All that crazy love is going to double in November when my brother and his wife have a baby Cylon girl. A girl who will love me for my unparalleled skills in dress-up and Barbie hair-doing (including botched haircut rescue). And if she isn’t into those things, well, she will love me because I let her do shit her parents won’t. I am an aunt. It is my right.

I just sighed the biggest sigh. Did you hear it from way over there? The Boy and I are in possession of a last minute invitation to the Ranch and we’re heading out after work for some quality gettin’ dirty time. Not that kinda dirty, perverts. The four-wheelin’, jeepin’, eatin’ messy barbecued brisket dirty. Um, no, we’re not exactly packed for the move on Wednesday (though, the Dork Lord’s computer cords? They are VERY organized). But if I don’t fill these lungs with some country air and cake some serious grime up under these fingernails, the only thing getting packed would be me – off to a very quiet room with padded walls and no Internet.

I didn’t declare any allegiance during the whole Jen-Brad-Angelina fiasco. But I’m saying it right now, in case it’s not immediately apparent: TEAM BETTY.

I know. All worked up over a comic book. I never said I wasn’t completely nuts. But I think it doesn’t help matters that moving has made me somewhat (more) cantankerous. And pouty. God, so pouty. Then add to that a big heaping dose of Watching What I Eat (I had to wear a swimsuit the other day in friendly company. I didn’t cry. But I was close), and basically, it’s like I told E: I’m getting through the day one snack at a time. Pathetic? Yes. Do I care? Nuh uh. It’s days like today that make me want to make lists of things I hate (eggplant. Miley Cyrus. Obviously fake, french manicured nails) and then systematically eradicate them from existence. Might want to sit on your hands, ladies.  Anyway, I get that my anger at a fictional character might have a little something to do with melted cheese deprivation and an apartment full of half-packed boxes and that’s the defense I’m going with when I get caught breaking into Archie headquarters to do a little… eradicating.

In other news, after I typed the above, I went out at lunch and bought a pair of shoes. They’re helping a little.

You’d think that with all this time we’ve had to wait and prepare, packing would be well underway. Oh, sillies. It’s not even started. And we’re going out of town this weekend. After packing up my own apartment five or six weeks ago, I have very little enthusiasm for more quality time with cardboard boxes and packing tape. In fact, the words dread and I’d rather stand in a pile of fire ants come to mind.The Boy, bless his heart, wasn’t exactly the biggest contributor to the moving out experience (my mom, bless hers even more, was. Total. Effing. CHAMP), so my inner six year old is throwing a special little tantrum regarding fairness – or the lack thereof – at the prospect of another pack-up job. But love is love, and also I know that the more labor I do, the more unappetizing tasks I can ask him to do in exchange. Like, getting my car inspected. Also maybe washed and waxed and vacuumed. And that’s all before I clean his oven.

I don’t believe I’ve skinned a knee in something like fifteen years, and holy cow – I don’t have a single accessible memory of how much that shit hurts! I was never a… graceful child, so skinned up was pretty much a constant state for me (between that and stubbed toes, I was the single largest consumer of  Band Aids in greater Utah County). But I guess it’s like losing teeth – when I was a kid, I’d do just about anything to rip that thing out of my face for a lousy buck. Now? The idea makes me totally nauseated. I’d need at least a five-dollar incentive. Falling off a bike used to be no biggie, either. Now, I’m a little bit nervous to take up the Boy’s suggestion that I purchase one and go on two-wheel adventures with him. ADVENTURES IN DEATH.  Which is simply further proof that this getting old thing is a little bit lame. Bills. Taxes. Near death experiences during child’s play. As for the skinned knee, I had a ridiculous amount of fun doing it (playing pool volleyball while subtly intoxicated by beer-ritas), but the whole thing where a part of my body that sees major play on any given day is missing its skin? No bueno.

Also no bueno but totally off topic? Kate Gosselin’s hair. Ordinarily I’d just leave her alone with her bad, bad, really bad porcupine haircut, but I’ve been reading a lot of crappy tabloid stuff while waiting for Doom to arrive and holy cow, she sure gets into herself, bragging that everyone (yes, she means you, too) wants it. Everyone. And if you haven’t admitted to wanting it, you’re in a whole heap of denial. No, no, no. Just take your kids off TV already.