Calculations - Dieting the Cyndi Way

Latte - 130 calories

Asiago bagel - 360 calories

Vegetable Cream Cheese - 120 calories

Grand total for Cyndi's breakfast - 610 calories

Calories burned in one hour while sitting - 88

Hours for Cyndi to burn her breakfast while stationed like a lump at her desk - 6.93

Licking the cream cheese off of the remaining half of your bagel and throwing the rest away to save 180 calories so you can eat the chocolate bar in your desk without guilt- Priceless.

It's Haunted Alright...

by stupid people. Allow me to explain.

On Saturday, Andy and I stayed at a reportedly haunted lodge out in Utah's ski country. I have whims like this, on occasion. A couple weeks ago I stumbled across a Haunted Places in Utah site. I sent the link to Andy, we peeked at a couple places, found a little lodge that was cute, and decided to go. My decision to do so was vastly aided by several factors, which I shall present in list-like form, as it pleases my diseased little brain.

1. The Lodge was running a special as it is off season for skiing (why does that word never look right?). Decent price, cute countrified room, home-cooked breakfast included. So far, so good.

2. The Lodge is located up a beautiful canyon and promises an outdoor hot-tub and sauna with a beautiful view. Also good.

3. The lodge promises an excellent menu of higher end noshing. Being the fat gir erm, foodie that I am, this is always a significant aspect in my decision making process.

4. The Lodge is supposed to be relatively empty this time of year, promising one's fill of solitude and serenity. I can always use a little of each - so cool, right?

5. Lodge is haunted. Also very very cool.

So I booked the room, and off we went. It all started well enough, the drive up the canyon was lovely. Andy's company is always immensely enjoyable. We were having a grand old time joking about the various ways we might be ghosted in the middle of the night.

Then we pull up to the lodge. Which looks nothing as grand as the photos they have posted on the website. There are several more cars parked outside than I had expected. I begin to feel dubious.

"This may not be very cool." I say, suddenly feeling the need to warn Andy.

"I'm sure it will be great," he counters, ever my more optimistic half.

I feel my eyebrows bunch. Something is weird. But we go in anyway and are greeted promptly at the door by Dirk-the-not-so-bright lodge dude and a barely controlled chaos of employees shouting and rushing every which way.

"Sorry folks, we're closed for a wedding," he bellows.

"Uh, what?"

"Closed. We're closed. We have a wedding here tonight."

"Oh, that's odd. We have reservations to stay here tonight," Andy informs him.

"Oh yeah?" Dirk consults a pencil-scribbled ledger. "Oh, I guess you do. Here, fill this out." He shoves a piece of paper towards Andy.

"So is the restaurant closed as well?" Andy inquires politely, filling out the slip. He knows I am fuming, irritated at the unwelcoming greeting, more irritated that my hopes of dinner are in peril, more than a little peeved that no one bothered to inform me of the wedding when I made the reservation.

"Yep. But I think the reception is gonna have a buffet line. You guys should just crash and grab some grub." He chuckles.

I narrow my eyes at his back as he turns away, Andy quietly asks if I want to push it out a couple weeks. I tell him no, that the room is non-refundable and we are already here. My discontent is quickly doubling and redoubling.

Another minion tells us he will take us to the room. He leads us through the dining room (where the reception will be held) up the stairs to the room. I am now panicky as I realize if we want to come and go at all that night, we will do so through some one's wedding reception. Tables are also set out on the patio, so unless I want to prance amongst the wedding guests in my bathing suit, sauna-ing and hot-tubbing are also out.

In the hall we edge past a group of women spilling from the nearby room, ironing some component of the bridal gown.

Our room at the end of the hall is small, wood paneled, and has hideous doilies tucked under animal themed lamps. It also smells. Minion points out that we have a view of the patio and can spy in the wedding guests if we want. His suggestion is the creepiest thing about the place as of yet. Still the view of aspens and pine trees beyond is nice. Minion leaves, I frown.

"Is it so unreasonable to expect that someone should have told me that they were hosting a wedding on this particular weekend?" I ask Andy. He agrees, they should have told us. We decide we will drive further up the canyon for an early dinner and then return before the reception begins and hole up in our room. We find a place to eat and are the only ones there, which is nice. The cook informs me he doesn't trust the steak, and asks if could he interest me in a burger instead.

"Fine," I say. It's not. I can't shake my disappointment. Still it's cloudy and beautiful in the canyon. It looks like rain and I am here with Andy, who is enjoying himself.

The storm begins in earnest as we arrive back at the Lodge. The parking lot and surrounding road is choked with cars. We elbow our way through a clot of wedding guests to get to the stairs. People look at us strangely. "Are they supposed the be here?" Someone whispers behind us. "Look, they're going up stairs," a concerned female points out. "Just let them go," her male companion comments. "They're probably just lost."

I fight an urge to cartwheel down the stairs ninja-style and kick them in the head. Probably best as I can't cartwheel and I don't have any ninja moves. I'd likely trip and fall on Aunt Edna, killing her instantly. Maybe then this place really would be haunted. I smirk at the thought then promptly censure myself. I have a formidable mean streak when I'm feeling put out and anxious.

We settle onto the bed and read as it begins to pour. I finally begin to unwind. I open the window and watch the rain slant onto the tables, soaking the cloths, ruining the flowers. Concerned female shrieks and people scampering to drag in the decorations. I shouldn't be pleased but I am. A wolf howls in the distance. Andy and I grin at each other. Perhaps this won't be so bad after all. The night is lovely, the rain loud enough to compete with the revelers from the reception. I have a nagging feeling they will all still be here tomorrow morning, and I am correct.

The last part of the reservation worth salvaging, the promised breakfast with our bed, already looks foreboding. As we ready ourselves for the morning we can see from our window that the tables on the patio, still sparkling with last night's rain, are clogged with people. We pack up and decide to do a drive-by as we turn in our room key. The restaurant is stuffed with people, there is not an open table to be had. We elect not to wait, and leave.

It was a lovely night, nevertheless, but not through any fault or effort of the people who run the lodge. By accident and happenstance. And was not, sadly, haunted by anything other regular ordinary people. Methinks I may need to go leave a couple reviews.

-Cyndi

Aaaaargh!

Wenches and Maties! Today be International Talk Like a Pirate Day! I will have ye know that I, Surly Cyndi Longshanks, have single-handedly instigated a celebration of this holiday in the Tech department where I be employed as a meeting wench. Here be the invitation I be sending out earlier this week:

Ahoy there!

This be Surly Cyndi Longshanks the Meeting Wench. Killer Kent, Master and Chief of the S.S. SOS Underbelly, have asked me to inform ye that this Friday be International Talk Like Pirate Day. In accordance with the Pirate Code, we be having a luncheon of hearty vittles on Friday this, at high noon, in the 4^th flaarr executive baarrd room.

Moreover, we be havin’ a contest to see which matey can invent the best pirate-like name for themself and their position here on the S.S. SOS. The winners shall be richly rewarded with gifts of booty and swag. All ye must do is email yer pirate name to meself, Longshanks the Meeting Wench, by 9 o clock on the marning of Friday. I’ll then be sendin the list around fer the votin. We’ll be announcing the winners o’er our sup of hearty pirate nosh on Friday.

Here be some sample names to tickle yer wee brains:

Burly Bill, Master of the Swaghold

Greenbeard Morrison, Keeper of the Pirate Code

Heartless Hardy, Master Booty Buccaneer

Lynn the Lenient Lamprey, Crew Chief and Plank Sack Master

On Friday, the wearin of eye patches is to be encouraged, as is the talking pirate-like fer the day (unless of carse ye be talkin to a customer or other externally-facin matey. Be a pirate, but don’t be a daft one.)

Killer Kent would be appreciatin yer participation in this crew buildin experience. See ye thar!

And lo! Today there be blokes in pirate-like costumes, shenanigans, tom-foolery and many other things of the like. Not to mention a feast featuring several kinds o' meat on a stick. Tis a pirate's dream! And I be takin credit fer all of it.

I'll post pictures of the festivities for ye soon!


Yaaaarrrs,
Surly Cyndi Longshanks, Meeting Wench

Happiness Is...

1. Remembering there is a half eaten bag of Fritos and stale Milk Duds in your file cabinet when you are starving.

2. Tripping on your stupid rubber soled heels then realizing there is no one there to witness it.

3. Spilling your latte on your lap when you're wearing a dark brown skirt.

4. Being me, today.

Hair Conversations with Mary

I have a cute little hair stylist. Mary, my coiffure expert, is a 19 year old advanced student at the Dallas Roberts academy. She makes me almost feel young again as she chats with me about her dating life, her room-mates, all the things that I am many years beyond now. It takes about 4 hours, start to finish, for her to do my hair. But she does a fabulous job, even if she does insist on giving me the 'Utah Poof,' (see picture) so I always go back.

I sat fidgeting in the chair this past Saturday, my butt going numb at about the 100th foil. For the 78th time I picked a fallen hair (my own) off my black smock and with waggling fingers released it to the hair laden salon floor. Mary giggled.

"You don't like hair, do you?" She asked. I shuddered.

"I HATE hair. HATE it."

"Why?"

"It's a textural thing."

"Textural?"

"Yeah. Like when it's wet and gets stuck to your fingers, or when you can it tickling down the back of your shirt, or when..."

"When you pull one out of your mouth?" Mary supplied helpfully.

I wretched and swallowed excess spit. "Yes. Like that."

"That's weird. It's never bothered me."

"Yeah, I'm weird. I have a few things like that."

"Like what?"

"Wet bread. Like when they make a sandwich at Subway and they put the tomatoes next to the bread and it gets all soggy." Cyndi shudders again.

"What else?"

"Well for icky mouth-feel I'd have to say pudding, yogurt, peanut butter, jumbo marshmallows. For tactile ickyness it would be cardboard, dishwater with floaty things, and dryer lint." Cyndi shakes her hands to rid them of the phantom dishwater floaties they're now feeling. Mary smiles.

"Yeah, I know. I'm a weirdo." I reply.

"No!" She tries to assure me exuberantly. "You're just, you're just..."

"Crazy?"

"Nuh uh! No! You're totally not!"

"It's okay. Really. I know I'm warped."

She sighs and fiddles with a foil, clearly searching for something she can say to make me feel better. "I don't like ketchup. That's weird, right?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess so," I reply shifting cheeks.

"This is going to look hot," she says changing the subject.

"Sweet," I reply.

I'm a freak.


-Cyndi