The Proposal Story

On December 21, 2018, Hank and I were flying up to New Hampshire to spend Christmas with My Mother and family (remember traveling to spend holidays with family?! Quaint). Our layover in Baltimore (our favorite!) became increasingly longer as our flight up to MHT kept getting delayed and delayed and delayed. As you could probably assume, we spent that time bar-hopping our way through BWI, natch.

By the time we finally made it on a plane north, all I wanted to do was pass out and not be woken up until we had landed, taxied, parked, and our row was exiting the plane. You can imagine my frustration when at one point, still very much in the air, Hank nudged me awake to say, “hey, the pretzels are here.” The pretzels? The pretzels?! The miniature bag of miniature sawdust molded into the shape of miniature pretzels?

I took one AirPod out of my ear and barked at him, “you woke me up for fucking pretzels?!?” and promptly threw the bag of pretzels at him with one hand while replacing my AirPod with the other. He got up, presumably to head to the restroom, and I closed my eyes and attempted to fall back asleep. This wasn’t such an easy feat, as pretty soon some announcements were coming over the intercom. SHUT UP, PEOPLE.

And that’s when I realized. That voice on the intercom sounded vaguely familiar.

Oh shit.

I took both AirPods out at this time and managed to catch the latter half of what ended up being a lovely marriage proposal. I’m assuming the first half was lovely as well, but I’d have to take the word of other, more awake passengers, as I managed to miss that.

Not going to lie to you, my initial concern was that Hank had had one over-priced airport margarita too many and had tackled the flight crew and commandeered the PA system. Once I was assured that all of this was premeditated and Southwest-sanctioned (and after being prompted by several old ladies yelling at me, “welllll?!?!?!!?“), I said yes!

Apparently the pretzels were a ruse; Hank had told a flight attendant as he boarded the plane in Baltimore what he wanted to do, but then I went and promptly fell asleep, putting a real damper on those plans. As we inched closer and closer to our destination, his window of opportunity was closing. So, right before we began our initial descent, she nudged him that he better make his move and make it quick. Enter the pretzels.

And there you have it. Swearing: check; assault with inanimate objects: check; the potential for Hank to be tackled by an air marshal: check; avoiding a federal no-fly list: thank god. A love story for the ages. If nothing else, at least we’re on-brand.

Hi, I’m Ruby, and I’m a born-again Disney virgin

This past weekend brought me back to Disney World for the first time as a sober person since I was… 16?  18?  The last time I was at WDW (and most definitely not sober) was the week before I quit drinking (related?  YOU BETCHA, but that’s a story for another time).  As we live three hours away from WDW, I try to get up there once a month, but I skipped March for crowd and baby-sober-bird-not-ready-to-leave-the-sober-safe-space-nest reasons.  But I was ready now.  Ready to see what my happy place could look like minus the crippling anxiety inducing “happy” juice.

Hank, still happily drinking, wanted to bounce around to our favorite bars Friday evening and Saturday morning as if hell bent on forcing me to face what I was missing like a Clockwork Orange-style viewing of a beloved ex’s homemade porn with their latest conquest.  But it was fine.  My usual bartenders didn’t even bat an eye when I ordered a Diet Coke.  I suppose, in their line of work, one knows better than to ask, “awww… are we expecting?!?!”  Nope, just trying not to slowly kill myself.

No, but really.  It was fine.  This isn’t a “woe is me, I’m not allowed to drink the awesome sauce anymore!” party.  This is a, “dude — been there, done that, got the t-shirt, lost the memories, killed my Lyft rating, I’m over it, now pass the bread pudding” situation.  In other words, that “seductive” porn I’m not allowed to look away from?  More like an awkward montage of sweaty grunting, flapping, and peaking too early.  I’m good.

A totally separate blog post can be written on the depressing game one has to play while participating in Weight Watchers and attempting to simultaneously drink and eat food.  Spoiler alert: it’s not really possible.  Now that I don’t drink, I GET TO EAT FOOD.  And somehow I still don’t go over my daily point allowance.  Life is my new found all-I-care-to-enjoy character buffet, and I’m here for it. 

Saturday afternoon I found myself alone for the rest of the day and set out to tackle Epcot.  Still full from brunch and not drinking, what’s a girl to do at the booze and food capital of WDW?  I’ll tell you what I didn’t do but easily could’ve: played a drinking game called “take a shot for every homemade shirt you see that has to do with being wasted.  Double shot for these shirts worn by tweens.”  I know, I know, Drinking Around the World is hardly new, and the homemade t-shirts about it are just as played out, but man… there’s something about really paying attention to it for the first time.  Try it. They’re not subtle.  Nor rare.  And the entire families in matching “I’m Trashed” shirts — including the 12 year olds?!  What kind of message are you trying to send to your kids?!  (And yes, I get the irony of *me* saying all of this, given the past 38 years of my life, including an entire book I wrote and profited off of).

I ended up enjoying a tasty treat that in my previous life, I wouldn’t have allowed anywhere near my mouth lest the calories accidentally be picked up by the wind and land on my skin.  And I purchased a delicious coffee drink — both items I found myself enjoying far more than any alcobeverage I can ever recall truly savoring.  And after I greedily sucked the cinnamon sugar off my fingers, I headed into the gift shop and bought myself a swanky new mug for all of my tea and coffee drinking that I now do and require more mugs for.  “$20 for a mug?!” I likely would’ve scoffed three months ago before putting it down and instead heading to Cava del Tequila to pay $17 plus tip for a small, weak margarita that would’ve only lasted me 15 minutes at best.  Chump change now.  I’m flush with cash and calorie allowance.

All in all, I may have been a little scared and apprehensive to return to what was once my den of iniquity (odd that Disney doesn’t use that phrasing more in its marketing), but I found that all was well in the most magical place on earth.  And not only that, but I’m looking forward to exploring and discovering it even more as a newly sober person.  After all, I can easily tell you the top five bars to go to for theming, creative cocktails, or craft beer selection–but where to find a decent mocktail or the nearest coffee kiosk?  No fucking clue.  Guess I get to be the idiot tourist now.  Not only that, but I can now refrain from looking at the dry Magic Kingdom as the weakest park!  Score one for Peter Pan complexes everywhere.

My next trip is scheduled next month for my 100th day sober.  I’m treating myself to a couple of nights at the Wilderness Lodge.  Dare me to get an “I’m Celebrating” button? Or I can always make myself a homemade “I’m Not Trashed” t-shirt to wear to Epcot.

Where do we go from here?

Do I just hit the ground running? Ignore the gaping hole that is eight years’ of silence? Pretend like I never left? What would that look like, exactly? If my rereading of the blog (taking in three years’ worth of posts in the span of a week, which, not only would I recommend to no one, but was mentally traumatizing enough for me that it could be used as a form of aversion therapy) is any indication, popular themes back in the day seemed to include:

1. Chilies

As I mentioned in my reentry post, the chili game here has been weak. You’d think that chilies would like growing in the tropics (and allegedly, they do), but I’ve had no such luck. Honestly, I think my real success in the past had to do with keeping them indoors, but I don’t really have a spot to do that here. Next.

2. Disney Pins

If Sam ever resurfaces, he can rest easy knowing that there will be no talk of Disney pins in 2021. (That’s not to say that I don’t still have an obscene amount of pins, but you try trading for pins during a pandemic. You’d have better luck operating a kissing booth for charity. And actually, one of my 749 pandemic attempts at boredom relief was to start selling shit on eBay, mostly Disney pins. I made over $1000. Still somehow have an obscene amount of pins, but I digress.)

Actually, there probably doesn’t need to be a ton of Disney talk in general, as, even though I go to Disney World monthly and am active in the DisTwitter community, that can live there. No need to muddy the waters. This here blog can stay mostly Disney-free. Next.

3. Bitching about travel

Oof. This is a tricky one, what with never traveling anymore. Long gone are the days of A-List status, critiques of rental cars, and Google stalking take-out menus. My road warrior days ended in February of 2014, and I started my current position here in April of that same year. No travel. But a strange thing happened: it turns out, when you’re happy in your home environment, you’re no longer desperate to jet off to somewhere else every week. Weird.

But, luckily for me, Hank continues to travel for work (pandemic, shmandemic), so I still get to flaunt a Southwest Companion status and see the inside of American Airlines Admiral’s Lounges. Well, I mean, before COVID. And eventually (three weeks and counting until shot #2!) after COVID. I haven’t left the state of Florida since 2019. TWENTY NINETEEN. I’m going fucking insane. INSANE, I TELL YOU.

So, I guess, unless I start writing up window shopping travel fantasies of where I’ll jet off to as soon as I can, I got nuthin’ for now. Next.

4. Bitching about neighbors

As I assaulted regaled myself with the blog posts of yesteryear, I found myself most entertained by my neighbor sagas. I definitely don’t miss those jackasses, but they sure were entertaining to complain about! Oh, yeah, that’s right — I FINALLY sold my godforsaken condo in Massachusetts. This was… maybe 2015? Hard to say; I’ve blocked it from my memory. That and the $20k I had to give to Bank of America to settle the difference between the sale price and what was still owed on the mortgage. Or the final tenants I had that tried to sue me because they were using a three season porch as a walk-in closet, and their clothes got moldy. Fuck that place so hard.

Anyway, our neighbors here are mostly benign. They’re all retirees and retirees’ parents. Well, except for the douche diagonally behind us who, upon moving in last year, took it upon himself to remove every tree on his property so that there was NO privacy, started skinny dipping in his pool post-privacy removal, and can be found most days YELLING LOUDLY at his FOUR Akitas. No one should have an Akita in southwest Florida. Let alone four of them. Also, did you know that in addition to providing a nice curtain from your neighbors, privacy trees can also muffle noise? Man, I miss those trees. Next.

5. Weekend Recaps

Honestly not sure why I ever felt the need to write these. They were mostly boring and repetitive and in no way added any real color or humor around here. But I suppose it’s nice to have a record of just how much time I spent in dive bars in North Carolina in case that ever becomes a necessary metric.

Weekend recaps these days could mostly be copied and pasted from one weekend to the next and closely resemble, “binge-watched Netflix. Grilled some meat. Played spades with Don and Lisa. Went out on the boat with Brenden and Sara. Way too fucking crowded around here. I hate tourists and snowbirds. Binge-watched Netflix. Went to Publix. 40% of people there not wearing masks. I hate people. Binge-watched Netflix.” Rinse and Repeat. Next.

(Exceptions made for Disney weekends, but then that would violate the No Disney Talk rule. Tricky.)

6. Cats

Always a good subject. Going back through three years’ worth of Bird was both amazing and gut-wrenching. I miss that cat so fucking much. Anyway, we have Cash and Wynton now. Cash is Hank’s cat; he’s an all black cat who’s less of a cat and more of a wild Florida panther that we keep in our house on the condition that he not eat us in our sleep. He’s three years old and conned his way into our home. You see, when we went to the shelter for Hank to pick out a cat, he pretended to be sweet and loving (Cash, not Hank) and actually fell asleep in my arms as I held him and walked around trying unsuccessfully to look at other cats. Once we got him home, he cackled maniacally and yelled, “SUCKERS!” and has since been a free spirit who likes to hang out with us, but don’t think about picking him up or expect him to sit on your lap any time soon.

Then there’s Wynton. He’s a flopsy pumpkin-colored squirrel. I adopted Wynton three weeks after Bird’s passing. Maybe too soon, but not only am I incapable of being Without Cat, but it ended up being perfect timing, as we brought him home exactly one week before we ended up in lockdown. Yup, that’s right, Wynton is one of those pets who’s never known a world where I’m not with him every single day (minus monthly WDW trips). Wynton, 1.5 years old, is as sweet and silly as can be. I’ve yet to get him sleeping on my pillow a la Bird, but no one’s Bird perfect.

Meanwhile, just to throw a wrench into the Cat Report, we’re actually looking to adopt a third cat! Believe it or not, it was Hank’s idea (I swear — between the cat love and his being a Disney Annual Passholder for over five years now, you’d barely recognize him from the NC days). I think he gets a little jealous when we’re in one of our multi-hour Netflix binges, and he looks over to see Wynton snuggled with me, but when he calls Cash to come do the same, Cash just laughs and then goes back to doing Cash things. Don’t get me wrong — Cash is great, and when Hank is working from home between travel, Cash spends his days in Hank’s office while Wynton’s in mine. It’s obnoxiously cute. But Cash just won’t submit to the cuddles. That withholding bastard.

Cats as a potential blog subject: NOT Next.

And that about sums up everything I ever talked about. So just to review our results here, that leaves us with *checks notes* 100% cat talk.

Ship it.

What? You want more variety than that? My word. Well, let me dig deep and see what I can come up with…

Ruby’s Recovery Report

I have a feeling that this could quickly veer into the Disney category of blogging in so far as it’s a niche topic that 99% of you won’t understand nor give a shit about. But then again, that never stopped me before, so buckle up!

The Proposal

By special request of Mrs. Brian, I shall regale you all (eventually) with the tale of how Hank finally popped the question (spoiler alert: I said yes).

Random and Sundry

Whatever I damn well please.

And in that spirit, I shall soon be dropping my next blog post: A Weekend Recap About Being Sober at Disney World; No Mention of Cats.

HAHAHAH This must be what Cash feels like when we try to get him to bend to our will. SUCKERS.

What a long, strange trip it’s been

It’s been 13 months in lockdown now, which means, like most people, I’ve run through every conceivable past time to keep from losing my mind (except for making sourdough bread; I refrained from that nonsense).  I got super into working out.  Then got super into being lazy.  I binge-watched anything and everything I could think of.  I watched every animated Disney and Pixar film.  I attempted to get into classical films (and failed).  I made enough soup to stock several freezers. I tried adult coloring books.  I gardened.  I puzzled.  I eBayed. I even got back into making jewelry.  I suppose it was only a matter of time until I arrived at this point, here, staring down the New Post screen of WordPress.

When I had the potentially terrible idea to get back into blogging, I wondered to myself, “do I bother dusting off RubyRoark, or do I start fresh?”  And before I could answer that question, I felt I needed to go back for myself and reread it all.  From the beginning.

Holy.  Shit.

I find myself wishing I had a time machine and could go back and tell 2010 me how things will be today.  Not because I wish to change anything.  No warnings or cryptic messages necessary.  But because I want to tell 2010 me to calm the fuck down.  It all turns out alright.  Seriously.  I look around at all I have and all I’ve done and I think, “you know… if I could teleport 2010 me here right now for a Behind the Music style in-person special… I think she’d be pretty pleased.”  Granted, she’d probably be pretty confused about the whole pandemic situation and that netbooks never caught on, but otherwise…

Hank and I eventually became Mr. and Mrs Roark.  Of course, I’m still me, so nothing happens linearly or normally.  We dated for more than eight years before he proposed (on a Southwest flight over the intercom, of all ways).  And thanks to the pandemic, our initial wedding plans had to be shuffled a bit and ended up just being us and Lizzy in a Disney Skyliner gondola with our officiant performing the ceremony via Zoom.  Granted, I’m still me, so those initial plans that were scrapped only involved an extra dozen people and a yacht on Seven Seas Lagoon.  I told you ten years ago when shopping for a wedding dress with Lizzy — I’d never wear one of those!  And I meant it.

I also meant it when I said I’d never have any kids.  I’m 38 and loving life with just Hank and two cats.  Sadly, they’re not Bird and Dizzy.  We lost both of them last year.  Bird, very unexpectedly, and Dizzy a little less so.  My heart broke for both of them a million times over, but it also made way for our current boys, Cash and Wynton.

You know who is still alive, though?  Rhett.  Barely.  Man, reading back on the anxiety I went through trying to relearn a stick shift… oy.  Better 2010 me than current me.  But now I’d have it no other way.

What else?  Let’s see… I finally made it to living in Florida.  Actually, we’ve been here for seven years now, if you can believe it.  I barely can.  This is officially the longest I’ve lived in one place since… middle school?  I’m already sort of starting to feel the itch to move on, but I can’t tell if it’s real or just a pandemic side effect of never leaving my house.  It’s a lovely house, though.  Palm trees all around and a big, deep pool.  We use a coconut for a front door stopper.

Reading back through the 2012-2013 posts was also rough.  Spoiler alert to 2010 me: life doesn’t magically fix itself by moving south and in with your boyfriend.  I was not a happy camper in North Carolina, no matter how hard I pretended to be.  Ironically, our move to Florida had nothing to do with Disney and everything to do with my being laid off and then being offered a job in Fort Myers.  (Getting to bounce up to Disney once a month is merely an unintentional perk).  And also ironically, moving to Florida was one of the best things we ever did (also having nothing to do with Disney).  I finally came into my own.  Found renewed confidence.  Happiness.  Sanity.  Relationship stability.

No, I never finished turning this here blog into a memoir (perhaps that’s for the best), but I did end up writing a book and having it published.  When I first told my family about my plans for it, and gave them the hint that it was about two of my hobbies, Peter guessed it immediately: Disney and drinking.  It definitely hasn’t sold enough copies for me to retire early, but it’s been a colorful journey and has provided a little bit of fun money.  Mostly spent on research for the latest edition.

That’s right, 2010 me, you pretty much got everything you wanted: you married the love of your life, you’re a published author, you live in Florida, you get to work from home now, you’re well-traveled (even made it to every Disney park in Asia!), and gainfully employed at a job you enjoy.  There isn’t much to complain about!  

Sure, there’s still no reason to own a lot of shoes anymore (boy, oh boy, did you love shoes).  Sadly, I can no longer seem to grow chilies (some weird pests keep eating them and nothing, I mean NOTHING, will stop them — but I do grow plenty of pineapples and mangoes). I couldn’t keep Bird alive.  That whole anxiety thing got a whole lot worse before it got better.  And I hope you’re sitting down for this one: you got sober (this may seem like bad news to you in 2010, but I can assure you that from where we’re sitting in 2021, that’s pretty fucking great (way more to come on that topic; pretty soon this blog will just be the Ruby Roark Recovery Report; you’ve been warned)).

So yeah, you’re doing alright, kid.  You’ve aged pretty well, if I do say so myself.  And so has Hank!  Bonus.  You’ve mellowed out over the years.  Mostly.  Somewhat.  I think so.  I mean, let’s face it, you didn’t set the bar too high for what could now be considered “mellow” by comparison, yes?  Sure, the road here wasn’t necessarily straight or smooth, but it was worth the journey. And looking forward, not everything requires a fight or flight reaction and detailed play-by-play in blog format. If you make it beyond two weeks of blogging in these present times before getting the COVID-ADD, you’ll write posts because an interesting thought struck you and not because you’re mentally starring in some deranged personal fable sideshow.

I’m not sure if there’s anyone else out there that I’m talking to other than 2010 me at this point.  But that’s okay.  As pompous and callous and highly strung as that bitch was, she meant well.

In My (Disney) Defense

While I do regret that starting my Disney blog has very clearly taken my focus off of this here sad-assed blog, I’m not that sorry. Why? Because I’ve found my people.

I used to think that anyone who wrote a Disney blog or had a Disney-focused Twitter account must live within driving distance to the parks. I cautiously entered this online fanworld assuming I’d be shunned and mocked for being a literal outsider, living far too far away to be a real devotee. But it turns out that I was way off. Not only are the vast majority of Twitterers (Tweeps? Twerps?) and bloggers non-local, but even some authors of the best books on Disney don’t live anywhere near Disney property. To put this in perspective, I currently follow 177 folks on Twitter, and I think maybe 15 at the most live in Florida (or California).

What does this mean for me? It means I’ve been welcomed with open arms, and I no longer need to feel like a poseur.

I’ve been on Twitter for a little over two months, and I already have over 115 followers. My blog’s been live for the same amount of time, and while I only have 11 followers (and six of those are actually people I don’t know!), my daily page views are significantly more, as are the number of comments I receive. Again, for some perspective, this blog’s been around for about four years (!!) now, and while I LOVE LOVE LOVE the friends I’ve made and still interact with, they’re few in number. I allegedly have 24 followers to this blog, but eight are friends and family (love y’all!), and nine are random folks who all seemed to join five months ago. This makes me suspicious. Was I Freshly Pressed and never knew about it? Are y’all robots? DO YOU EXIST?

Anyway, point being, I seem to have come into my own over in the Disney internet landscape. And it feels good.

And to those who still scoff and think, “who in their right mind would willingly spend that much time reading about, writing about, discussing, collecting, and visiting Disney??” Well, the same could be said for your sports enthusiasm. How many player and coach names have you committed to memory over the years? How many random stats have you memorized? How often do you find yourself watching games, watching Sports Zone to recap those games? How often do you listen to sports radio? How much of your internet time is devoted to reading sports articles? How many folks are you following on Twitter that are pro athletes, experts, and other sports coverage media? How many sports-related updates pop up in your Facebook timeline? How many jerseys, t-shirts, jackets, shorts, sweats, socks, and even underwear do you own with your favourite team’s logo on them? How about bumper stickers? Memorabilia? Framed photos of best sports moments? Do you maybe even have a tattoo related to your favourite sports team?? Do you look forward with a child-like gleeful urgency to the next time you’ll get to see your favourite team in person?

Great! Congratulations, you have something that you’re passionate about!

The above bombardment of questions could also rephrased to apply to anyone with a passion for movies and celebrities, a music junkie, a home chef, a gadget guru, etc. You get the picture.

See? I’m really not very different from you at all. A passion is a passion. Sadly, it just seems that there are certain passions that are socially acceptable, while others *coughDisneycough* aren’t so. Well, I’m here to say that it should be! Equality for all!!!*

*Except for people with Furry/Fuzzy fetishes. Those people are just plain weird.

I’m happy to have found my special enclave of the intrawebs, though I do miss interacting with my long-time followers here. I shall try to pop back by more often. But in the meantime, just know that where I’ve drifted off to, I’m in good company. And we’re actually pretty normal people.

Is this thing on?

No, I haven’t forgotten about you. I just stopped caring.

Kiddingnotkidding.

Look, I’m a busy person, okay? And frankly, the things I’m busy with, they’re boring. Or they’re Disney related. Either way, I know you don’t care. So what do you want me to say?

Do you want me to tell you all about my upcoming Disney World vacation in TWELVE WHOLE DAYS!!!!!?? Wait, no, I know you don’t want to hear about that.

I could tell you about how I was physically assaulted yesterday and left with lasting scars. But once I confess that the assault was what I refer to as the actions of a “stylist” upon my hair, and the scars the results, you’d probably be less interested. And no, I won’t be sharing any picture. And yes, I have called to bitch them out and will be returning tomorrow to have them attempt to salvage my once gorgeous coiffure. And yes, I am aware that bitching out the same person whom I’ll be entrusting to fix the problem probably isn’t the best tactic. And yes, I’ve already cried over the loss of what was left of my aging beauty and what was left of my money.

I could tell you about Dizzy’s dental procedure yesterday, because nothing says “riveting tale of suspense” like a cat getting a tooth pulled. Spoiler alert: all went as planned.

I could tell you about how I’m trying to sell my good-for-nothing-probably-not-even-the-insurance-money condo, but that’s not going well.

I could tell you about how all I want to do is move to Florida because I’m bored and lonely here now that Hank has left and is off touring the country, living the life of a Van Halen roadie. Or whatever it is he does that keeps him away from home for weeks at a time.

Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I get up, I eat breakfast, I work, I read Disney blogs, I work, I catch up on Twitter (Disney people only), I work, I eat lunch, I work some more, I get a run in, I read Twitter during the warm up and cool down, I shower, I work some more, I talk to cats a lot, I eventually back away from the computer, I eat dinner, I read a book, I watch some TV, I catch up on Twitter, I go to bed alone.

There, now are you still sad I’ve not written as much lately?

Life is better in Disney blogs.

The Great Chair Debacle

I’ve decided that I hate my home office desk chair (for any long-time readers, you may identify the irony in this statement, given the fact that the entire time I spent working in an office, I had chair issues, and now that I work from home… chair issues!).

My initial requirements when purchasing my current desk chair were thus: cheap and hot pink.

You wouldn’t believe how quickly that narrows down your options.

Luckily, I managed to find a lovely hot pink desk chair for a mere $40 at Staples several years back; amazeballs!

It’s served me well for a couple of years until semi-recently when it’s decided to start sagging and slacking and otherwise sculpting my back into a giant question mark shape. I’ve tried adding pillows, I’ve tried using a cane (okay, not really), but I’ve ultimately decided that I simply cannot use this chair anymore.

So now I work from the loveseat.

This has its advantages and disadvantages. Pros: it’s comfy as shit. Cons: I feel like a lazy sack of useless.

Granted, I’m getting just as much work done as I would while sitting upright at a desk, but there’s just something about Hank and Matilda seeing me lying down on a sofa all day that makes me blush and feel like a slacker.

I suppose it’s about time to look into getting a new chair. Requirements: cheap and hot pink. I’m really stuck here. I’ve found this one that I’ve personally tested and know to be comfortable, but at $140 it’s not cheap:

http://images.containerstore.com/catalogimages/165250/BungeeChairPnk10057218_l.jpg

I even found my current chair for sale online; I could buy a brand new, non-worn out version of it for $80.00. Damn that inflation!

I suppose I could accept a chair in a turquoise or lime green or something. Maybe even purple. White as a very last resort. It must fit into the cartoony world of my Disney office.

In other words, if you need me, I’ll be on the loveseat for the foreseeable future.

Don’t F*ck with a Bitch and her Bling

The other day I ventured out to Michael’s craft store to try and find some pieces for Lizzy’s and my Tweedle costumes. Oh, did I not tell you? We’re dressing up as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum to attend Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party together!!!! What’s that? Yes, yes I did just mention some Disney on this non-Disney blog! What are you going to do about it?!!?

Incidentally, the other day, I wasn’t feeling nearly this confrontational.

Instead, there I was, innocently leaving the store with my purchase of yellow tees and turquoise bows, when there, sitting in the middle of the parking lot, was a giant blinged out barrette type thing. I picked it up, stood there awkwardly looking around for any sign of a human who had just departed the store and possibly dropped the item, saw none, considered bringing it back into the store, but decided instead that it was “Ruby Gets Free Bling Day.”

As I put my car into reverse, I notice a black car behind me that beeps at me. At first I think, “ahh, the bling owner is back and wants her shit. So I sit there patiently, waiting for some further contact. None comes. Then I figure, maybe the person assumed that I was going to reverse into them and were simply giving me a warning beep. So I continue on my way.

I get to the stop sign to exit the plaza, and the black car is behind me and beeps again. “Clearly, this is the bling owner, and they seriously want this shit.” So I stay stopped at the stop sign, waiting for them to approach me. I even wave to them. Nothing. Another car pulls up beside them, and they seem to be talking to each other. At this point, I figure I must be bling-paranoid, and clearly they were getting the attention of this other car, so I continue on my way once more.

No, I definitely wasn’t paranoid at all — I am now being chased down, horn a-blaring, high beams flashing on and off. I try speeding up, and they speed up right behind me. I try a last minute right turn onto a side street, they follow me. I even try slowing down in the right lane so that they can pull up beside me to approach me like a sane human, yet they prefer to simply slow down behind me and continue with the high beams.

For a moment, I considered continuing on, figuring that there’s no way they’ll keep following me for the next half hour over a tacky fucking rhinestone barrette. But then I realized, that would mean I actually gave a shit about this piece of crap, so I decided to put an end to this nonsense, and pulled over in a store parking lot up the road. I sat idling, really hoping that this person wasn’t as insane as their actions thus far had indicated and that they weren’t packing.

The driver gets out of her car, comes up to me and smiles and asks, as if this were a Grey fucking Poupon commercial, “did you by any chance pick up an item in the parking lot at the Michaels?” Are you frickin’ kidding me?? If you’re going to attempt to run someone off the road, you best be damn sure they picked up your item in the parking lot at Michael’s.

“Yeah,” I reply, “I did. I also pulled over and waited for you twice the first two times you beeped at me in that parking lot. You could’ve gotten out of your damn car and talked to me then instead of chasing me for over a mile,” (“you crazy bitch” was implied, but not said aloud).

She simply giggled and said something inane like, “oh, there was a car in the way!” or whatever. I have no idea. I’m pretty sure there was no good reason for any of this. Meanwhile, in her front passenger seat is another woman half-passed out, only opening her eyes occasionally, clearly not disturbed by any of this, as if Grey Poupon hunting is a pretty regular occurrence for her and her friend.

I handed over the trinket that couldn’t have cost more than $4 and tried my best to burn rubber out of that parking lot. Bitches be crazy. Lesson learned: cheap bling ain’t worth it — leave that shit on the ground, yo.

The Single Proudest Moment of my Career

This week brings me back to the Massachusetts corporate headquarters in order to attend one of our annual sales meetings. No, I’m not in sales. Why am I here? I don’t know. But I don’t complain; instead, I enjoy the nice dinners and open bars and try to stay out of trouble.

Today’s open bar event involved renting out a local tiki bar (yes, you read that right, a tiki bar in Massachusetts), and inviting the entire company to leave the office at 1:00 to come eat, drink, and cluster into cliques as if it were a high school dance.

The real height of the entertainment was well hidden in a tent around back of the bar’s stage area: a dunk tank. And just who were lining up to be the potential victims? VPs and upper management.

Our VP of Engineering was first to take the hot seat. He was quickly dunked by one of our service reps after some trash talking about said rep’s tiki-style hat. Next was my former boss, our VP of Operations. I decided to take a stab at it — no ill will toward her whatsoever, but I wasn’t forced into hardcore softball bootcamps twice a year as a child in order to stand on the sidelines at this opportunity. Sadly, it was three misses and on to the next contestant.

Several members of higher-ups later, and who decides to take the hot wet seat, but my current boss. Oh, it was on.

I sauntered up to the men’s throwing line. The ball fetcher tossed me two out of the three balls. As I waited for the third, someone yelled out, “she doesn’t need three!” I brushed the sand off the ball, took a good look at my target, felt a surge of Dark & Stormy confidence run through my veins, and…

Boom. Nailed it. Down went boss man. Splash.

I haven’t been this proud of myself since I fell down a half flight of stairs while holding a glass of sangria and managed not to spill a drop.

I just hope that my boss realizes it was all in good fun — I’ve been told that I get a look of abject hatred on my face as I line up a pitch. Whoops. I guess we’ll find out soon enough just where we stand at this evening’s open bar event.

Oh wait, one more

And I’ve put my house on the market.

So yeah, busy and stuff.