rock the tambourine and the didgeridoo

Oh yo hey.

So G and I spent a week with his family, and as usual, we had a great time. Santa Fe has a world-famous opera house, and it's stunning. The stage and seating areas are covered, but the sides are open to the elements, which especially added to the drama during the frequent lightning storms. We saw three operas: Madame Butterfly, Tales of Hoffmann, and The Magic Flute. I started weeping during "Un bel di" because it's my favorite aria.

Also, I am a big pussy.

What else? Well, we visited several museums and art galleries, played games with the lads, and ate tons (not much of an exaggeration) of delicious food. Despite eating more than my fair share of three homemade cheesecakes---no, not all at once---I only gained a little under a pound. This is probably thanks to a couple of strenuous hikes and the fact that we ran almost a full mile to get to our car when it started pouring at the Bandelier National Monument.

Speaking of which, when we were at Bandelier and it was still sunny, Padre wanted to take pictures. After posing with everyone, I said, "Hey, [Padre], do you want me to take one of you with just the family?"

He unslung the camera from around his neck, and when I came up to take it from him, he gently chided, "You ARE family."

Yes, I misted up. I mentioned that I'm a big pussy, right?

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One afternoon during our trip, I got out my cell phone to call my dad. But I hit the wrong button and accidentally dialed G's best friend C, which I didn't realize until his voicemail picked up. I went ahead and left a message because I didn't want him to see my number on caller ID and think something was wrong, since I very rarely call him. I explained my mistake and talked a little bit about our trip.

Later on, C e-mailed me the following transcript of my message, courtesy of Google Voice. It's like Engrish!

Hey C, it's [me]. Sorry I don't actually need to call you. You're right about my dad on the auto dial on my phone and figure there, leave a message because if you thought that I called to leave message but I think something is wrong Nothing is wrong. We're having a good time here in New Mexico. [G] and his dad and in went to mexican restaurant for lunch. If they I did not. So, anyway, living the time. Steen. But the good offers, and heck of a good hi exited just F Lee gorgeous here, but I'm sure you'll hear all about a few months. So I will hang up. But like I said, I want to take very long. If you so that I called land and some other stuff, everything's cool alright. Thank you later. They had it and that he'd for me. Thanks.

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(The following section is about my workplace and, as such, contains foul language and caps lock abuse. Reader discretion is advised.)

Aside from the obvious, you know what I hate about work?

I hate it when people block the aisle while standing there talking and then look all butthurt when you either walk between them or politely ask them to move. Today some asshole in an ugly Hawaiian shirt had the balls to snip at me, "Oh, are we in your way? Sooooorry!"

FRENCH MY FIGURATIVE DICKHOLE, YOU DOUCHE CANOE.

If you don't want people to interrupt the flow of your oh so scintillating conversation about your fantasy football league, then hey, howzabout not blocking the aisle? And these morons always pick the busiest freakin' areas for their little coffee klatsch, like in front of the bathrooms/vending machines/break room entrance.

THERE ARE EMPTY TABLES AND CHAIRS IN THE BREAK ROOM. GO IN THERE AND USE THEM!

Oh, and you know what else?

I hate it when somebody brings in their children/grandchildren and then parades them around the office like anybody gives two nutty turds.

Okay, I should rephrase that, because I'd say 90% of the people here melt like a Hershey's kiss on a radiator when faced with a small child. But it's pretty obvious who's not particularly kid-crazy in my department, and conveniently enough, we sit in the same aisle! So here's a novel idea: how about skipping our aisle? If that makes me a crabby old lady, then Leelee Sobeit-ski, but seriously, I don't want to meet them.

You may recall that the last time the new manager brought her kids into the office, the girl climbed onto my desk, screaming at migraine-inducing volume as she pawed through my possessions. I couldn't do anything but sit there with a tight pained smile and hope that she'd lose interest before she reached the breakable stuff at the back of the shelf, which fortunately she did.

Anyway, I was hard at work (yes really) when I heard something that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I won't bold and capitalize this next sentence so it's easier to read, but imagine it at a volume that could drown out a jet taking off.

"An' then I met Mickey an' he was in the picture an' I got a balloon but it popped!"

Horrified, I prairie dogged over the top of my cube and sure enough, N and her kids were two aisles down. I quickly grabbed some files off my desk and scurried off to the safety of the storage room. I was joined about two minutes later by my friend J, another refugee from the Child Invasion of 2010. She sat down next to me, buried her face in her hands, and moaned "Why couldn't they be kittens?!?"

My thoughts exactly.