catheroominations

This week I had planned to spend some girl time with my good friend MB in Napa. She’s here from Lexington, KY and meeting some of her gal pals for a week of wine tasting, pampering and possibly some piercing or permanent inking in honor of a milestone birthday.

Unfortunately, I had to cancel because I was asked to take my boss’ place at a training course this week. In Mexico. I quickly renewed my passport, picked an awesome hotel with fantastic photo opportunities, and was learning things like one should never say “Yo soy caliente,” unless one means “hot” in the Paris Hilton sense and not the “I am sweating my face off” sense. And then aye caramba, just days after I told MB I couldn’t make it to Napa, my plans changed. Mexico was out, because my services were requested in North Carolina to help with a documentation emergency. I’m just a tech writer. I don’t feel important enough or smart enough to fly out here and help (the depth of my self-esteem knows no bounds). When this trip was presented to me (read: when I was told I was going to work in NC), it was suggested that I come Every. Single Week. That’s right. Fly out every Monday and home every Friday. But that’s not feasible for several reasons, so I’m here this week and next and then we’ll see where we go from there.

This morning, I awoke at 3:45 AM. (That 3:45 was in all caps, by the way, because I was yelling it.) Three forty-five in the morning is not morning. It’s still night. But I got up and was at SFO in plenty of time for my early morning flight. I felt like a zombie. I was there, but not really there and I didn’t remember how I got there. So, when I saw someone I thought I knew, I wasn’t surprised I couldn’t remember his name. Also, turns out, I didn’t know him, exactly. It was Adam from Myth Busters and he was standing near me at the security check point. He is much taller than I thought. Also, he’s kinda hot, in a geeky way. Señor Savage es caliente.

So here I sit in a Residence Inn, while Matte gets DirecTV installed at our house, clears out our apartment, bolts bookcases to the walls for earthquake safety, gets the fence repaired that the fumigators busted into slats, waits for AT&T to set up our phones, and generally gets us moved in to our house. I would much rather be there, helping him, (and watching the cats slide all over the hardwood floors) but I sort of need this job to help pay that mortgage we just signed up for for the next 30 years.

…sometimes it’s because you just bought a lemon tree.

… and maybe with this lemon tree, you have visions of fresh-squeezed lemonade, lemon sorbet, chicken piccata, lemon vinaigrette, lemon meringue pie, margaritas, hefeweizen, lemon bars, garnishes for cosmopolitans before you go see Sex and the City on the silver screen.
keep reading When life hands you lemons…

It’s 11 pm. I am tired. Tired because I took my first Zumba class tonight, followed by Pilates. Because I am hard core like that. Or an idiot. We’ll see tomorrow if I am able to get up out of bed. Since I am too exhausted to write, here’s a photo I took for today’s 7 Days submission (click the link to the Flickr group in my sidebar to see some awesome shots from others).

Some days are good just because you realize how much someone loves you.

I never was into sports growing up. Well, except for figure skating (I had Dorothy Hamil’s haircut) and a bit of women’s tennis (does anyone ELSE remember Tracy Austin and her pigtails?). In college, when I dated a guy from Kentucky, I got sucked in to NCAA men’s basketball. I knew every single player’s name on the Wildcats team. I watched religiously, or as religiously as I could, living in the Bay Area. But when I moved to Kentucky, I was up to my eyeballs in Kentucky Basketball. And I loved it. Not only did I know the names of the players, but I knew their girlfriends’ names. I went to the games, even some SEC championship games. I screamed for the team, and I went to the airport to greet them when they returned from out-of-town. I went to Rite-Aid (or was it Drug Emporium?) to meet two of the players (Rodney Dent (did you know he was born on Christmas day?) and Gimel Martinez) and stood in line with the umpteen moms with their 10-year old sons to wait for my turn to get a picture with them. I was a fan superfan. Also, I was a geek.

But never have I been a fan of football. Not that I don’t like it, I just never cared either way. I know who Joe Montana is, and Steve Young too (and OJ, of course), and I recall the SuperBowl Shuffle by the Chicago Bears.

That is ALL I know about football.

Don’t believe me?

Here’s a snippet of a conversation I had with Matte during yesterday’s Dallas LOSS (la la la):
Me: What’s a down?
Matte: Well, when the ball is snapped and…
Me: What does snapped mean?

Seriously! I didn’t know! (But before you think I’m a moron, I can tell you what section of the ISO standard for medical devices deals with document control. Can YOU?) And despite my embarrassing lack of knowledge regarding football, I do know that I want the Packers to win this coming weekend. And then I want them to kick Patriot ass on February 3. Because, for one reason, I am a little bit in love with Brett Favre right now (meee-yow!). Also, there’s that whole National Championship title thing that comes with it, but whatever.

P.S. Matte told me to add “Lombardi’s trophy deserves to be home.” I have no idea what that means.

Matte and I have been trying to get out and walk a few times around the block after work. We’re not walk-like-there’s-a-stick-up-your-butt-while-swinging-your-arms-wildly types. We just stroll briskly, drooling over the houses we wish we owned, catching up on the fascinating events of our day.

Last night as we were finishing our second time around the block, Matte mentioned how much he enjoys our new ritual: “I like our walks. It gives us a chance to talk…er…a chance for me to listen to you talk.”