The Dork Lord and I spent the weekend at the ranch where His Nerdiness had a very successful first experience with gun slinging (the bruise on his right man boob is ever so pretty) and where I did what I always do there – eat, sleep, read, eat, play with dogs and eat – only this time, with added making out. It’s so very easy to be in love where there is lots of sky and no responsibilities. And hardly anyone tells you to get a room. Anyway, I’ll get back to the weekend stories later, but I have to interrupt our previously scheduled entry to show you this:
 

Last night we lay in bed reading, the boy with a gigantic programming tome propped up on his chest and I, curled up with a paperback of Diablo Cody’s stripper memoir. I was wading through some pretty graphic descriptions of things I’d just as soon never have a first hand knowledge of when it occurred to me that my beloved was talking. I glanced up to see him looking at me, waiting for my answer.

“I’m sorry, hon. What did you say? I was reading about lap dances.”

“Uh… well, I was reading about picking up chicks. So there.”

“Oh, really? In what language?”

“…. C Sharp.”

“Mmm hmmm. I thought so.”

If you spend any time at all on Facebook, someone you most likely don’t know and/or like all that well has asked you to tagged you to post 25 random things about yourself – mostly so they will have something new to read while they pretend to work, I’m guessing. And you did it because, duh, you don’t want to work either. Well, I’m not buying in. In part, because it’s like my friend Kate said,

“as preconditions I want it to be 1990 and I want to hand-write it onwide-ruled paper and I want to never be lucky in love if I fail tocomplete it in a timely manner.”

Gotta hand it to Kate; she made me feel sorta nostalgic for the sixth grade. And I hated the sixth grade. Anyway, I’m also abstaining because, if I brain dump on Facebook, I’ll have no trivialities left for you fine folks. And listen, I know we don’t always get along – like when you steal my clothes and I have to put salt in your sheets to remind you who’s older and has better hair and then you tattle to mom and I get grounded from the car for a week – but we’re family and it’s you I tell my best trivial shit to. Not Facebook. 

Besides, I am totally stubborn. Even if I wanted to participate now, I couldn’t. Because no means no, dammit. Also, the major media outlets are catching on (some with mocking, some wishing to participate in all seriousness ), so my shame would be somewhere on par with joining the Unit belt craze approximately five years too late. With knock-offs from JCPenney. The shame, it deepens. I told you I hated sixth grade.

I caught the bouquet. I did not leave with the bouquet, but I caught it, dammit. The seven-year-old ball of fury directly in front of me was up waaaay past her bedtime and having none of this leggy stranger getting her mitts on the loot. She burned into me with a look that said, “The fit I’d throw would be epic. EPIC.”  I handed it over immediately. The tiny diva was willing to part with the bouquet briefly when the bride asked if we might borrow it to take photos, but not one second after the photographer stopped snapping she planted herself in front of me and demanded I return it. I may have pushed my luck by asking her to say “Please give me back my flowers,” but hey, it takes a village, right? I’d like to think her mother would have given her the same treatment – insisting on common courtesy while being obstinate and greedy – had she been present. True, her mother probably would not have savagely plucked off several petals out of sheer spite, but the village isn’t done with me either. So there.

From what I understand, the after party also verged on epic (the Dork Lord poured himself into our hotel room sometime after 4AM, having suckled at the JÃ_germeister teat), but that is second hand information only. After tottering back to the hotel in borrowed socks (they came with the Boy’s tux and therefore fair game for city sidewalk grates) at half past twelve, I decided to crawl into bed with some outrageously priced Peanut M&Ms from the minibar and watch American Idol. That I woke up with vicious heartburn should not be surprising.

Now that the week from hell is over and the Boy and I will be spending much more time in front of our computers (he, programming; me, catching up on people.com), blogging is back to its regularly scheduled programming. Some nutty shit went down last week, and if I can somewhow work out how to protect the privacy of those I love while still spilling my guts, I may just include it. If not, just know this: if I ever have to audition for Cops, I’m ready. 

There was a time, when this blog was anonymous, when neither family nor love interests were any wiser to its existence, that the electronic airing of dirty laundry was how I got by. Something about handing over my woe-is-me’s to the Universe and saying, “Here, see what you can make of this” felt healing. Cleansing, maybe. Having never gone to confession, I can’t say that I know, but I imagine that’s what it feels like. Say five Hail Marys.