This Fish Needs a Bicycle

things i have lost

June 9th, 2009

The Cinderella watch I bought at Disneyland in the second grade. Teeth. Sleep. Weight. My way when driving to that hotel in San Jose, Costa Rica. Two grandparents. A scholarship. My luggage. Bets. The fifty meter dash at Hershey Track & Field day. My temper. My virtue, as it were. The tweezers to my Swiss Army Knife. Hope. My keys. My VHS copy of Top Gun. My religion. Friends. A pearl earring into the mystery slot at the bottom of an escalator. My place in line. Momentum. The stomach required to watch reality television. Receipts. My voice. The recipe for my father’s chocolate chip cookies. Phone numbers. My marbles.

My patience.

doubling the auntie

June 5th, 2009

This may come as some surprise, but I am a fan of babies. I know. You’re shocked. Look, it’s not like I want to have any of my own right now (we have our hands full with an aging dog and a persnickety cat), but I am awfully keen on other people’s wee ones. The Dork Lord has become accustomed to my unusually sensitive baby-dar, and is not at all surprised when I melt into an oozy heap of goo in their presence. Case in point: my nephew. I lose my mind around that kid and become a cheek nibbling, silly-song singing, hopeless mess. I love it.

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.

And nobody wants that.

team betty

June 3rd, 2009

I know I shouldn’t care about this. After all, I haven’t kept up with these three since I was ten years old. But I always thought I knew how it was going to turn out. Now ever since Archie proposed to Veronica last week, the world has stopped making sense. What the hell, Arch? All these years I’ve cultivated this tiny little seed of faith that you’d do the right thing and dispel the dirty old cliche that the pretty, high maintenance biznatches get the fella. Well, you didn’t do that, did you? DID YOU?

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.

At ease, Internet. At ease.

moon, spoon, june

June 1st, 2009

I’ve been waiting for June long enough that when I saw today’s date, I almost did a back flip. Okay, no, not a back flip. I worked out hard and moved furniture this weekend. Getting out of my car is a uniquely torturous challenge, so back flips are decidedly out. But I’m excited. Mostly because in nine more days, The Dork Lord and I move into our bigger, yay-I-have-my-own-office apartment on the other side of the complex. We’ve been on a waiting list for this place since the fifth week we were dating. See? Sometimes you just know things. Like, how we knew our love wouldn’t survive living in a one bedroom bachelor pad.

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.

Boy, didn’t that sound like a euphemism for something dirty and awesome.