This is an unofficial, off-the-record version of the sort of report I'm required to write when people misbehave or get generally unruly. The official version is one sentence long and doesn't attribute adjectives of blame, which I believe paint a better picture.

A deaf patron hastily approached to employ my help in a matter that had her fuming. There's a tacit (haha) agreement between us that if she points, I can usually figure out what the problem is.

Today it was two stupid twenty somethings jamming two chairs in a spot for one, thus impeding on the lady's own, already cramped, computer space. I diplomatically told the stupid boys that we have rules against sharing computers by cramming chairs inside rows, because if we didn't, inconsiderate dumb asses would do it all the time, and then I offered to move them to an end computer.

"That's all she had to say!" snipped one boy loudly with indignation.

"Instead she's been flailing her arms, screaming at us," added the other for sympathy.

"She can't talk, you idiot," came a voice from a few rows back.

I'm glad someone said what I could only suggest with an askance stare.

While sitting on the pot checking my email with Eugenio's iPhone, the ad above my inbox reads, "Suffering from constant constipation?" Well, as a matter of fact, no, I'm not. If your ads were more sophisticated and could sense where I am and what I'm doing at all times, not just the anal retentive google searches, then you would know that. But you're pretty witty.

That's the future of marketing. Google will just squeeze my hand the way my mother did, without all the questions.

I typed this all by phone and will probably delete it later.

Whenever we win the lottery or Eugenio becomes the breakout star of Real Apartment Husbands of Orlando -- whichever comes first -- I want to buy a big ass bed. Right now we're two (and too) tired, grumpy adults pissing each other off each night while trying to defend spaces and desired positions in our polly pocket bed.

My dream-big goal includes rolling over for days and not feeling his body heat. I've been going through menopause since the age of 20 (I'm just guessing that's what my problem is). My life these past years has been one constant hot flash. Plus, we live in fucking Florida and sleep like sardines.

I work with folks who don't have homes and thus beds, so I can't complain too much without feeling ashamed, but large beds definitely make up a lot of my lustful thoughts these days. Neno dreams of fancy cars and babies; I just want a perfect, selfish night of sleep before we introduce additional chaos. Hierarchy of needs and what not.

I changed this blog title. Naming the internet page in which I embarrass my future self has always been a difficult task, but one I take VERY SERIOUSLY, Y'ALL. I thought I was being cute and clever with 'bloggy blog', but the presence of other bloggy blogs proves the nature of my originality.

Also, I just discovered a new social network of sorts. It's a completely private forum for posting often incoherent, sometimes bitchy, and typically crass personal observations best kept -- which I'm clearly in want of doing -- from unbounded spaces such as these. I'm starting to blog there now. I begin each post with the comforting albeit unreciprocated "Dear Diary..." or sometimes "Listen asshole..."

I wonder how dead artists and public figures of generations past would feel if they knew about their personal journals and love letters having ISBN numbers.

My in-laws visiting in April is the additional push to my new year’s resolution to get serious about practicando español. So each night I’m reading a story outloud from the Cuentos Para Dormir that Eugenio gave me two xmases ago.

Yes, Aesop’s Fables en español is the train to fluency.

Me encantan tus zapatillas de cristal!

The US Olympic marathon trials are tomorrow morning in Houston. Just another reason I hate living in Orlando right now.

I’m a track and field, let’s say enthusiast, whose habits would warrant restrainer orders if taken any further. There’s nothing I love more than seeing every photo, every stat, and every social media post anywhere by my favorite rib bearing, bony limbed long distance runners. One day Eugenio left for work and on his return, I realised the gravity of my enthusiasm, having spent nearly every minute of 8 hours oggling athletes’ race reports and social media pages.

I guess I wouldn’t even be able to handle seeing these people in the flesh darting sweatily past me trying not to go to the bathroom in their pants while I do the same, anyhow.

I can’t decide who I’m routing for. I love an underdog story, but this is USA track and field, not basketball, so every one’s relatively underdoggish, but then again I do love it when someone unaffiliated/unsponsored who has to work 60 hours a week on top of training and raising a family kicks professionally trained ass. Plus, then I get another athlete to be completely creepy about.

This morning

when I went to the gym there were two lanky young men already on the two good treadmills. Evidently they had arrived only minutes before me, as they were speeding up to a slow walk, but for one of the boys it turned out he intended to walk in this sloth like pace for the entire workout, as if he was just there because his boyfriend dragged him along.

Though I say nothing, I always get irrationally enraged inside, which is actually not a bad frame of mind for running in place, when someone hogs the non shitty treadmill only to mosey along. Can’t he see I have calories to burn? This time I let it slide because the boys brought the music. The one dragging his feet had Britney and Beyonce emanating from his iPhone on full blast. I kind of assumed these two excersizing boys were a couple cutely starting their day together with a cardio/jam session, which made me wish Eugenio and I could work out together more often if only our schedules matched, but when they left I got a closer look at their faces and stopped for a moment to wonder how I knew them or where I’d seen them before. Then I realised— they are the new Mormons inhabiting the apartment upstairs, the Mormon apartment! Every few months a new pair of fresh faced Mormons come to replace the previous proselytizing teenagers who, after a short yet trying lifetime of force-fed beliefs, are enlightened with the truth (lucky them to have figured the world out so soon!) and eager to share their knowledge with the unassuming passersby whom they hit with their wobbly bicycles on their naive trek through the heathen filled Orlando streets.

These two dance mix loving boys had me fooled for a second in the gym. But I kind of suspect they may have the LDS church sponsoring their stay fooled as well. It was probably planned: Let’s just go on a “mission” and meet up in Florida.


Maybe I’m stereotyping all over the place, but they listened to Beyonce’s Run the World (Girls) on full blast twice in 30 minutes — twice! — and filled the rest of the half hour with remixed Britney. Whatever, I’m stupid; they’re probably just two mormon feminists who love cardio jams. I respect that. Or just Mormons who love songs with lively beats to fuel their treadmill romps. I don’t know. People are interesting.

just a thought...

A neti pot with Srichacha sauce....that'll do it, right?

best husband evah

"Remember the time we played the Sex and the City game and I won?" Eugenio asked wistfully while we snuggled on the couch, waiting for another episode to begin.

When I was mad at him for getting me two xmas gifts instead of one, he assuaged me by saying, "Well one of them is for both of us." He got us the complete collection. We're watching the entire series from beginning to end...again.

bad hair year

It's finally cold in Orlando. I bought a pack of ramen for $1 at Walgreens to celebrate, because I'm hungry and frugal. I mean, I spent a $1 for a two week supply of nutritionally devoid (but delicious, especially with some Sriracha sauce) lunch after spending over $100 to get my hair did for the second time in three weeks, because clearly I have my priorities straight.

Besides being the year I got married, 2011 was the year of poor hair decisions that usually typify teenage years, but I'm a late bloomer. It actually started late 2010 when I randomly decided after a night of no sleep to dye my hair for the first time ever with a bottle of $4 hair dye. It was a dark brown bordering on black hue that fashioned me a pale, brooding goth. I decided to fix this disaster by spending money I didn't have at a salon.  I got blonde highlights, then blonder highlights, then less blonde highlights, and then regretting it all, a few weeks ago, I went back to what the salon professional called dark blonde and I call light brown.

BUT, the lady should have added red pigment into the dye. When a co-worker finally admitted that my hair turned OK just a little green, I made another appointment at a completely different salon. She was being nice. My hair looked a mix between shit brown and The Exorcist puke green. Kate admonished, "You should have marched back into that salon to get your money back!" I'm not one for marching into anywhere or speaking my mind to anyone other than besties and blood relations, so that didn't happen. The lady could have dyed my hair orange and I would have told her "I love it!" while thanking her profusely and paying the large bill. I know. I make no sense. It's my hair and my money going to shit, but I'd rather not trample on a stranger's feelings because I'm reserved like that.

At any rate, a new stylist  took me under her wing. She called me "sweetheart" and "honey," told me I have a "baby face" and said "you're in good hands" in such a motherly tone that, even though we're roughly the same age, I went along and fell into the role of helpless child. I let her do her thing; she seemed happy for the project. She gave me a hug before I left. I feel better.

I'm finally (maybe? until next time?) satisfied after a year long failed experiment of trying to fix my self esteem by changing my hair color and can henceforth stop spending my pittance on damaging my locks at the expense of common necessities like lunch and gynecologist appointments. I may have six months to live and not even know it yet because I won't fork over the money to find out what ails me. At least my hair will look good when I'm lying in my coffin. Here lies Hanna with her light brown hair with golden highlights.

When I'm not feeling so lazy I'll post pics of this transformation.

I'm sorry for being annoying. I promise to never talk about my hair again.