Bear attacks, ice cream and shameless bragging

I've been a naughty blogger.

I think all of my fans are aware that I've got quite the readership going on. So it is to you, my 3 fans, that I apologize for being such a negligent and naughty blogger of late.

So a quick update on the eclectic effervescence that I like to believe is life.

I got a promotion. No more hemp pants at work. What I've lost in hemp pants, I've made up for in long hours. Long hours sitting at my desk and thinking, "I'm the boss. I'm the boss? I'm the boss!!!!"

Puppy is now 82 pounds. We're officially on a diet. Got scolded by vet.

Going camping tomorrow. Concerned whether our canoe will handle the 82 pound puppy, 220 pound husband, 100 pounds of beer, and massive amounts of equipment. And me. For seven miles.

Afraid a bear will eat me in the woods. Have been researching diligently. Learned that if approached by a bear, one should throw rocks and sticks at it. Hell no.

Running efforts being sabotaged by deer flies. There is no devil. Just deer flies. Have instead contemplated throwing running out the door for a couple months and replacing it with a strict regimen of Ben and Jerry's Creme Brulee consumption.

Did I mention that I'm the boss???

Return to Sender

Although I really hate to do it, sooner or later it typically becomes necessary to pay the bills. God I hate to pay the bills. This is an activity with the tendency to bring out some of my more colorful language and best remnants of irritated adolescent sighs. And because I value my happy home, I'm not always sure it's the best thing in the world for me to publicize how easily I can slide into a fabulously realistic interpretation of a two year old. How dare those crooks at the electric company charge me a "system benefit charge"? I'm quite sure that there is no such thing. Yet I'm told I must pay or sit in the dark. Given the lack of reasonable options, I've decided to nurture my karma through the process of paying.

It is inevitable that once a week, a crinkly envelope will arrive in the mail chock full of colorful stickers and cheesily-themed return address labels. The most recent delivery consisted of cartoon-ish pastel animals prancing around my husband's name and address with italicized words lamenting, "wish you were here..." and "thinking of you..." One was even so bold as to warn, "PAWS OFF!!!" I cannot help but wondering what sort of man this pastel-animal-prancing organization thinks I've married.

So karma. Although I feel very strongly that my money would be better spent on prosciutto and cheese, I do enjoy packing up those little envelopes that mysteriously transport my money across the vast and varied world . I like all the peeling, sealing, sticking and stamping that's part and parcel to the process. Recently, though, it occurred to me how very boring those envelopes are. I think about the person whose job it is to open the envelopes. I bet he or she gets lots of paper cuts. I wonder if s/he ever accidentally rips the checks in the midst of his/her fervor. And if the check gets ripped, what happens then?

If I were a professional Envelope Opener, I think I'd want somebody to reach out to me. And so that's what I do. I don't let those prancing little puppies go to waste. I slap on a return address label and I don't stop there. They always give you stickers with the labels as well, and you might as well put them to use while you're at it. So I seal the envelope with a sticker embossed with "Pilamaya" which means "thank you" in a language that I do not speak. Or sometimes I'll get inspirational and add a sticker reminding the Envelope Opener that "Life is a song -- sing it" or "Life is a dream -- realize it" or "Life is love -- enjoy it." And if I suspect it's an Envelope Opener in particular need of cheer, I may include all three essential instructions on the proclivities of life. If I'm feeling chummy, I'll let that Envelope Opener know that although we've not met, we are still "Friends Forever." Yes, Envelope Opener, FOREVER.

And I rest easily at night, knowing the world is a better place.

Before I'm painted as a saint, I do need to make a confession. As I sit here and type, I'm sharing a Ben and Jerry's with the sweet and gentle soul who is my husband. I am stealing all the big and goopy chunks, and despite my deep and boundless love, I feel only mild guilt. Mostly I feel delight at the squish of cookie dough in my mouth. I'm a chunk whore.

At least I'm giving with my stickers.

Pride

Let's take a moment to reflect on the luxuriousness of women's professional apparel.

I have a job that from time to time requires that I dress "professionally." Actually, it requires it every day, but I just wait until it's do or die before I really take the plunge. So every now and then I find myself in a suit with weird undergarments made of string and wire. And I cannot say that without also saying: Screw trying to avoid the VPL. Screw trying to create boobs. I just want some soft loose cotton. I want granny panties.

In my world, nobody dresses "professionally." Nobody wears suits, unless they want to (and really, who would?) In my world I wear organic hemp flowy pants anywhere I want. And nobody wrinkles their nose and says, "is somebody wearing patchouli?"

Unfortunately, the world has not started to rotate on my terms yet, so sometimes I'm in a suit, patchouli-less. And for some ungodly reason, my employers seem to find it less than suitable to wear Birkenstocks with business suits. I cannot figure this out.

Last week was one of those do or die, "professional-dress" occasions. My work hosted a legislative luncheon. No hemp pants allowed. I asked. Twice.

But I do really love the sophisticated sound of "legislative luncheon." So I figure, what the hell. I go into the day with lackluster gusto. I even put my hair into some sort of weirdly severe tight bun thing that made me look like a newborn alien.

So there we are, my severe alien bun and I, attempting to look professional by holding a clip board and pretending that this means I'm doing something important. I'm wobbling around in my heels with the open toes, which are really not appropriate for the occasion but are my only option because Bella recently ate my only closed toed black heels.

To make my open toed heels even more appropriate, I'm sporting chipped red nail polish and toenails that should have been trimmed a week ago. And I have a bunch of dirt rimming each nail because I stomp around in my garden in those beloved Birks of mine.

Somehow, and it's probably because of my bulging muscles, I get myself nominated for the job of lugging in hundreds of bottles of water, all neatly vacuum packed together. So I'm kind of tip toeing up and down two flights of stairs holding a hundred pounds of water and trying not to break an ankle or tibia or anything, and all of a sudden the little latch thingy on my oh-so-professional suit pants pops! open. And now my pants want to fall off.

What I've failed to mention thus far is that in addition to my fantastic choice of shoes, I'm also wearing the only suit pants I own, which happen to be in a bit of a rough patch themselves. They're about three inches too long because I've convinced myself that you have to be filthy rich to go to a tailor. They're also made of rayon or some other plasticy fabric that's really only meant to hold up through the first three washings. Let me tell you that a year into it, these pants have seen better days.

I bought them in the juniors section of Filenes which means they're really only pseudo-suit pants. They're the type with the really low waist and extra tight rump-al area. In college we used to call these "fuck-me" pants and they were mainly worn by sorority sisters named Jenna with ridiculously small bums. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a deal. Even if it means looking like I'm the one for sale, apparently. These pants are made for dropping. What they're not meant for is twenty-somethings hosting legislative luncheons. Of that I'm positive.

But I digress.

So I'm an hour into the prep for this luncheon and my pants have declared mutiny. The top latch hook thing is just gone. Pants are sort of like dominoes. Once the top latch has nothing to hook to, the bottom latch basically says screw it. Let in the wind. And once the bottom latch calls it a day, the zipper really doesn't feel like cooperating either. Adding a little more adventure is the fact that I don't have one of those ridiculously small sorority sister bums, and my more realistically sized bottom is threatening to bust through any second.

There I was, in a room full of 200 legislators. Every three minute my hands are flying to my crotch and attempting to zip and latch at warp speed. I can only imagine the dinner conversations that night about the odd alien girl with the clipboard and an obsessive crotch habit.

So today I declare mutiny myself. I go into the office for a meeting with our CEO in my organic hemp skirt and tights. I wear my clunky hippy shoes. Pigtails, no alien bun.

Apparently, I'm up for a promotion. Rock on, hemp.