The Pretty Hangover

Life is good. Life is really good right now.

It's not the kind of good that makes me deliriously happy -- that kind of happy is just obscene and only comes when you're blindcrazyrecklessly in love or when you win the lottery on the same day that you find out your worst enemy died; rather, it's the kind of good that's contained in glowing bursts of yellow and orange by a small red balloon bobbing up and down on a sea of moderate contentment, coming up slowly just as it's about to touch the water.

I'm doing well at work: finally I can be my moody, eccentric self without fear of what anyone thinks. I remember over a year ago I was too shy to even record my voice mail greeting -- now I openly (but tactfully, mind you) disagree with the CEO when I think she's wrong and choose the projects I want to do.

My self-esteem is at an all-time high and not in the arrogant, self-deluded way, but in the I-really-like-being-me-and-I-CAN-do-whatever-I-put-my-mind-to way. I've worked hard on these things -- things like focusing on developing my skills in order to achieve my professional goals, and doing so with poise and integrity and the ever vomitous mantra of loving-kindness -- and I'm seeing good results in the form of praise, easier paths, peace of mind, an overall sense of well-being and, well, happiness. All this without the help of T*ny Robbins.

My personal life is good, too. I'm enjoying my man like never before, our roomy, Mr. Biscuit, is pleasant and funny, and my peeps near and far are happy and healthy.

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Last night at around 10, Mr. Biscuit suggested we make an impromptu run to our favorite bar where the specials are always special and the lady servers are always up for a good flirt, a constant source of amusement for me to see my boy pals interact with these girls. We arrived, sat, ordered a round of drinks when we noticed the Karaoke was set up. It was on. We were going to tear it up.

So we tore through the books looking for the perfect song to sing: "no, not that one. It's too slow. Maybe that one. The crowd'll love it. Yeah, THAT one."

I went first and sang my usual "Me and Bobby Maghee" to the 12 or so people in the bar. Then Matt sang, then Mr. Biscuit and with that we had a mini-party fueled by beer and whiskey and uninhibited balls. If Mando were there, I would have sung "Waterloo" with him without knowing how, but dammit, it would've been good.

The highlight of the night was when Mr. Biscuit sang his versions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Summer of '69" adorned with bouts of screaming (and not singing) his lyrics and kicking his leg in the air when necessary, rewarded with a complimentary shot of Rumplminze from one of the lady servers upon exiting the stage and a drink on the table, compliments of our very own lady server. Needless to say, Mr. Biscuit ended the night with a long conversation with the porcelain gods, followed by a pretty hangover today.

That brand of fun comes only once every three months or so. The way my small red balloon bobs, I wouldn't want it any other way.

Breakfast of Chumps

Thank GOD it's the weekend.

Turns out I survived this bloody turd of a week and since about noon yesterday I have switched the light in my brain and body from violent green to red...not even red, more of a lazy, subdued hint of red behind a sheet of smoky white gradient.

I was relieved to know the breakfast I spent all of Thursday evening and some of Friday morning cooking for my work mates was a smash hit. The surprise star of the breakfast was the tomato and serrano pepper salsa, made from my mom's own recipe. I spent all of Friday (morning, afternoon and evening) and Saturday morning desperately trying to finish a freelance project that in the end is the culprit for my zombie-like haze now. But it was worth every minute.

Doing these projects, although stressful and tiresome, makes me realize that I am doing what I've always wanted: writing for a living. Under the pressure of a glaring deadline, mixed with the forced momentum in spite of exhaustion, I forget that there was a day when I would have killed for the opportunities I have been lucky enough to have today. Sure, the lull of corporate office work makes me want to kill myself sometimes, but it pays the bills and it's not without its tiny rewards in the form of insurance, paid time off and the occasional favorable review and pay raise. And if you're very, very lucky, all these things might even create the illusion of professional fulfillment. But only if you're lucky...or a chump.

That's not enough for me. I need supplemental "work" to feel validated, relevant, active. It's refreshing to clear the cobwebs in my head formed by the hum-drum office atmosphere and be able to use my brain, challenge myself to produce top-notch work under pressure and ultimately see the fruits of my toil in the form of a Web site or 12-page brochure.

As long as there's still a weekend to recharge my batteries and play video games...

At least I'm not barefoot and pregnant

Why I decide to write a blog post when I have shit to do is beyond me. If ever I was to drop dead from a stress-related heart attack, it would be tonight because I have to 1.) finish translating copy for a Web site (something I've never done before, much less for legitimate business people who are paying me money to do it) AND 2.) cook an elaborate breakfast of three kinds of breakfast tacos and mixed fruits with plain yogurt and peach cobbler for 30 people at my place of work. Why, you ask would I volunteer to do such a thing? I'll tell ya:

- I'm a chump.
- I'm an asshole chump whose review is coming up and thought I'd kiss corporate ass with some ethnic cooking.

On top of this all, the boys in my house are conveniently MIA this evening. One's bowling and the other is at a Mavericks game. There's nothing like inadvertently acting out the very stereotypes we abhor, boys out doing sports stuff and the woman at home cooking and being brainy.

With the boys gone, I have no one but my damn self to send to the store to replace the tiny breakfast muffins that were eaten between last night and this afternoon, WHICH I might add were not intended for the boys to eat.

They are like animals, these boys.

Shoo now. Shoo.

I get to wear jeans to work for the rest of the week. All I had to do was give my boss $5 for Susan B. Komen's breasts.

Lucky me.

I also cut the shit out of my right thumb while opening a can of corn. The amount of blood that came out of my body was alarming, but the corn was delicious.

I am busy with freelance projects right now and really shouldn't be doing anything other than working on them. When I go to the bathroom, I feel guilty.

There is a new boy room mate in my house. He's been mopey lately and it's no surprise that he's out for a drive right now. So I changed the TV from Larry King Live to whatever's on E!.

Now, shoo. I must work.