A Public Service Announcement - NOT to be taken lightly

Boys and girls, if ever anyone happens to be washing your clothes for you, kindly remove all objects* from them, lest a black ball-point pen come uncapped and ruin like five of that washerperson's favorite shirts - and some really cute underwear. Grrrr....

*This includes coins, bobby pins and receipts containing sensitive information regarding recent purchases

This is why I think I have adult ADD

Okay, so I just realized that in that last blog, I started the second part with "Now for some more sentiments on joblessness," and then proceeded to write 373 words (I did do a word count, yes) on writing and being addicted to Tetris and other such visual things.

I'm dumb. I'll write about the joblessness thing later.

Pace out. (I did not misspell that. It's Latin.)

Long A's, O's and Tetris ...

... on a stick.

First of all, I must mention my going to MN tonight for what might be the best time of year ever to be there. I take that back - there is no best time of year to be in MN because it all kicks ass, and YES that includes those 30-below frigid days in winter. Those days always make me feel proud to be capable in conditions like that. Most people think it makes us stupid, but they just don't know. Anyways, back to the glory that is this upcoming trip. Tail end of summer, meaning the smell of fall will be in the air, but the lake water's still warm enough for skiing. Minnesota State Fair, where you can buy spaghetti on a stick if you want to. I don't know why you would, but you can. My family, who I love love love and cannot wait to spend time with. There's nothing better than flying in and looking below to see the land of 10,000 (it's actually closer to 15,000) lakes ... on a stick.

Now for some more sentiments on joblessness. I guess you know when you've got the mind of a writer, because as soon as I started regularly writing again, every random occurence throughout the day is re-calculated in my mind as if I were blogging. I don't think like a normal person anymore. I think as though I'm typing it all down. I wonder if that's good practice and will ultimately make me a better writer (and typist?) down the road. Or maybe it means I truly am not sane in the membrane.
Oh, wait - another "thought" is coming in.
I don't know if there's a medical term for this condition, but I've got what I am going to deem a visual addiction to anything I rest my eyes on regularly. I blame my mom, but not because I have anything against her. I just know she does this, too. Whenever I start playing some type of game on a computer or t.v. screen, I can't get it out of my head. Example: Tetris.* Tetris, to me, is like that old best friend who you absolutely love but can't hang around with anymore because they're likely to get you a)killed, or b)arrested. When I start playing Tetris, I eat, sleep and breathe it. I also kick butt at that game, I think for the reasons I just stated. It's not like I play it constantly. Even if I limit myself to one 4-hour time slot a day (exaggerating, yes ... maybe ... also maybe not), I see little blue, green, red and yellow blocks falling before me and rotating until they nestle themselves in perfect puzzle alignment while I'm sleeping, when I'm in conversation, when I'm "excercising," eating or blinking.
So that's what's happening with this blog thing. It's dangerous, but probably somewhat healthier than Tetris, so I'm not going to stop cold turkey just yet. Luckily, my writing tone is what could be considered "conversational," so if I do start spouting off random pieces, I won't sound that crazy, whereas if I were currently visually addicted to Dune, the book I'm reading, and I started repeating sections of that thing - well, let's just say I'd have a lot of "awesome" friends ... my beau being one of them. :)

*This game is perhaps the most addicting game ever, likely created by A.I. in the 80s as a way to distract us from their invasion and probing and whatnot. Who can really say they didn't infiltrate 1 in every 5 people? Can you? Have you ever played Tetris? Then you cannot.

Some relationships never find an exit off the highway to hell

My car is such a trooper. I'd like to commemorate his being with me for 3 years now in a special way, by writing a 2006 highlight of the dear 'ol fellow's life -- and near-death -- experiences.

February 10th, 2006. 12:07 a.m.: It was a snowy night, and we were heading East on Arapahoe Road in Boulder, sitting ho-hum in the left turning lane of one of Boulder's hottest intersections - 28th and Arapahoe. Treasure, the girls and I were discussing the turn of the minute from 12:06 to 12:07 a.m., which just so happened to be the exact minute I turned 22. "Happy Birthday!" we all said. Then, from out of the frosty moonlight (streetlight?) came a black sedan. It appeared to be gliding across the intersection in a half-turn, as if dancing in graceful joy for the falling of the snow. What it actually was doing was a violent, uncontrolled skid directed right at my dear Treasure, who up until this very moment had never been violated in such a way. Car smashing number one of 2006 fell upon us.

March 12th, 2006. 6:30 p.m.: It was a snowy night, and we were heading East on Arapahoe Road in Boulder (I didn't even have to re-type that first part; I just copied and pasted from car smashing #1) when at an intersection up ahead there rang a loud CRASH-BOOM-BANG! Treasure, sensing danger, gladly allowed me to steer us onto a curb, narrowly slipping between a giant oak and the car ahead. Breathing a simultaneous sigh of relief, Treasure, the roomie and I turned our heads just in time to see car-smasher no. 2 come gliding across the snow-slicked road, again giving off an appearance of metallic grace and beauty. How false it was, for it smashed my poor Treasure from behind and he was never the same again. We've worked together at rebuilding a trust with the road, with fellow cars and, come this winter, with the snow. Treasure's progress was obvious and astounding, like a child overcoming a stress-induced stutter. But the glory was to fade as did the snow to the heat of summer...

July 2oth, 2006. Early a.m.: It was a snowy night, and we were ... oops, sorry. I just got so used to it ...
The incident occured unbeknownst to me until the later hours of morning, when I awoke to a note on the carpet. "Debbie, my love ..." I read, but didn't read on just yet, as I was on the phone. "How sweet," thought I, that my beau would leave me a love note to wake up to when he had left early in the morning for a 4-day camping trip. Once off the phone and ready to receive enscribed sweet nothings from my love, I went back to the note to finish it. "Debbie, my love ...". It continued on: "I backed into your car... [insert information regarding it being an accident and that his car got the brunt of the damage, etc., etc.]... I'm sorry. We'll figure this out when I return..." So now, in addition to a missing parking light and smashed front bumper and a punched in back bumper, Treasure sported evenly distributed silver smears across his opposite front and side bumper. This gives him a more even-toned P.O.S.-car appearance. For that, at least, we can be grateful. I never have been a fan of asymmetry.

August 12th, 2006. By the light of the moon: Treasure sat, unperturbed although now visibly scarred from every angle. My little trooper had been run through the mill not once, not twice, but thrice in just a few short months. He chugged and chortled every now and then, but never a complaint, save for the incessant "DING DING DING DING DING" of the "your keys are in the ignition and your door is open" song, regardless of whether the keys are actually in the ignition, or miles away. But this night he sat, thoughtful and grateful to be resting after a late treck to King Sooper's to get me some popsicles for a killer sore throat.
I returned to him the next evening to find his insides all amuck. Glove compartment and console hastily ripped open, objects askew, sunblocking shield carelessly shoved aside, key hole clearly fidgeted with, and last but certainly the LEAST acceptable atrocity - stereo face missing. Just the face, mind you. Treasure's stereo still sits comfortably in its little nook below the temperature dials, but its face is missing, making it impossible to turn on and/or listen to any form of music. Treasure LOVES music. I'm thinking of faxing in a photo of my JVC CD stereo faceplate to the milk-carton makers. That stereo face was like a nanny to Treasure, and he's depleted and grumbly as ever these days...

... [extended pause for blog-reader mourning] ...*

That certainly wasn't the celebration of life-with-Treasure I'd hoped for. But I have one small bit of hope yet to share. Today I took Treasure in for his regular oil change. I threw in a tire rotation just to make him feel spiffier, and I think it may have worked. No bad reports from Rob the angry, disheveled Midas employee, either. Usually he tells me it's a lost cause and I'd be better off with a newer, younger car.** But you know what they say: "One person's junk may be another person's Treasure."

Happy Anniversary, my smashed and violated sweet little ride.


*I use ellipses all the time. They're, like, the perfect pause ... in written form ... See?

**Shamelessly stolen from Dane Cook's "Retaliation," only I substituted "crowd" with "car."

You thought you'd seen the last of me, eh? EH???*

I've been debating making this blog a regular thing for a while now. I'm still debating it; we'll call this a test run. So ... how are things ... Right, I forgot you don't get a response from this unless you have friends who actually read your blog. I'll have to work on that.

Right now I'm in the bowels of one of life's transitional phases. Some call it the transition into "the real world." I'm going with quarter-life crisis. Join me on this adventure of sorts and we'll all get through this together. I promise. Not really, though; I can't promise something like that.

I'm currently awaiting word from a job I applied for that I'd truly love, hence my current state of unsuredness. Ah, and I left my heart in San Fran Europe. If anyone wants to go back, and you're willing to foot the bill, I am SO with you! But my oh my, I do miss it. On top of that, I'm in this mopey state of melancholy because I'm caught between a feeling of desire to return to my homeland 'o' lakes to re-instate myself as a local member of the Thiegs family, a feeling of anticipation to venture on to Chicago and be that city girl who walks down Michigan Ave in a stately manner wearing pointy-toed shoes and a sharp-looking suit, and a feeling of security at the prospect of staying here with my sweetie where the mountains beckon and the air is ... dry. Really dry.

They aren't easy to gather, these thoughts of mine.

On a lighter note, my beau pulled my hair with his toes last night. It was unintentional, I'm sure, because he was asleep. I was, too - until I woke up to my hair being pulled. Why his feet were where his head should have been is beyond me, but he says I yelled at him at some point for taking up too much room, which would logically lead to a 180 degree turn around. Then there's the potent question of why his unconscious mind decided to send its feet on a headhunt, quite literally. I'm thinking it's a tumbled mix of pent-up aggression with kinky undertones. Enough of that, now. This is too adult, even for me.

*I say "eh" a lot. It's not really intentional, and it's mostly in written form that I'm drawn to it. It may or may not be attributed to the fact that I'm from Minnesota, land 'o' long, drawn-out "A"-sounds. Either way- sorry if it annoys. It's just who I am, eh?