May 22nd, 2009
There’s something about the prospect of a three-day weekend that restores my affection for humanity and my faith in possibility. And I could use a little restoration. It hasn’t been the best week ever. Sunday was such a success (complete with a nice long jog in the sunshine), that by contrast, Monday was one of the circles of hell that Dante forgot to mention. And Tuesday, well Tuesday brought some unraveling and there I was, sitting on the steps in my running clothes, tears streaming down my face while my tense boyfriend looked on.
“Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know.”
I don’t know, as unhelpful as it was, was so much easier – much prettier - than the truth. Because I’m not happy. Because I want to go home. That I was in our apartment made no difference. I wanted to go home. To retreat. And I didn’t have anywhere to go. Because I remember when you used to like me. The nature of our disagreement had been so small, but also pretty fundamental to who we are and how different we can be. He was wrong and I was wrong. He was unhappy with me, and not ready to say it. But I felt it. In his coolness and the way he walked ahead of me, not stopping to check if the gate had shut in front of me. And I felt unwanted, unliked and terribly insecure. So I cried in the shower. I was over-sensitive and he was unaware. We were doing our best Venus and Mars.
Like we do, though, we sorted things out, kissed and made up. Tried a little harder. Laughed. And I was glad I kept the truth to myself, because what was true on Tuesday was a little less true on Wednesday and by Thursday, all but forgotten, because a new truth had taken its place.
May 19th, 2009
I knew it was meant to be a small wedding, so when I didn’t get an invitation, I wasn’t offended. I swear I wasn’t. Especially since, if I could get away with it, I’d invite nobody at all to my own, save someone who was legally permitted to sign the necessary paperwork. But when Jen-the-Bride called me at work on Thursday afternoon, all that offense I’d been saving up started pouring right out of me, like at the end of Beauty and the Beast when the latter character shoots light out of his fingers and toes and turns into a really girly looking prince. That was me. Only with bad feelings. Toward my mailman.
“We wondered why we hadn’t heard from you,” she said, laughing. “It took over a month for the invitation to get back to us.”
Hoo boy, was I ticked. It’s one thing not to be invited, but quite another if the mailman does the un-inviting. A few more days of postal nonsense and I’d have missed the happy occasion altogether. And I’d done the footwork, dammit. I’d gone online and filled out the change of address form and paid the United States Postal Service a whole dollar to process it. But, now that I thought of it, I hadn’t received a single piece of mail since moving in with the Boy.
“There’s a little slip of paper in the bottom of my mailbox,” Jen said. “If your name’s not on it, the mailman won’t leave your mail. At least, that’s what happens at my apartment complex.”
“But! The dollar! And… and the change of address form! Don’t they mean anything?”
She laughed again. “Guess not.”
And what do you know, she was right. After I took a sharpie and added my name to that magical scrap of paper, I became a legitimate, mail-receiving persona non non grata. Food & Wine magazine! A check from Cafe Press! Junk mail! I was so happy to see a tree-killing mailer from Geico, I can’t even tell you. I was even happier that our apartment folks saw fit to park a large garbage can next to the mailboxes for just such happy mailings.
May 13th, 2009
We’re sorting out a few… glitches here, so in the meantime, join us over at Facebook for more of the same. And by “same” I mean, “total effin’ genius.”
May 11th, 2009
By Saturday afternoon I’d already seen Star Trek twice. I know what you’re thinking. That I’ve totally become one of those girls – the ones who snag a man and forfeit their entire personalities, suddenly favoring things he loves, like spray cheese and NASCAR. And yes, while being with the Dork Lord has subtly increased my tolerance of sports bars and basketball (yeah, no, it’s still not over because it WILL NEVER BE OVER), my love for the nerdy things in life began long, long ago. Probably with Space Camp and the year I requested that for my birthday slumber party we rent the “Star Trek whale movie.” I won’t lie: I’ve been suffering unrequited love for Captain Jean-Luc Picard for years. And now, now that there’s a fresh, young (read: pretty effing attractive) cast it’s like… well, we’re reunited and it feels so good. Also, it’s just a damn fine movie. Because even if you’re not into sci-fi and space and warp speed I’m betting you’re into hot and funny. Which there’s plenty of. I do so love a badass with a healthy disrespect for authority.
Is it wrong that it’s Monday and my brain is focused entirely on the weekend? Good friends from Boston are flying in Thursday night and I’m clinging to that visit like a life raft in a sea of boring. They’ve never been here, so I’m excited to take them out for Tex Mex and, if the rain sees fit to stop for a couple hours at a time, show them some of the sights. The Nasher maybe? If you’re a Dallas-ite and you have suggestions, I’d love to hear ‘em. Er, read ‘em. Whatever.
May 6th, 2009
There are some mornings I wake up and I just know it’s going to be a Miss Piggy day. Everything in me wants to eschew all socially acceptable behavior, get my ire up, throw some wildly irrational tantrums and karate chop offenders Hiiii-yah! right in the throat. Today is one of those days. On anabolic steroids.
Sweet baby J, I’m so pissed off.
Anger is not something I’m used to processing. Yeah, I fall into the category of Easily Annoyed (yes, there are such things as stupid questions) but not quick to anger. Anger is uncomfortable, ill fitting. But right now I’m angry. And there’s not a thing I can do about it. I want to scream. Loud and furious and deranged, like the Boy does when the Mavericks are losing. I want to break things that aren’t mine. Walk through the parking garage and dig my key into the paint jobs of cars that take up more than their allotted space. Start a fight in a bar. With someone bigger than me. I’m really, really furious. And I want someone to make it right.
Update: Still pissed. The issue remains largely ignored and thus, unresolved. Disrespect is gross.
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