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kangaroo311
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read my profile
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Name: Mojo
Country: United States
State: Texas
Metro: Austin
Birthday: 9/25/1980
Gender: Female
Interests: My fiance, The Spurs, Ginobili (our hedgehog), children with British accents, taking photos, writing, stilettos, discovering music (both old and new), and cooking.
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Art
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
10/20/2003
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| For the three people viewing this, I went and jazzed up a brand spanking new portfolio with work I’ve done over the last year as a proper titled Graphic Designer (I’m so offish).
MariaLindemann.com
And! For those of you that liked to read my bulletin posts here at The Xanga, I’m making a fresh new start by acquiring an officially type bloggy, which you may continue reading here:
The LindeBlog!
And! (I know, there’s more!) For those of you not in the know, Chase and I are getting married in November in The Caribbean. You can visit our lil’ wedding website here:
Chase & Maria Are Getting Married!
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| This morning, I adapted the graceful stance of an upside down J, shuffling on a hunch and a prayer to and fro 'bout the office. See, my back and I have been disagreeing about everything lately. And I just have to sit there. And take it.
"Are you okay?" The woman who just walked into the office is clearly alarmed. She witnesses my sad attempt to pick up the fallen stapler. I look like an umbrella handle, lady. What do you think?
Me: Oh yeah. Yeah. Just can't really move.
Lady: Do you do yoga?
Me: Oh yeah. Yeah. No.
Lady: Ooooh you should do yoga.
[ This Is The Flashback Scene. ]
My mind wanders to the phase about a decade ago when I got all gung-ho about yoga. Completely determined, I bought the workout tape, a mat for which to celebrate my oneness with the universe, and a new pair of comfy pj pants - the works. My water bottle rested peacefully at my side. Serenity serenity serenity.
I am totally Gwyneth Paltrow.
I'll move to England.
And eat macrobiotic foods.
Because that's what happens when you do yoga.
I giddily popped cassette into player anxious for my new lifestyle to begin. Ten minutes into the workout, the breathy instructor's buttermilky coos of praise, "Yes. You're doing gooooooooooooood" began to sound more like nails on a chalkboard than motivation.
Am I? Am I doing good? Because I'm pretty sure the civil war my legs are about to engage in would state otherwise. Needless to say, the yoga phase was immediately squandered and inevitable pique of interest in Tai Bo was born. I turned the tape off and opted for a rerun of Seinfeld instead.
[ Flashback Over Now. ]
"You should google some office chair exercises." She offers as she exits. "Those things will murder you if you don't." Oooh. Death By Furnishing. Cool.
So I did.
Right after she left.
Aaaaaand came across this:
Office Exercises
My only option? Really?
Maybe it's pride.
I dunno.
Maybe it's the fact that I am a clumsy ol' broad and my boss would walk in just as that chair beneath my hands would remember it had wheels and shimmy it's way to Dixieland before catering to my well being.
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| "I want one."
Chase retires his keys to the bowl with
sunken shoulders. I know immediately of what he
speaks: The Playstation Threeeeeee on Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! Turning to meet his eyes, I stifle a smile and shrug, "Okay."
2.5 nanoseconds later, dish towel still in hand, I
am clutching the seatbelt
for dear life. Tell my mother I looooove
heeeeeer! His knuckles squeeze tighter
administering a full Indian Rug Burn to the unsuspecting steering
wheel.
"They close at 10. If we
hurry, " he sucks in air through his teeth to Micro Machine Man a "we
can
gettheregetinandgetout." The skin on my
face in the backseat nodded.
One blink later, and
we're standing in front of The Best Buy Cashier with panting faces, the latest Grand Theft Auto,
and a
Playstation 3. "Awesome," The Best Buy Cashier nods. And then suddenly:
His eyes narrow.
He hunkers down.
He looks both ways and gestures
for us to come closer.
Mesmerized, we lean
in and listen as though The Best Buy Cashier were about to let us in on the greatest secret ever told.
"Don't...," BBC bites his
lip.
I prematurely nod a little too eagerly in
response.
"Whatever you do..." his eyes dart back
and forth.
Chase's own eyes like saucers.
His fingers a triangle in front of his mouth,
"Don't ever (!) get on a bike if you have low health."
"OH," we nod slowly, in unison. "Okay."
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| 
What is the probability?
What are the odds?
Who'd like to take a goosey gandery gamble that the wee miniscule space from hoop to lobe (see: visual above of hoop in happier times) somehow managed to finagle a latch atop my driver's side window as I attempt entry into my vehicle, hang itself, rip lobe, and jettison across parking lot in a suicide mission 'neath the neighborly Jetta?
If you chose slim to none?
You are wrong.
So very wrong.
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| [ This Is For No Reason Whatsoever. ]
Smoking's ever-rapid decline in social acceptability has somewhere
along the way equated itself to annihilating kitten litters by the bucketfull or carving 666 into your forehead. We can't have restaurants
anymore. Just stick the Smokers in a glass cage, and look down your nose at the dirty, filthy, mcdirty black sheep.
Bitter?
Table for one?
[ This Is The Point. ]
Up until 16 days ago, I was a Smoker. I loved me a heapin' helpin' of the nicotine. A big ol' chimney of Marlboro Lights, I was.
Smoke while driving!
Smoke post din-din!
Smoke just for the sake of smokin'!
And as Chase and I are no longer spring chickens, our decision was set in stone: Quit. We've officially become One of Them. (And I place a boom on the word 'them' like the ripply water glass in Jurassic Park)
Them [th em; unstressed th uh m, uhm]
-pronoun
The objective case of The Non-Smoker. We saw them yesterday. They faux coughed and gave us dirty looks as our habit is invading their airspace.
Ok. So I would never go as far as the fake cough (save that time at age 6 in the food court at Post Oak Mall, but that lady smelled like Corn Dog 7 and ashtray). My snobbery is limited only to passing motorists flicking ash out the window. You know, my Rage - a clever disguise for Envy.
[ This Is Where I Rationalize. ]
So in my quest to cease and desist the Straws of Satan, I have heretofor compiled a list of Pros & Cons to soothe my savage cravings.
Pros:
1. Save $5 a day. After 60 days? That's, like, $300. 'Nuff said.
2. Quick whiff of hair and clothing emits "ahhhh" sound rather than a hacking sputter.
3. Prolonged livage with muh pumpkin. Duhs.
Cons:
1. Hands. suddenly. awkward.
2. Violent urges to engorge large quantities of food.
3. Still reach for nonexistent ciggies and wince with feelings of dammit, anger, and flashbacks.
[ This Is My Embarrassing Confession. ]
So yeah, the first few days were the hardest. And I'm done and all that. But (!) I would like to send my sincerest apologies to the cashier at Exxon whose personal space I invaded by attempting to snort her cigarette.
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