I just finished my third day of *drumroll* work.

Whoa.

That's right. Someone actually hired me. I'm a full blown employee. *Flashes badge (with cliched horrible picture)*

And the crazy thing? I am loving it.

Plus? Money.

I just don't know what I'll do with it. Oh, wait. Yes I do.

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So, Ryan woke me up this morning a bit before seven. My first thought - omg it's Christmas! Which made absolutely no sense once I was fully conscious. Ryan suggested perhaps that was the last time I woke up that early.

Which I believed for about fifteen minutes. Then I remembered BCB and her early morning workouts.

Maybe it was the combo of the morning and the heat being on.

Or maybe I'm loca.

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I always knew I was special.

Thoughtful and loving. Authority figures probably have been sheltering you all of your life. Thankfully you're a very tranquil person who is content with what life has given you, but secretly you want to know how the outside world works.

Charming and witty. You are always the first person to come up with a wisecrack. Sure, you have an attitude, but that's why people love you. You keep them on their toes. Sometimes you can be misleading, but always end up doing the right thing for the people you love.

I love that I tied on these two. Because if I had to describe me I'd be torn between someone who sleeps all day - oh, I'm sorry, "tranquil" - and a sarcastic girl employed by the devil.

Me in a nutshell, really.

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OMG. Not only did I step out of the way for David Spade, almost maim Danny DeVito, watch my boyfriend get checked out by Mia Maestra, touch two people who have touched Michael Vartan, breathe the same air as Joshua Radin, shop at the Gap with the girl from Signs, but now -- to top it off -- I have followed __________. That's right. You heard me.

On our way back from Portland at 11:30 on Friday night, Ryan and I hit a wall o' traffic just north of 205. It was stopped dead. We, of course, assumed it was an accident (Ryan had odds on "drunk and under 25"). I made him pull to the right of the lane so I could crane my neck to see what I could see -- which was a crapload of police lights. Then, (twenty minutes later and) all of a sudden all three lanes started moving. We drove forward expecting to see something - like debris or flares -- but there was nothing.

...Until we began noticing that there were cop cars turning off their lights at every single exit. And the flashing lights were always in the distance ahead of us. We worked our way up and, sure enough, it was __________'s motorcade. Likewhoa. All the exits were being blocked so that __________ could have the freeway free of gaping/gawking/armed spectators. (Selfish prick. I wanted to go home!)

We followed the lights until the parkway, where we took our leave. We figured __________ would be staying at the Phoenix Grand, because, well, wth else would __________ stay? (And, please, like there's anywhere to go in Oregon south of Salem.) I mean, seriously... where did people like __________ stay before we had that hotel? The HoJo? Commercial was clear when we drove by, but when we turned off later we saw that there were cops blocking Liberty.

So, to make a long story short...

Anyone want to touch me so that they can brag to their friends?

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So, um. They didn't kill Sly, they just messed with his head. Now, to turn him on I have to press the Windows key and the power at the same time. First of all - whuh? Second of all - how the hell does Ryan figure this shit out? (Although, I did always wonder wtf that key was for.)

Ps. Were I one of those super cool bloggers with throngs of adoring fans, I would use this as an opportunity to recommend that you all run - don't walk - to see Shoebox Shakespeare at Willamette University (this weekend only) because it is of teh awesome. But, since I'm well... not... I guess I'm just saying: Mom and Dad, go see it!

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Sylvester had a little accident that resulted in the loss of a USB port. (I swear - the poor fella is as sturdy as Christmas china. Jeeze.) I tried to exist for a while with only one port, and it wasn't too much of a hassle. Ideally, I'd have three, but I can survive with one. And really, I don't mind the indent shapped like my hand that has appeared on the palm-rest. Which is why, when Ryan suggested we send Sly off to meet his maker, I said, "NO!!!!!!!!! Please don't take my baby, please don't take my baby!"

Next time, I'll have to squeeze out some tears, because the begging and pleading didn't do the trick.

Sly was scooped up by the delivery man on Monday and in the interim I've been using the Lt. Colonel. This little airman is a bit fussy, but he means well and he can open a Word document as well as the next laptop, so we get along nicely. I totally owe Lauren for my sanity these past few days.

Even though I've had a substitute - a piece of me was always longing for Sly. He's got my bookmarks, he's got Firefox (who knew I would become dependent on tabbed browsing), he's got Photoshop and - let's be honest - a little piece of my heart. So, when the DHL delivery man came knocking on my door this morning I was absolutely ecstatic (as evidenced by the fact that my signature on the little electronic device looks less like my name and more like the flight path of a drunken bee). I tore him out of the box and threw open the lid. With a fond caress, I hit the power button.

Nothing.

Hmm. Perhaps the battery isn't charged.

I plugged it in and pressed the button.

Nothing.

Pressed it again.

Nothing.

Tapped my toe impatiently for twenty minutes. Pressed it again.

Nothing.

OMG! THEY KILLED SLY!

ETA: Yeah like normal people are supposed to know that you have to turn the battery on. Function F3, my ass.

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Today I drove to Portland to pick up my shoes (as I am too leet for Salem footwear). When I got to the store, I was helped by the same saleswoman who has helped me the last four times I have patronized said mercantile. This woman happens to be the aunt of my cousin's husband. I mean, we're practically blood... and yet - SHE DOESN'T REMEMBER ME. Gawd. Two of the times I have been in the store we spent at least half an hour together and every time she has gotten my name. But there wasn't even a spark of recognition. Even after I gave her my name - nothing.

I would like to assume that this is because she is horrible with names/faces or that her day is such a blur of brides that it's physically impossible to remember any of them, but I fear that argument holds little water. Firstly because I think I've seen another customer in there all of twice (and only one each time), secondly because omgwearerelated... but mostly because this is not the first time I have been forgotten.

Take, for example, the dude who played Terrorist #2 in Ryan's movie this summer. The first time I met him was his audition. We were in a room with three other people. Okay, fine. He might have been nervous and not paying attention to anyone who wasn't the director (though he did remember Ryan). I'll give him a pass on that. But the second time I met him we spent a little under two hours sitting next to each other at a table of six. He should have gotten it by then. The third time he should have at the very least recognized that he'd seen me somewhere before. But I'm guessing no recollection was there because he introduced himself to me yet again, to which Ryan said, "You've met." Terrorist #2 actually insisted, "No, we haven't."

These are not two isolated incidents.

I feel like Mr. Cellophane.

Maybe I should get a flashy button or something to distinguish me from my surroundings.

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Drunk grocery store = no more fun than sober grocery store.

Although, I did come home with two different types of ham.

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On Monday I decided that my hair was due for a change. And, since I'm not that adventurous, I decided my change would be [/drumroll] getting rid of the highlights I've had for as long as I can remember and dying my hair back to its original color. I know, I know. Slow down!

I asked Tina what she thought of the idea, because, as we all know, she won't do something she doesn't approve of. (Which I thank her for when I recall that time in the early nineties when I tried to get her to give me a pixie cut like Meg Ryan. *shudder*) She thought it was a good idea as long as she could put a bit of warmth in it. Otherwise she was afraid I'd look "drab." She's the expert, so I agreed.

She took a booklet of hair chunks and put them up to my roots until she settled on a match. And I watched - it really was a match.

So um. Now my hair is... how can I describe this... yeah, black. That pretty much covers it. Black with a little bit of red. I had absolutely no idea my hair was naturally this dark. I've been living with blonde highlights for so long that I don't even recognize myself in the mirror. Likewhoa.

Lauren says I should have streaks of blue like Veronica from the Archie comics.

Wow. This is such a girlie post.

ETA: OMG! I did not mean to imply that I didn't like my hair -- I LOVE it, in fact... I just didn't know I was naturally so dark.

On a different note: Whoa people actually read this?

*grins*

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