My blog is psychic.

Today's CNN headline torn from my last two posts:

He's gonna launch that dog! + You're dead meat = Jessica Simpson's dog eaten by a coyote!

How awesome is THAT? Pretty awesome.

Awesome enough for Remy to send it to me via text.

Enough said.

You're dead meat.

I have been staring blankly at my inbox (which contains 305 emails) and the project management list for about two hours this morning. Sometimes I take a break and look at my super long list of deadlines. Then I'll drink some coffee in hopes that motivation will come flooding out of the cup. It's not happening. Instead I lament with the department about how unfortunate it is that the lights don't work, but our phones and computers do. And most importantly, I wonder where the word deadline came from. Will someone really die if I don't reconcile my budget or solve the online registration process today? Maybe. Maybe they will. Then, the deadline will become a headline: Man Dies From Incompetent Coworker.

Anydamnway, if you are curious, the origin of the word "deadline" did come from a real line drawn in the dirt or a fence restricting prisoners during the Civil War. They were warned, "If you cross this line, you're dead." So it's a boundary. A death boundary. In business, the failure to meet a deadline could result in consequences even scarier than death. I shudder to think what could be worse, especially considering the reward for meeting said deadlines is sitting in a dark office with other prisoners.

I pledge to never draw a line so serious that someone dies from it's implications. That said, I better get to work so poor Catherine doesn't get shot later today.

He's gonna launch that dog!

I work in marketing. I can't really reveal the name of the company for obvious proprietary reasons... but we just launched a miracle product at our last event. Here is a great shot of my boss unveiling the hottest thing on the market right now.

I submit to you... Frank-fitter®

Some testimonials we have heard so far are:

"I laid some Frank-fitter on my dead grandma's feet and she came back to life."

"I used to have B.O. but I started eating Frank-fitter and now I'm totally popular."

"Frank-fitter made all my wrinkles go away. Most people think I'm 29. I am 87."

"Instead of an epidural, I leaned on Frank-fitter during natural childbirth and had no pain whatsoever."

"I ate half a Frank-fitter and immediately received 500 new Facebook friend requests."

"I started taking Frank-fitter and now I have a boyfriend."

"I fill the tub and soak in Frank-fitter pieces. My skin has never felt (or smelt) better."

I love my job. Today.

It's Official...

It's official, I am in love. Madly.

I thought after losing my Sunny last March, I would never be able to love any puppy ever again. But now C.J. and I have adopted two adorable pups, Ellie and Zor, and they make every day of my life brighter. I love them so much.

I thought I was getting them for C.J. but I have realized over the last two weeks that maybe I needed them more than she did. They are just the sweetest damn dogs you have ever met. My heart has never been so full. And I'm NOT a dog person. (Mindy, testify!)

My three babies:
Now if only we could convince Grandma to let us keep them . . .

I am NOT drinking the Merlot!

I’m sitting on an airplane headed home from another epic adventure with my girlfriends. I’m trying to think of how to summarize the last few days. Can I really do it justice?

I could write a short story about our wine tasting tour alone. From Richard’s bum being hungry to the folks from Mississippi that you couldn’t help but love. Even the Texans hopping on the trolley with a 12-pack of Coronas and passing them around was a key element to the entire experience.

I guess it’s one of those stories that you have to be there to appreciate. So I won’t go on, but I will share a few highlights.

1. Did I mention Richard’s bum was hungry?*

2. One of the Mississippians asked (in all seriousness) how long boxed wine stays fresh. Richard gently explained that they don’t drink much “jug” wine in California. Later, during the pairing section, the same southern gentleman said the Chardonnay would be excellent with possum. Aye chi kye chi.
3. Richard (our 60-something, tan, tall, handsome, balding, charismatic tasting guide) had a hip wiggle that was only outdone by his air guitar. (He got uncomfortable when we started getting drunk and hitting on him.)
4. I found a cowboy hat. And everyone on the trolley fell in love with each other by the end of the day. You know when 21 people are on a trolley singing “Love Shack" it’s been a successful wine tasting tour.*

As I mentioned in my last post, I came home immediately after the wine tour and slept all evening, night, and morning. But as it turns out, it was that drunken stumble home with six bottles of wine that would bring us together with another new friend. A Green Peace activist stopped me to ask for money and I said, “I’m really drunk. I just want to go home.” Pause. “Will you call me a cab if I sign up?” And that’s how I met Joe (and became a monthly donor to Green Peace). Joe is the best cab driver in the city and became our personal driver for the rest of the weekend. While I plastered Kilby Court stickers and Salt Lake Recording Service cards on the back of his seats, he took us to the aquarium, Lalla’s, Cibo, and eventually through the McDonald’s drive-thru. Joe, Joe, Joe. We just aren’t sure who he really is. DJ? Cabbie? Caretaker? Computer Editor? Veneer Molder? (But yes, his glasses were real Versace.)

Yesterday, we took a walk along the beach with Murphy the Dog.* There were sea lions basking on the shore and glistening on the rocks. We watched a poor starfish be bludgeoned to death by a selfish, mean, rotten Seagull. There were people running, biking, walking dogs. Weddings were taking place at the parks. What a beautiful and sparkling place. Really.

Last night, we got dressed up and headed to the Aquarium. But the night really started when we called Joe after dinner and he dropped us off at Lallapalooza, a martini bar. And they did have some delicious martinis.* And the rest … well, let’s just say that some things should remain between friends. We danced, we met “Steph”, we blacked out, we stumbled, we hit people with our purses, we got flipped off, we ran over bouncers, we cleared dance floors, we drank too much … and by "we", I mean me. Bless my friends for being such better drinkers than me. They kept Sharon in line while still dancing, blacking out, stumbling, and doing a lot of apologizing in my blazing path.

I like Monterey. A lot. I think I’ll go back. Miss you already, Motha. Love you.

*Pictures coming soon!

Sorry, them's the rules.

Today was the wine tasting tour. The trolley picks you up at 11am and drops you off at 5pm. I played it conservative but managed to get a little over my limit by the time we returned.

The wine tasting tour was great. More to come on that later... let me just give you a quick summary of what wine tasting tours do. They make you tired. Real tired. I came directly home and took a nap. I just woke up. Six hours later. Could have been the wine, could have been the two Coronas I slammed, or could have been the Jameson and coke. I left the ladies, got a cab, and came to bed. I listened to my iPod sing Iron and Wine lullabies until I drifted into an amazing somber. Heaven = taking naps.

The point of this entry isn't about the wine tour--that will come later. The real story is that we got kicked out and 86'ed from a bar last night. This so-called "Mucky Duck" or, as we refer to it, the "Slinky Dink" is apparently where you go to get your butt grabbed, groped on the dance floor, or harassed by Tom Cruise. (**check back for pictures, they are coming and they WILL worth it.)

Anyway, if you watched the video at the link above for the Slinky Dink, it explains a lot. Just as we had consumed enough liquor to start dancing, I ran to the rest room. The ladies' line, of course, was a good 45-minute wait. The men's room: nothing. So, encouraged by 6 other girls, we went into the men's room. It was empty. As we were walking out and coming up with a game plan, I get assaulted by a security guard. Big tough guy with his head wire and everything. IN MY FACE. Being a complete rotten duck tail douche.

Tough Guy: You're out.

Me: What?

Tough Guy: Out the front door. (As he's physically pushing me.)

Me: What did I do?

Tough Guy: Went into the men's room. OUT. NOW.

Me: Can I get my friends?

Tough Guy: Call them from outside.

Me: I don't have a phone, I'm from out of town. I need to let them know. (I'm still in shock.)

Tough Guy: Call them from outside. (Still pushing)

Me: Are you for real?

Luckily, another security guard that was very sweet and had actually been keeping an eye on us all night walked up and said that he would grab my friends. So now Tough Guy is pushing all three of us out the door and Mindy (my sister who commonly sees me getting kicked out of bars for good reason) was trying to get the full story. "Nope, she didn't do anything, just went to the men's room. OUT." Huh?

He shoved all three of us out the door and says, "All three right here, 86'ed." So not just kicked out, but we can never go back? Not gonna be a problem, buddy.
(It was kind of funny because when we went in the bouncer chuckled like "you old ladies don't cause any trouble." Heh. He was sitting there chuckling when we got kicked to the curb. The place is a goddamn shit hole.

Everyone we've talked to said it's really hard to get kicked out of the Mucky Duck. Our cab driver said, "Yea, it had to be something else. You were just too old." My mind rewinded to the scene of the crime, hmmmm, yea the other girls that were my accomplices were younger and dressed like complete skanks so.... yea. Maybe they only want hookers and butt grabbers in there. I don't know. (Remember this dialogue from "Knocked Up"?)

I was drinking Jameson straight up. And so it is probably just as well that we left when we did. I still wanted to drive past in our Cadillac and yell "SUCK IT!" but... I'm grown up now.

Regardless, I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror: Did my hair get wet last night? Sister: Yea, you puked in it. What? I had no memory of that. Black out. I guess I just threw up in the toilet and went to bed. Slept like a champ and woke up feeling great. I think it's the whole ulcer thing. Not supposed to drink on 'em or something. I'm on vacation.

On the wine tasting trolley today, we were talked about the previous night and my adorable sister says:

Sis: "You just gotta remember that whiskey is not your friend. Every time you go out with him, he gets you into trouble. And if you hadn't have been made to stop, who knows what may have happened."

Me: "Well, we got back together so get used to it."

Sis: "I won't. Call me when you break up again."

Speaking of my cohorts, they just came rolling in from oyster dinners and lots of booze--they went to a supper club. Mother is snoring like a bear and Mandy is passed out with her tight jeans on. I guess I'll try to go back to sleep.

There should be a song about Monterey. The Hold Steady should write it.

The end.

monterey: here to stay?

i arrived in monterey, california today (by a small act of God) and am already enamoured by the place.

martinis, crackers and cheese, my sister, and best friend for life--all reunited for a weekend of wine tasting, pebble beach, shopping, and a convertible.

our luggage didn't make it but that just means Delta will buy us new clothes. nothing can ruin this trip. NOTHING.

i would live here. it's a beautiful, amazing place. i cannot think of one place i'd rather be right now. the only thing that would make it better (if that's even possible) is if KG was curled up next to me.

monterey. will you keep me?