May 27th, 2009
I’ve had this nervous feeling in my stomach for a few days now – this sick, achy feeling that says, Something is wrong. Very wrong. I wake up, and for the first few seconds, there’s nothing. And then BAM! Impending doom. And I’m usually right about these things, you know, so while I’m waiting for Doom to send me the email sitting is his Draft folder, let’s talk about happier things. Like my skinned knee.
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.
And even more off topic but still pertinent: I miss LOST. Which is probably making me crabbier than normal.
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.
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