmitten

Ester of Wood Rosin

You've got no idea where I could possibly be going, do you? Well let's just see...


So I'm hanging at the hospital with my peeps, Manda and Mr. A, and we're shooting the shit talking about all manner of things because Manda's got some time to kill while she marshals the forces and kicks the CRAP out of the bad blood. And I'm nothing if not good for some shit shooting.


So we've covered the decline of home improvement cable shows, we've discussed some books, we've determined that the male nurse does not look like Greg Kinnear's twin, I've explained how cycling accidents in Sweden can have massive repercussions, and of course, the topic turns to ester of wood rosin.


O.K., I can't remember exactly how it came up, but I managed to find a segue to one of my favorite bits of useless knowledge.


[Digression: I read labels. I think it has a lot to do with spending a lot of time in Canada and reading the french descriptions on everything. In fact, somebody whispering "de blé entier" in my ear would make me hot. I think. Seriously, somebody can try that.]


Anyhoo, one of my favourite Canadian treats was a pop (soda for you southerners) called Tahiti Treat. Yum -- no redeeming qualities whatsoever, but tasted like a fizzy Hawaiian Punch. And Hawaiian Punch was not something my mum served. Kool-Aid occasionally, but not Hawaiian Punch.


[Again with the digression: Before you go correcting me, it was Tahiti Treat in Canada and Tahitian Treat in the US.]


One of the ingredients in Tahiti (and Tahitian) Treat is Ester of Wood Rosin. I know! How cool is that? I've never bothered to look it up, but heck, it is certainly that Little Something Extra,
right?


Well, I vowed to finally look up the properties of that magical additive because if I'm going to throw it into the conversation, I better be able to elaborate. The short answer is

Glycerol esters of resin acids of wood rosins used as food additives in beverages and chewing gum are those prepared from wood rosin that is harvested from the stumps of the longleaf pine (Pinus palustris) and purified to a beverage-grade ester gum.

The long answer had to do with studies by the World Health Organization that involved "fecal excretions by rats of unlabelled glycerol ester of wood rosin." Better off not knowing, I say, but undoubtedly, it is probably a good thing that I don't drink the stuff any more.


I'm pretty sure I've seen it in other drinks though. I'm just saying.


Tell all your single friends, some people will drink anything.

XO, JamieSmitten

Nothing Like a Cool Breeze

Just got back from walking Boom. A longer walk today because his knee finally seems to be on the mend. We meandered, we stopped to sniff other puppies, we chatted, returning home about 30 minutes after we started.

Which is when I discovered my pants were unzipped.

Sigh. I thought it felt cooler than the forecast.

Tell all your single friends, check it!


XO, JamieSmitten

This Better Not Be A Trend......

I think the universe is trying to tell me something. When I went into the bathroom on Thursday and found my brush in the bottom of the toilet, it was moderately annoying. But what can you do?

But today, when I was wrestling with the paper toilet seat cover at work (Digression: I know I shouldn't love paper toilet seat covers because of the environmental waste, but goddess help me, I do. As a kid, I thought they were the epitome of class. I now know that the epitome of class is throwing up discreetly into a cup at a party instead of making a big scene by spackling the wall, floor, and other party goers, but definitely as a kid -- paper toilet seat covers. So yes, I use them even though my environmental consciousness winces every time. But the dispenser in the first stall closest to the door [I digress further -- apparently the stall closest to the door has the least amount of germs because most women go as far into the bathroom as they can to perform their business, according to an article I read.] of the ladies room on the third floor of my office building has become cranky. Sometimes I get the full seat cover, sometimes I get only the center piece which does you no good and forces you to use a one thigh position that can be awkward depending upon your shoes.) while still holding my ATM card and withdrawn cash in one hand and thinking, gosh, I sure hope I don't drop this. PLOP. ATM card sinks to the bottom of the toilet bowl.


The good news is that I had yet to use the toilet, so I was able to retrieve the card and give it a thorough soaping down in the sink. I did begin to wonder at this point if bad luck really does come in threes. But hey, it's Friday, it's 5, and I'm out the door.

An hour or so later, evening commute completed and handsome Boom walked, I go into the downstairs bathroom (not the hairbrush toilet) to change into my workout clothes. (Background information: I'm changing in the downstairs bathroom because Boom and I have been living on the main level for about a month now, barring showers, while his injured ACL heals. Being fairly extroverted and having one gay neighbor and one legally blind neighbor, I often change in the dining room -- no blinds -- since I'll be hopping on the elliptical there directly after. But today, I had to go, so I changed in the downstairs bathroom, discarding work clothes on the counter top.) I complete the wardrobe change, stand up, and whilst reaching to flush the toilet, I knock one sock into the swirling water.


So, to sum up:



Bad luck DOES come in threes



and



The universe is clearly telling me that I'm headed for the shitter, one possession at a time.





Tell all your single friends, stay away from the plumbing!




XO, JamieSmitten

Grrrrrr

Bad haircuts aren't cheap. In recent weeks, I have purchased the following in a vain attempt to tame the mane:

brush (flexi bristles -- for smooth blow outs!)
leave-in conditioner (fight that hair dryer damage!)
smoothing serum (Ha! I defied you and your claims!)
creme pomade (great, now my oddly styled hair smells like vanilla cake)
texturizing fiber paste (again, my hair has conquered you and your pitiful hold)
extra hold hair glue (anybody seen "There's Something About Mary?" 'nuff said)

So, roughly $26.

That WAS the total -- until this morning when I found my hairbrush in the toilet.

An 'if it's yellow, let it mellow" toilet, because we are all about the water conservation here in Maison de Smitten.

The interesting news? NOBODY EVEN NOTICED my hair was styled without the aid of a brush. Clearly, we have all given up and are just averting our eyes until it grows.

Tell all your single friends, drop the lid.


XO, JamieSmitten

Working For The Man Can Be Painful

I am not long for the corporate world. I can't survive in an atmosphere that generates these thoughts. These are actual sentences received via email. At a bank. Where there are "principle" associates (strangely lacking in moral fiber).

We are extremely conscious of not wanting tool proliferation.

-- from an email comparing the merits of three different software packages. Try to keep a straight face while reading that. I couldn't. I also couldn't stop from saying out loud, "too late." Because my office is nothing if not full of tools. (Not you, Becky, Connie, and Stephano!)

Please let me know in case of any questions, again this is really important b'coz it will help us arrive at a proper budget estimate.

-- from an email requesting assistance in defining project scope. The italics were the sender's idea of cool. Just in case his teen-a-licious spelling of 'because' didn't make that point. I swear I had a mini heart attack when I read it. Seriously.

Tell ALL your friends, good grammar isn't negotiable.

XO, JamieSmitten