Something That Has Nothing to Do with Anything

Let's talk about our day, shall we? By which I mean, of course, let me tell you about my day.

My alarm clock failed to alarm this morning. A brief word on these so called "alarm" clocks: mine is a Sony Dream Machine Dual FM/AM Radio Alarm Clock set to NPR. If there is anything alarming about this alarm clock, it is that I am twenty-two years old and waking up to Morning Edition. Freak.

Fortunately, I have a backup alarm. She is sixteen pounds and enjoys long walks snoozes on the beach couch and crying into my face at 6:30 in the morning. Her name is Taffy but she also responds to CAT, Hey You, Stop Scratching on My Carpet, and Move Over--You're Hogging the Bed. I hadn't thought I would ever use this last one on a pet, but there you go. Currently the Princess is slumbering soundly on top of my sweaty jogging clothes, having decided that she'd sufficiently covered my comforter in hair.

That last paragraph really isn't relevant to me telling you about my day, since it was not actually part of my day. I woke up without the aid of either my alarmless clock or my alarming cat, and proceeded downstairs for breakfast. I watched an episode of Weeds. Okay, two episodes. And by two, I mean three. I then went on a grocery run to Trader Joe's, arriving way later than I should have because for some reason I was incredibly distracted on the freeway and missed the exit. I blame John Mayer.

My afternoon went by fairly uneventfully. I went for a run along the slough, which for some reason almost killed me. I engaged in a losing battle against iTunes when I tried to play an episode of House and was rewarded with audio and a black screen-o-death. To remedy the situation, I restarted iTunes and searched for answers on the internet. I do this thing whenever I'm experiencing technological difficulties where I type full questions into Google and expect the results to be as specific as my questions (which of course they never are). When Google failed me, I proceeded to throw things at my computer screen. In hindsight that probably wasn't the best solution, but it made me feel better...

...Unlike the Sounders game. Those of you who know me know that I am virtually incapable of swearing without laughing. I just rarely get mad enough to truly mean the awful things I say, and serious insults sound strange coming out of my mouth (I blame my lack of badassness. Badassity?) Seriously, my worst comeback is, "Oh yeah? Well you're stupid." So now that I have created for you a picture of pure, innocent little Olivia in a nun's habit scattering breadcrumbs to amputee pigeons, I would like you to imagine the complete opposite. I'm talking red-faced, wine sloshing out of my glass (yes, I actually drank wine--I'm telling you, soccer does crazy things to me), screaming at the referee and the players, ripping hair follicles from my scalp, accusing the opposing team of plotting some horrific atrocity against me and my country--and really, they have. If scoring three goals in four minutes during the last fifteen minutes of play is not a horrific atrocity, I don't know what is. I was P-I-S-S-E-D. Sounders, you broke my heart, boys. I wore my scarf, I rang my bell, I scared my cat out of the room. All for you. And this is how you repay me. Ingrates.