Most of my relationships have started with a similar philosopy,

"What the hell?"

And I suppose it is no shock that most of them end this way too.

In other news:

The highlight of my week has been that my squishy and adorable nephew has finally returned from his vacation in Hawaii! Yes, he is 2 months old and has already found it necessary to unwind a bit in the isles of the South Pacific. Pictures will be coming forthwith, but since the poor spinster aunt was not invited on this trip....I am going to have to wrestle some of the photographic evidence away from his parents so that we can blog it up appropriately. You should be excited...he is a pretty cool cat.

I'm telling you. We Kings make good looking babies, but for some reason no one seems to be taking me up on this offer. Go figure.

The Bachelor

Whoops- This is a case of premature blog-ulation.

There is a post about The Bachelor bouncing around in my head...which may or may not ever come to fruition. But for now, all I have is this...

The Bachelor


I just don't get it.

Sometimes I Say Things

Last Valentine's Day I was with Maury, at a particularly cruely timed singles conference,in Las Vegas. We may have ditched the conference and gone to Tiffany & Co to buy ourselves something nice and shiny. Once there, we bumped into Pres Utchdorf and his family. All of the sudden I found myself jabbering to a member of the first presidency of the church about how we were ditching church to waste money on things that we don't need. (His wife actually gave us her blessing on ditching the conference in favor of 'shiny silver presents'...so I feel fine about both the ditching and all purchases made during said adventure.)

The Valentine's day before that, I was celebrating The Music and the Passion of Barry Manilow with a certain Saucy Betty. I was over an hour late (pretty much because I am an idiot) and left her sitting at a restaurant most of that time. Once there, I stammered out idiotic explainations to EVERY-SINGLE-MEMBER of the staff as they passed by and pointed out how glad they were that I hadn't left my comrade hanging on Valentine's Day.

The year before that, I had the dubious honor of speaking about love in sacrament meeting.

This year- a friend from the days of yore asked if I would pontificate about love on her little slice of the internet.

The lesson to be learned from all this?

When it comes to love and Valentine's day, I should probably just keep my mouth shut.

Who is That?

I'm all for the underdog. I would be lying if I said that I didn't get a little bit teary eyed when the Saints ripped the carpet out from under the Colts. I would also be lying if I said that the, "Who Dat?" chant isn't getting on my last nerve. Don't get me wrong. I'm not against colloquialisms per se....but you're not Huck, I'm not Jim, Drew is no Mark Twain and I can't think of anyone who is ridin' the Mighty Mississip' to freedom.

Chant all you want....you're not fooling anyone.

Death by a Thousand Papercuts

I am a well documented non-sleeper. Worse last night than ever, quite possibly. Can't fall asleep. Can't stay asleep. Sleeping is not relaxing for me, it's a chore. A chore that I neither look forward to, nor enjoy. I toss and turn, punch the pillow. I squint my eyes together as hard as I can just in case some rouge ray of light dare sneak through my window a moment too soon. I have the lavender oil burning, the temperature just right, hot bath right before bed, write down what I've got to accomplish the next day, blog in my head* so that I can free my mind. All that jazz.

I even went as far as to get a clock radio that plays various types of white noise while I sleep. Just so you know, this is no half cocked hippie gimmick to make people feel like they are getting back to natural sleep habits. It's "scientifically proven" to aide sleep. I have yet to figure out what the magic combo of relaxation/pharmaceuticals/noise makers is the key to getting a decent nights sleep but I do know exactly how it helps me to wake me up.

Seconds before my alarm goes off, the 'white noise' clicks off. In those few seconds between woooooooosh woooooosh woooooooosh and eeeeeeeeeehhhh eeeeeeeehh eeeeeh. I have the presence of mind to roll over and think, "Oh sh*t, my alarm is about to go off." Yeah- I am not proud but that's the way it is. My good girl Mormon sensibilities won't even allow me type that out without editing it, but that's my go to phrase. Every morning. Then I get to look in the mirror at the train wreck that 8 hours of wrestling for sleep has produced...and let me tell you, it ain't pretty. That can't be a good way to start the day. It's like jumping into a dirty mouth, bad karma cave and trying to climb out with positive thoughts and aphorisms before the blow dryer clicks off. Doesn't work. Well, doesn't really work well.

You people who fall asleep the minute your head hits the pillow? I can't stand you. (Nothing personal, of course, just a lifetime of envy and exhaustion changes a person.) It is probably why the Great and Powerful OZ has not seen fit go grant me a, 'plus one.' Chances are- if he snored, I'd smother him in his sleep.

One thing I have realized. 30 my be the new 20, but 40 is still old....and at this rate.....ugh. I'm too tired to even think about getting there. What's that disease where you age faster than normal? I think I have that. I am the AntiBenjamin Button.

Weather's here! Wish you were beautiful!

You haven't had the pleasure to witness what I did this morning, but you really should. I realize that I am a horrible person for being mean...but why lie?

There is a lady at work today who is probably about 55 ish and quite perky. She is the one who makes announcements to the staff lounge in general, no one person in particular, like "I bet I know what we are all thinking! Isn't it GREAT to have a job?" No. Call me ungrateful, but being that it is 7 a.m. on one of the ugliest days of the year, I am not thinking that. I am thinking many things and that is definitely not one of them.

Anyhow-She is in a Metallic. Purple. Snow. Suit. It is a one piece, very form fitting, with a shiny gold belt clip, and a zipper up the front. There are boots that go along with it. I think she may have owned this for quite some time, maybe since her 8th birthday.

Oh- and she has one of those fuzzy beanies on with ALL of her hair tucked up into it.

Yeah- it's pretty much the most awesome thing ever. I wish I had more nerve and was quicker with my cell phone camera but I couldn't even make eye contact.

*Update- I have received a second witness from a fellow coworker and the beanie has been described as, "...more of a furry turban." I like that better.

Cheerio Gubner!

Today has been an ugly day. Literally. Rain, snow, sleet, but no hail. Needless to say, I didn't want to leave my dog out to fend for himself amongst the wild, unruly forces of winter. I mean really. Have you watched the news? Southern California is moments from being washed into the deep blue sea. Seriously. Batten down the hatches. Duck and cover. Run for your lives. It's every man for himself around here!

Lest you think I am the crazy lady who is unaware that my dog is in fact an animal, regularly licks his own junk and is completely capable of surviving outdoors, I'm not. Well- not usually. I really just didn't feel like dealing with a wet dog after work. He's got long hair, shaddup!

Anyhow- Freddy spends most days bouncing between the backyard and the garage, so I rarely have that sinking feeling that most indoor pet owners feel when they realize that mischief and mayhem have taken place in their absence. I got a hearty helping today. Immediately after walking in the door, I came across some very suspicious activity.

It was hard to tell what was touched, because clearly everything was touched.

I guess he felt like the toys at the bottom of the basket had been neglected for far too long and made it his personal mission to right that unspeakable wrong.

At least his heart was in the right place. That's a book on temples. It started out on the coffee table on the other side of the room.

Shortly there after I scanned to the other side of the room, made three very significant realizations and am greatly flummoxed at the personal/public ramifications of these things.

A) My dog is a closet eater.

B) While he is 23lbs and is less than two feet tall, he has an amazing capability to scale bar stools that are pushed in and counter surf when left without proper adult supervision.

C) Even though he is a distinctly German breed, he enjoys (dozens of) English baked goods.
So naturally, I am left wondering a few things...

Is that look of shame when caught eating somehow able to be passed between human and pet?

Does he know I skipped out on ward temple night?

In spite of his clear lineage, would Frederic von Schnauzer M.D.* have a German accent or British?

*M.D. (mad dog)