I walked into the kitchen and found… this:

Oh, how’s that? you ask?  Here, let me give you a better angle.

How this dog does it, I’ll never know.  But I am legitimately flabbergasted on a near-daily basis.

But in an inconvenient yet providential twist, my work computer crashed on Monday afternoon, rendering me useless on the job until the replacement showed up (picked it up first thing this morning).  So yesterday?  UNEXPECTED FREE DAY.

Glory, and amen.

I got so much done – errands, and cleaning, and organizing, and planning.  I went to the gym at 2pm, staring in wonder at everyone else on the treadmills, wondering why no one else has jobs.  And finally, in the evening, I did the one thing that had already been on my calendar: I got a massage.

I had been looking forward to this massage ever since I bought the Groupon a few months ago: a 75 minute massage for $29.  Twenty-nine dollars exclamation point!  I thought it was too good to be true.

And, well.  Maybe it was.

Despite my protests, the lady poked and prodded me in all sorts of awkward and painful ways.  She laughed like Fran Drescher.  I was freezing, and when I asked if she could turn the fan in any direction other than, you know, right in my face, she said, “Well, I’m hot.”  And when she stopped halfway through the massage to inform me that she was going to anoint me with frankincense, folks, we had a legitimate WTF situation on our hands.

And yes, I know.  Being tired from traveling to fun places, getting ready to host friends that I love, having a surprise day off from my very wonderful job, only to get a weird massage?

Yes.  I am aware that this is what we call a “first world problem.”

Who determines the trends? Why do we follow suit? And how has it become such a powerful industry?

I’ve been watching episodes of Ken Burns’s “The West,” a documentary about the history of American western expansion. And at one point, a historian was talking about how back in the early 1800s, the rich people wore hats made of beaver pelts – and all of a sudden, there was a boom in beaver trapping because everyone wanted a beaver hat – that is, until silk hats took over.

I guess we’ve always been obsessed with looking “in.”

But these days, the trends are ridiculous. I browse through The Sartorialist, and find myself scratching my head, musing about what people choose to clothe themselves in. Call me boring when it comes to garb, but… for real?

Are you homeless?
Are you a man or a woman?
Are YOU a man or a woman?
And you. Are you serious?

Given today’s choices, I think I’d rather be wearing a beaver hat.

(And don’t even get me started on rompers.)

Is anyone still here?

If you’re wondering if the iPhone swallowed me, the answer is NO COMMENT.

I spent the weekend in my hometown of Montrose, Colorado.  I went over for a dentist appointment, since Dan Clader, D.D.S., is my longest term relationship to date (22 years).  After last summer’s debacle of ten cavities, I am happy to report that my complicated teeth are holding steady.  Zero cavities, no crowns necessary, keep on keeping on, and I just might keep my own teeth for a few more years.

While I was in Montrose, my friends Cyrus and Peder had a show lined up at a Mexican restaurant-slash-lounge, and asked if I would be the opening act.

LOOK AT THESE GUYS.

They know that I say this in complete love: they are dirty Montrose at its finest.  How could I resist them?

Peder and I bonded over our turquoise accessories – although his being an authentic bolo tie, it was a little bit more ridiculously awesome than my tame Banana Republic flair.  I played 5 songs, and my dear friend Laura sang with me – more on her later this week.  I saw some people that I hadn’t seen in over 10 years.  It made me love Montrose even more than I already did.

You want to know what made me love Montrose EVEN more than that?

The fire dancer.

Oh yes.  Peder plays with the cutest, quirkiest band Cowboy & Indian, and during their set, through the windows behind the band, a Montrose man was feeling the spirit – and set batons aflame.

Proof:

Hazardous?  Bizarre?  Amazing?  Yes, yes, and yes.

Just another night in Montrose, and just another day in my life.

GRETA!

Last night, we were walking around Wash Park, and looked to our right to see… a roof-top band!

They noticed us taking their picture, and yelled for us to come up.

Yes.  They yelled for us to let ourselves in through the front door, go down the hall to the staircase, climb to the attic, and then clamber out the window and up to the roof.

And thanks to my new-found Spiderman climbing skills discovered on Mt. Evans this weekend…

… well.  Needless to say, we bonded.

Yes, I played the trumpet.  No, I don’t know whose lips have been on that thing.  But how could I resist?  It was a real live HOOTENANNY.

I have been overcome with this gigantic, humongous desire to go to California.

Since when have I craved California?  And not just California – but SOUTHERN California?  This is so unlike me.  I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Other things have been changing, too.  There is the obvious (I run stupid distances by myself on the weekends) – but there are also some new transformations that I feel like mentioning.

Peas ruin everything.  I suppose that I have never been a huge proponent of peas, anyway, but last week, I made the decision that I never want to taste another pea again.

I feel kind of shy.  My introversion has never equated shyness before, but here we are.  I come into contact with a room full of people that I don’t know, and it feels so scary to say hello to anyone.

And… well, that’s all.  I wish that I had three bolded points, because 3 is the best number (um, hello, three notes create a chord, Reduce Reuse Recycle, Three Blind Mice, the Three Little Pigs, and remember a little something called the HOLY TRINITY?) – but alas, I only have two.

But then again, in Vietnam, it is bad luck to take a picture with three people in it – because the person in the middle will soon die.  Three strikes and you’re out.  You have until the count of 3 before I sock you in the jaw.

I think that this blog just became my third point.

I know.  I KNOW.  I am the least cool person in the universe.  You, reading my words right now?  I’M NOT WORTHY.

I had heard of her, but it was sort of like my knowledge of Google Wave.  OH!  I know that! What is it?  Um… I have no idea.

It turns out that Lady Gaga is sort of a big deal these days.  She opened the Grammys in a blaze of freaky glory.  This chick is WEIRD, y’all.  But wouldn’t you know, after one listen to her song “Poker Face,” IT IS ON REPEAT.

This song is from 2008, and somehow, I had never heard it.

Doesn’t matter though – I am GrooveSharking the fire out of this song.  It’s pretty ridiculous, actually – because since when have I liked dance music?  If only my iTunes was up and running, because if I had this song on my iPod, I am pretty sure I could run forever.

Which leads me to my question… what is your favorite guilty pleasure song?  This is a safe place – like a fire station or a hospital.  No shame here.  Maybe a tiny bit of shame.  But not enough to not say anything.

(And yes, I am purposefully not blogging about the final season premier of “Lost” tonight.  Anything that I could write or think or say would not come close to how I FEEL.  Suffice it to say that I am having trouble focusing on ANYTHING ELSE today.)

Does anyone know what’s happening here?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Because I have no recollection of this moment.

But clearly, Swayze was wrong: SOMEBODY puts Baby in a corner – and that somebody is Mom.

- – - – - – - -

Mom’s cancer treatment starts today – major surgery in Denver at 4pm.  Thanks for keeping her in your prayers.

So Kenny, Keith, and I loaded into the old Honda, and I insisted on sitting in between them, which was very awkward because that put me in between the bucket seats and on top of the emergency break.  But we were cruising along, and at one point, I said, “Guys, you know that we’re going to have to take a picture – because no one is ever going to believe me.”  They both laughed reluctantly, like, “Yeah, sure,” but I could tell that they didn’t really want anyone to know that they had spent any time with me.  They were just using me for my car.

In a way – a way I cannot pinpoint aside from the subject of “counterfeit” – this reminds me of a horribly unauthentic Irish pub in Overland Park, Kansas, called Paddy O’Quigley’s.

One time, just out of curiosity, Jeremy and Ashley and I went.  It was pretty much as bad as we thought it would be – in a strip mall, fake brick walls, neon signs for Michelob Ultra.

But it was all worth it when we found out that Becca thought it was called Patio Quigley’s.

That just makes me happy to remember.