April 21st, 2010
What a morning.
Yesterday, my laptop self destructed. Hard disk? What hard disk? So yeah, basically, I don’t have a laptop anymore and since my entire life is made up of little ones and zeros, that was kind of a big deal. But then I decided,
Let’s be zen about this whole thing, Heather. What do you need out of life? Love? Yes. All the photos you took in Europe? Nah. The spreadsheets outlining your budget and your debt attack plan and your wedding? Nah. You don’t need them so much as really effing wish you still had them. Besides! Many of those things (minus the photos) are on your little memory stick anyway. So relax.
And then this morning, the memory stick stopped working. It turned out to be a Windows 7 issue (no need to get any deeper into that) but you shoulda seen me. Remember that scene in Ghost where the best friend/bad guy is frantically banging on his keyboard while the tiny computer screen tells him that there are zero dollars in his embezzlement fund and he is FUH-REAKING out? Oh yeah, I was doing a fantastic recreation.
“No, no, no,” I kept saying. “No. This is… no.”
You know when you mess with Rain Man too much and he starts rocking back and forth all upset about Wapner? Well, technology is my People’s Court. I need it. I do.
Well, the memory stick is working, so I’ve chilled just a bit. But the laptop? Still among the unliving. And if you add that to the list of things that broke or needed replacing in the last week (his brakes, our dryer) it might explain why wedding planning makes me want to curl up in a ball on the couch and stay there. Forever.
April 16th, 2010
Ah, April 15th, you smarmy little wretch.
Yesterday I emptied my savings account to write a check to the IRS (okay, not emptied – there’s still forty four dollars in there!) and while it did make me feel a little nervous to do it, it’s a far sight better than last year when I owed over three grand and there was nothing to do but save and save and incur nasty penalties. This year, I saved and saved in advance like one of those industrious ants in that Aesop fable about… you know, the ants and stuff. There were just so many things I didn’t plan on robbing the old nest egg for, like car problems and out-of-state weddings and such. But it turns out, that’s what savings are for and it does feel mighty good to pay cash for unexpected expenses.
My credit cards are all in support groups and I’m the one laughing the evil villain laugh. For once.
Now that I’m back to square one, we get to start saving for the wedding! This is a project I can totally get behind. I mean, it’s a year off and we’re already creating nerdy spreadsheets (and by we, I mean I. The Dork Lord seems happy to make mental projections and rely on my desktop handiwork. Which is fine). But since we’re putting this show on ourselves, the planning will have to be meticulous. And possibly involve bargains made with angry little men over the possession of our firstborn. Sure, Rumpelstiltskin might not be the fairy tale folks have in mind when they talk about a “fairy tale wedding” but I don’t know, it sounds like a good deal to me. Babies are really expensive.
April 14th, 2010
Hoo boy. Who didn’t see this coming? After deftly avoiding it for monthsandmonthsandmonths, I am obsessed with Words with Friends. OBSESSED. Not like, crazy obsessed where I’ll lose my job, my home and my family, my cat, but probably only because it doesn’t cost any money or fall explicitly under the list of unacceptable vices. My friend Katy’s husband is one of its creators, so I should have simply shown my support from the beginning, paid my dollar ninety-nine and just accepted the certain fate of sleeping with my iPhone on my pillow, lest someone get a double word score while I’m sleeping and catch me unawares. But I resisted. Because I knew it would come to this: creating games with total strangers because there’s not enough Scrabbling in the world to sate this appetite. I should never have gotten started. I am your brain on drugs, triple letter, double word.
My (user)name is ThisFish. And I’m addicted to letters.
Psst.. wanna play? All the cool kids are doing it.
UPDATE: Um, holy cow a lot of you play Words. I’m SLAMMED. But, you know, in a good way. Just be patient – I don’t know to play 35 games at once. Yet.
April 13th, 2010
The power went out yesterday morning and so we sat around the office toying with our cell phones and asking, “Any news?” for long enough that by the time the server was restored at 4:30, none of us had any interest in putting it to use. Which is to say, I meant to tell you stories about the ranch yesterday but.. well, see that bit about no electricity.
When the ranch owner asked if I would be interested in feeding the baby cows, my answer was an enthusiastic, “Would I!” There may have even been clapping. And hopping. Oh, man. You probably already know by now how much I love baby things. Baby people, baby animals, baby carrots – little is just so easy to love! The calves were no exception. I think that in two days I made at least four trips down to the pens to snuggle them. You know, as best as one can snuggle two hundred pound livestock while they headbutt your crotch looking for somewhere to nurse. They didn’t have snuggling on their minds so much as eating.
There were two babies in the pen – both one half of twins. The female, who outweighed the male considerably, would finish with her bucket o’ milk and then shove her little friend out of the way to finish his. And when that wasn’t enough? Well, she’d latch onto his man parts and proceed to suck on that with just as much remarkable enthusiasm. At first there were jokes about how lucky that little fella was. Oh, ha ha every guy’s dream. But then came the headbutting. I guess calves do this to their momma’s udders, too, but it’s totally brutal. When no milk came flowing from that poor sap’s junk, the she calf gave him a jab that launched his back feet right off the ground. Legs crossed in unison ’round the pen and the joking stopped immediately. There just ain’t nothin’ funny about that.
April 7th, 2010
One week in and it all feels like a ruse.
Saying “my fiance” feels like playing dress-up, like I’m trying on a word that’s just a bit too grown up for my normal wardrobe. Which is silly, since living like old married folk has never felt like playing house. It just feels like us. And even though the title doesn’t fit just yet, it does feel rather spectacular, this being engaged business. Except for the part where he had to take the ring back this afternoon. I’m told that stones just get loose and that they’ll tighten up the prongs and all will be well, but you could not have found a sadder face in the whole wide state of Texas last night when I first discovered the loose stone.
Now, no, I don’t think that the ring is What’s Important Here, but it is so lovely and I would be lying if I said I don’t take several moments throughout the day to just stare at it, rolling it around in the light to feed my Jeremy the Crow sparkle craving. And what it means! It says, “I’m taken! And incidentally quite pretty!” I love it to pieces.
I tried apologizing to the Dork Lord for my saditude, but it simply wasn’t something I could control and if he thought I was overreacting, he didn’t let on. He just tapped me on the nose and promised he’d get it fixed. He had to make this promise six or seven times before we went to bed last night because again, the saddest face in all the land was staring at him from the adjacent pillow. And that’s how I know he loves me just as stupid as I love him. Ten minutes into pouty hour and anyone who loved me less would have offered to give me something to cry about.
Thank you, thank you for all your warm wonderful wishes and for sharing in our excitement. If you want to see this lovely ring that makes my heart delight, it’s on Flickr. I just can’t get the link right now (Flickr is apparently website non grata here at work).
Update! This is the ring. And this is the ridiculous perfection that is my niece. Wearing my grandmother’s wig. You’re welcome.
April 5th, 2010
“Will you rub my lower back? It’s really tight.”
I heaved a melodramatic sigh and rolled over in bed.
“I guesssss. But what have you done for me lately?”
“Offered to marry you?”
The Dork Lord and I have been engaged since Wednesday (try keeping THAT a secret for a few days!) and ever since he produced the ring, he’s been attempting to use it as leverage. Like, say, if I give him a wet willy while we’re watching Mad Men, he’ll threaten me with a 30-day return period. Whatever. He’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead finger.
It happened rather unceremoniously, which will be the answer to your first question. I was home from work, post-migraine, looking about as lovely as one looks after 12 hours of sweating and mini-pukes, when he showed up in the middle of the day. Acting totally effing weird. I asked if he came home for lunch. Nope, he’d eaten. Then he wandered around the apartment until I almost lost my mind.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re home in the middle of the day acting like a weirdo and it’s freaking me out.”
The somewhere in the middle of all that weirdness, he took a ring from his pocket, dropped to one knee and asked the question that got him a “Duh!” response. And thus, we are affianced. But not that I was allowed to tell anybody. See, everyone I know, they love the Interwebs. And since we were having dinner with his folks on Friday night, and we didn’t want them finding out from some enthusiastic and misguided Facebook comment, the secret was going to have to keep until then.
The secret keeping? It was not fun. The rest of it? Lots of fun. But I’ll tell you, being engaged feels an awful lot like being hungover. Oh, man. So much celebrating. In fact, there’s still champagne in our fridge and if you adios it while I’m at work, well, I would probably kiss you right on the mouth. Turns out, I don’t have a lot of self control when it comes to merry making.
April 1st, 2010
On pain of sounding like a total meanie – as if ranting about new neighbors didn’t rocket me to codger status – I get gigantic happiness goosebumps when I read scathing reviews of Miley Cyrus’ “acting” in The Last Song. Whee! Let’s all hate on Miley together! She’s awful (so awful!) and talks like she has dental cotton stuck in her mouth (so much dental cotton!) there should be, I don’t know, a song about how sad it is that America has made her famous.
Also on pain of sounding like a codger, a meanie and a gigantic party pooper, I hate (HATE!) April Fool’s Day. The jokes, for the most part, seem to fall into two categories: the what about that is a good joke kind or the damaging kind. I have a really rich interior life. I make up stories and fibs and half realities all the time but – and here’s the key – I keep them to myself. Or, I write them down as fiction. But mostly, I keep them to myself. Because when you go public with those kinds of untruths and tell perhaps, Facebook, that you won a MAJOR AWARD! or eloped with a handsome stranger! or just got some horrible news! only to reveal that ha ha, it was all a big lie, it just makes you look sad. Like you shoulda kept that story for you and your imaginary friends and basked in all the imaginary congratulations/sympathy in private. Because now you are exposed. We know how your brain works and that’s like knowing details about your underwears.
There’s something really wrong with me, isn’t there?
March 29th, 2010
The Dork Lord and I enjoy a pretty quiet home life. Okay, yes, other than when he’s watching stuff blow up or getting all worked up at televised sporting events or that new multi-player Mario for the Wii (which probably seems a whole lot more frequent than it actually is, but nonetheless). Other than that, we’re pretty tranquil. So when the long-empty two-bedroom apartment across the hall welcomed its new inhabitants yesterday, I had that briefest of uneasy moments, wondering just who they would be and praying to whomever was listening that they wouldn’t be Dudes Who Play WOW and Other Loud, Silly Games.
So I spied with my little eye through the cloudy peephole in our door until they revealed themselves. And they were not gamers. Phew. They were a family with multiple young children. In a two bedroom apartment. With walls that touch ours. Ree ree ree!
Gamers and little ones. What is, groups of people who make a lot of noise doing almost nothing, Alex?
I already know how this is going to go, because Sarah is currently living out this magical dream in London. The tykes that share her bedroom wall have kazoos. I probably don’t have to tell you how awesomely I’d take to that bit of musical exploration. In fact, it’s through Sarah’s twitter feed (sorry, she’s got it all privatized or I’d link) that I’ve been able to participate in the joy of having wee young neighbors without actually having wee young neighbors. What I’m saying is, I didn’t need any of my own. All set.
Stuff I Don’t Need that I’d be Okay with Getting Anyway Because I’m Adaptable
More black shoes
A piece of chocolate cake
a la mode
Presents
Is it redundant if I list Oreos after we’ve already covered cake? No? Okay, then, Oreos.
See how nowhere on that list is three small children living in a two bedroom apartment adjacent to the place where I get precious, precious sleep and routinely participate in activities the sound effects of which are not appropriate for small ears? Yes, well. Got it anyway. And seeing as we have a lease renewal sitting on our kitchen counter the next two weeks are going to be used for research. Which reminds me, I need to google “apparatus which measures how loud stuff is. In decibels. Or whatever,” because if those new little fellas are louder than the disappointment of missing the Really Big Coin on Level 2, I won’t make it.
March 26th, 2010
This is Penny. Penny is very busy with the drooling and the forming of new chins. And also with the rolling over and the wearing of ruffles on her bum. She is also quite occupied looking exactly like my brother, especially when angry. Or hungry. Or, you know, farty. We’re holding out hope that she inherits her mother’s blue eyes.
This is Owen. Asleep on Owen’s stairs. Featured with the collection of Things Owen Likes to Throw Down Owen’s Stairs. There’s no frying pan down there this time, but only because his mother needed it to cook with. Owen will sleep anywhere. But only when it is not your suggestion, like say, when you are worn the hell out because he NEVER SITS STILL. Oh, no. Not then.
Photos by their mothers.
March 23rd, 2010
What a perfect wedding! My sister was such a natural bride and so low maintenance, it was just as a wedding should be. Low on pomp, high on celebration. Though, I feel like I’m in a coma now that we’re back. But it was such a flawless trip (though the bride seems to have taken over my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad luck with flying) and I got to spend so much of it omm nomm nomming babies, that the after-coma is acceptable fallout.
Oh, the babies. My niece Penny is about as lovely and mild and calm as a baby can be, and there’s probably nothing sweeter than when she first wakes up, smiles and footie pajamas. My nephew, in contrast, is Calm’s arch nemesis Captain Chaos. He’s a holy effing terror – the cutest holy effing terror I’ve ever seen. Who wore a tiny tux to the wedding. Seriously, ridiculous. He’s got all these new words, funny faces and a battery that does not seem to drain. Ever. If there was something messy, unsafe or breakable, he could find it instantly. He’s truly gifted.
Pictures to come. Pinky swear.
What’s nuts is that after a few days away from the Interwebs, my comment section got totally overrun with spam – like THOUSANDS, and I get the sweet task of sorting through all of them to find the real comments. I apologize in advance if I mix your real comment up with spam.
March 15th, 2010
The Dork Lord and I have finally gotten around to investigating this wacky Mad Men show you are all so fond of. And, naturally, we are now so fond of it, too. So fond, in fact, that I stayed up way past my bed time two nights in a row during Daylight Savings Terror Week, subsequently sleeping right through my morning workouts. Only for you, Don Draper. Only for you. Oh, and also you, Joan. Because, I won’t lie. You’re a total effing knock out.
During one of the first episodes, Draper describes how people feel – or how they think they’re supposed to feel – when they’re in love. Can’t eat, can’t sleep. Borderline misery. And I started thinking about how I felt all of those things… right up until I fell in love.
“It was actually the opposite for me,” I told the Dork Lord. He nodded. “I slept. I ate. I mean, obviously, I ate.“
He started to comment, but back pedaled. I thought it wise. Later he’d trip up and say something about the chocolate wrapper den I’d made for myself. But right then, he was playing it safe.
“I just felt really calm.”
Which is not to say I never felt fireworks or butterflies. I did, and do. Real Love is full of delicious surprises, even in the middle of all the sameness. But the pining and the agony and the suffering for love baloney? I miss it all about as much as I miss my junior high gym class. But tell that to my twenty-five-year-old self. No way. She lived for that shit. Mad, mad love. I bet, though, if you told her Real Love makes the bed every single morning while you’re at work, she’d buy in. She was foolish but not a total idiot.
March 12th, 2010
It’s gorgeous out today, I’m fairly caffeinated and this afternoon, I’m headed down to Austin for my sister’s bridal shower. On top of that, I’ve finally reached the point where all of my clothes fit. All of them. I can walk in the closet and say, “Hey, I wanna wear that there article of clothing,” and then actually wear it. Without, you know, sumo squats or weeping. It’s been at least a year since that happened.
Which is to say, today could be SO much worse.
Also? It’s 9AM and all my bills are paid. I’ve said it before, but I get this really, really good feeling from paying bills. Which is totally nuts since paying bills means that twelve hours after I get my paycheck, all but like, six dollars of it are zip! gone from my checking account. But oh, the satisfaction! I’m so responsible! And did I mention good? I’m really good! And hungry, but that is neither here nor there. Snack time is at 10.
For those who were asking about the artificial sweetener thing – no, it’s not because I’m pregnant, you hesh up! I quit because, even with all of the work outs and eating properly and missing wine oh-so-much, I wasn’t really getting anywhere as far as the scale was concerned. So, I did some reading and discovered that artificial sweeteners can send your body all the wrong signals, interfering with hormone production and such and I decided I didn’t want anything to do with that. So I quit. Two weeks of real sugar in my coffee and yogurt and the pounds came right off. We’ve emptied our pantry and fridge of anything fake and it feels really satisfying. Ok. Not anything fake. I’m having a really hard time parting with my I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter spray. I know, I can’t believe it’s not cancer. I know, I know. BUT I LIKE MOIST TOAST. And I will employ a whole stickabuttah to achieve it. Whatever, though. The spray butter sits in the fridge right next to the organic ketchup and I’m sure that’s got to do some good. Healthy by association. Organic osmosis!
March 10th, 2010
Oh, hey. I’m here. And I’m having Office Space moments at the pace of oh, about six per hour. You know that scene where the beat the ever-lovin’ hell out of a fax machine? I came scarily close to doing that to my desk phone yesterday afternoon. Instead, I gritted my teeth, developed a swell little anger headache and went home. I was asleep on the sofa in minutes and didn’t even so much as twitch for the better part of two hours. And I’m normally a thirty minute napper. See what you’re doing to me, job? SEE? Next up is eating my feelings and it’s taken me almost six months to lose the boyfriend weight, so back off! I just feel so frustrated and undervalued some days. I know we’ve all been there, but honestly, isn’t a terrible, terrible shame that we all know what that feels like?
I did a nice job of wigging on the Dork Lord Sunday afternoon, too, that’s how much it’s getting to me. And as usual, he was really, really good about it. How ever did I find him? Oh, yes. The Internet. Whence all good things spring.
On the brightest of the bright sides, my little sister is getting married next weekend! Oh, man I am so excited. To see her wedded. To see my family. To snorgle the babies. To have a reprieve from the daily grind. My niece doesn’t stand a chance against the Omm nomm nomm-ing that is coming her way. And I hear that my nephew now says, “Dammit,” which as we all know is a gateway swear. I’m perfectly willing to help him out with the rest of the obscenity catalog and will invest my time thusly. Swearing at seventeen months. I couldn’t be prouder.
March 5th, 2010
I, for one, was afraid Friday would never happen. It was one of those weeks where I was looking for some little evil magical dude with whom to make an ill-advised deal simply to get out of my current situation. Oh, you want my firstborn, the keys to my car and the password to my bank account? DONE! Now, uh, let’s get on this straw-to-gold business. I could use a nap. But, aside from taxing, the week was a good one and I’m feeling hopeful about the future. Totally effing tired, but hopeful. And that’s not a bad place to be.
Anyway, since I’m having trouble forming complete thoughts that don’t center around being prostrate on the sofa in a pool of my own drool, I offer you the following tidbits:
I miss Glee. Like, really a whole lot. Sometimes, when I’m on the treadmill in the morning, I think about how much I miss Kurt or Rachel or Finn and about how if I were the delusional sort, I would send them a letter. Sometimes, I compose those letters while I run. Oh, I know.
Yesterday, I got to hear my niece Penny “sing” and my nephew say thank you (“Dane due!”) over the phone. Do people actually die from cute? Because I nearly did. My coworker says I need to get pregnant. Yeah, babies. Because THOSE are free.
I learned – the hard way – that Starbucks coffee and office coffee do not even REMOTELY contain the same amount of caffeine. Surely that’s what cocaine feels like. I mean, it must. Holy god.
Did you know that if you “quit” artificial sweeteners, you get withdrawals? I did not. Until the night sweats (getting up to change my pj’s twice a night was awesome for the sleep quality factor) and the gnarly headaches. I read something that said the process could take as long as two weeks. Two weeks? At day two, I was ready to mainline some Splenda. All better now. If I lived in Walnut Grove, none of this would have even been necessary. Seriously, most days, I’d rather worry about bears and locusts than all my first world whiney crap. But then, what would I write about? The Long Winter’s already been taken.
March 2nd, 2010
“I’m still here. Snoring.”
“I know.”
It’s rare to catch a moment together in the morning. Ordinarily, I’m up for a jog before 5:30 and out the door by 7:00 – at least a full hour before his feet hit the floor – and so our routine consists of a kiss on the cheek, some mumbles above love you and good days. But he was up, I was up and we were having couples therapy at the bathroom counter.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know,” I said, running a finger over the seam of his shirt. “I just feel kinda sick.”
After a bad dream, it seems to take me a while to compose myself. And I was having one of those not composed moments. I’d just dreamed that the Dork Lord confessed he didn’t love me anymore, that he hadn’t for a long time, and that I was – what was the word Nightmare Boyfriend used? Oh, yes. Complicit. I was complicit in his not loving me.
“You said you were tired of my insecurities,” I said. “Only, you said it with an impediment, like a little kid would.Totally bizarre.”
“We both know that if anyone feels insecure right now, it’s me.”
I nodded. It was true. Despite the money problems that plague us, I had been riding a nice little tailwind of confidence lately. Meanwhile, he was taking a beating from work and school.
“But that doesn’t make me love you any less.”
I grabbed a Q-tip from the container on the counter and wet it with my tongue.
“Baby, on the list of things that suck about my life…”
Mid mascara-swab, I smiled before he even finished. I do delight in being the top of his List of Things to Love.
“…you’re at LEAST number three.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m what? Wait. Number three before or after the dog?”
“Um… well, let’s not talk about this anymore.”
He grinned, smacked me on the tush and headed down the stairs. I finished my mascara clean up and thought, “Whatever. I totally suck less than the dog.”
February 25th, 2010
Over the last several days, there’s been such a tremendous outpouring of warm fuzzy, that I would feel like a cranky old hag if I didn’t say something. I got caught up in the vitriol, and if I hadn’t put the kibosh on feeling sorry for myself, I could easily have missed out on the greatness of the last week.
Thank you.
Thank you for your comments. For introducing yourselves. For being real and honest. Thank you for the emails of support. For reminding me why we wrap ourselves up in this interweb to begin with. And to those (don’t worry, I won’t call you out) who made PayPal donations to the “ring fund.” Seriously, how dear ARE you people? Answer: SO dear. I know you think it’s small, but it isn’t. Not in monetary terms (we’re inching our way there!) and not in emotional terms. Especially not in emotional terms. It is an absolutely overwhelming feeling to be buoyed up by you. It makes my heart feel too big for my chest sometimes.
So, you know, thanks. A lot.
February 25th, 2010
“I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Italian?”
I answered too quickly. “No. I mean, yes. A little bit here and there…”
The waitress laughed and shook her head. “I told them! My coworkers wanted me to come over here and get your autograph. They think you’re this singer…”
In that second, a name formed in my head, but I thought it can’t possibly! Maybe 3% of America knows who she is – an Italian pop singer whose Spanish albums I bought years ago in college to help learn the language.
“… Laura Pausini.”
The Dork Lord looked at me from across the table, perplexed, as I snorted a laugh. “I can’t believe you know Laura Pausini. But no, I’m not her.”
It didn’t seem to matter, though. The waitress made some more small talk and then disappeared into the kitchen. Dessert was free.
February 23rd, 2010
A couple of weeks ago, someone left a note in the comments section linking to a column that struck me as particularly poignant. I’ve lost the link, and by extension, the author’s name. But I emailed this paragraph to a friend,
“You have but to take a peek in the comments section below this column, any column, any article on this or any news site whatsoever, to see just how mean and nasty we have become. It does not matter what the piece might be about. Obama’s speech. High speed rail. Popular dog breeds. Your grandmother’s cookies. The anonymous comments section of any major media site or popular blog will be so crammed with bile and bickering, accusation and pule, hatred and sneer you can’t help but feel violently disappointed by the shocking lack of basic human kindness and respect, much less a sense of positivism or perspective.”
There’s been a lot of that here, lately. And it eats at me. Because, for the most part, it’s been in response to some pretty heartfelt stuff – the kind of stuff I started holding back because the internet can be a really nasty place. I’m not bringing this up as some Call for Entries from sycophants. I get that you may not value the same things. You may not agree with me. You may not even like me. I’m a big girl – I don’t need to be friends with everyone on the playground. But what has bothered me intensely is that the hated and lack of kindness or basic respect has gotten so personal. What’s more, people leave insulting, demeaning comments in the name of friendship or loyalty and yet do in total cowardice, behind the cloak of anonymity.
Anonymous henpecks all sorts of negativity into my comment section but the second I fire back, I’m… well, I’m all manner of things and none of them nice. And okay, yes, I should be above it. I shouldn’t care what strangers say. But guess what? I care. I care, among other things, that people talk to me like I’ve got the intelligence of a used Q-tip. I care that people call me names.
I can’t change what people do, but I can change what goes on here. So, in the future, if you’d like your comments to be published, I’d simply ask that you leave behind your name. You have mine. I’m not hiding behind anything. So, that’s it. If you’re going to sneer at me, please have the balls to own up to it.
February 19th, 2010
Oh, Universe, you contrary little snipe.
Today after work, we’re going to pick up the Boy’s car from the mechanic. It’s the transmission. And when I say that, you should automatically be translating each letter of that word into dollar signs. Transmissions on sports cars are – even under the best circumstances, with an honest mechanic (which we’re lucky to have) – asspensive. So when the Dork Lord called me at work yesterday afternoon to let me know they were also forced to replace the clutch and fly wheel (the mechanic offered to it it labor-free), I hung up the phone and started crying.
Twenty-two hundred dollars, all told. We were both so discouraged, we – us, who joke inappropriately through everything – lost our sense of humor about it.
See, today, I have an appointment with a jeweler to look at rings. Only, ha ha, now that we have zero dollars and six cents between us, that’s sure going to make buying one impossible. But I’ve decided I don’t care. I’m going anyway. We’ll make it work. The Dork Lord, after a long, honest conversation about how much it means to me, says it’s his priority to put a ring on my finger and I believe him. We’ll consider this a fact-finding mission. Besides, I’ve put my foot down about a few things – one being the financial burden of engagement falling to him. Our relationship. Our future. My ring. Why should he cough up all the cash? Phooey on Man Pride, I simply don’t believe in it.
This isn’t 1946. An engagement ring isn’t the price he pays to guard against the event he steals my virtue and runs off, leaving me without prospects. We all know my virtue’s been gone a long ole time. Ahem. We’re hardly what you’d call traditional, anyway. We’ve been shacked up since month three of our relationship. Again, virtue? What virtue? I’m tainted. Thank heavens.
Speaking of… once, at BYU, my sister and I were sitting in church, irreverently mocking the sermon as we were known to do, and whoever was at the podium started in on that verse of scripture about a virtuous woman. You know, whose worth is above that of rubies or someshit? With an eye roll, I scribbled on a piece of paper and passed the note to my sister. Just the other day, I found it in a pile of mementos and laughed.
Who can find a virtuous woman?
For she is boring as hell
and I don’t want her for a roommate.
That explains so much about me.
February 16th, 2010
Remember how I was going to try new things this year?
On Saturday afternoon, Boot Camp Friend Amanda, the Dork Lord and I went rock climbing at a nearby indoor gym. I’m relatively fit (for me) at the moment and so I anticipated that the climbing would be challenging, but not entirely debilitating. I mean, I do man push-ups now. I do. Three or four whole man push-ups IN A ROW. Yes, siree. So, up the fabricated climbing surfaces we went, zipping down on ropes, and after an hour, worn out, we called it a day. And like I said, I expected a little strain here and there, but nothing too intense. And I was right. All my climbing muscles are tight, but otherwise fine. But the forearm muscle – the one responsible for holding up my loved ones while I was on belay, the one that also helps me do things like, I dunno, hold a pen – is broken.
Being two forearms short of a whole person made our Valentine’s Day activities a little complicated. An no, I don’t mean that. I mean, while the Boy weatherstripped the windows (if you don’t think that’s romantic, you are not a cold person living in a drafty apartment. Weatherstripping is love) I fixed a nice dinner. While the wine took some deep cleansing breaths on the kitchen counter and the filet was happily searing, I tossed some greens with mandarin oranges and dried cranberries and went to grate some cheese. Guess which muscle you use to hold a block of Parmesan cheese and run it over what amounts to dull, metal blades. Guess. Oh, yeah. The Belay Muscle. I totally cheese gratered my own thumb and ended up eating dinner with a paper towel wrapped tightly around to stop the bleeding. Ah, a picture perfect Valentine’s meal. At least I was warm
Getting old is so lame. You heard it here first.
February 10th, 2010
The walls of my cubicle kinda depress me. So does this fragile industry – doing my job well does not necessarily mean success in times like these. In fact, it almost never does. But that’s okay. Because I have a plan.
The most freeing thing ever is realizing you have choices. I can choose to stay in a gray-walled cube for the rest of my life, because the job is predictable and the pay, somewhat reliable. Because I’m scared to act. OR! Or I can figure out what makes me happy and then do that, working out the money bit when I get there. Which is what I’ve decided to do. Not right away, but eventually.
I didn’t even have to finish the question, “What makes me happy?” before I knew the answer. Yoga makes me happy. I feel my strongest, most beautiful and most capable when I’m pushing past the imaginary boundaries I’d set for my mind and my body, discovering new abilities and most of all, peace. A few weeks ago, I read on Facebook that my old boss (from way back Boston days),had been accepted to a yoga teaching program and I was thrilled forher. After discovering hot yoga back in 2002, I went on and on to herabout it and looky, here she is several years later, becoming ateacher. Serious warm fuzzies. After e-high-fiving her, I realized – that’s what I want. So, I’m going to teach. Not right away, like I said, but eventually. I have some goals I’d like to reach, pre-requisites to achieve, some money to save, yadda, yadda and then, it’s game on.
Sometimes I lie awake in bed at night with little anticipation butterflies in my stomach – the way I used to feel at the start of a new semester. So much possibility! The Dork Lord is sided firmly on Team Yoga Teacher, which couldn’t make me happier. It’s nice to have someone in your camp, who wants your ultimate happiness more than anything – especially when that person shares your concerns about finances and you know, having a roof overhead.
I’ve always known people who love what they do. Or rather, made the choices and sacrifices to do what they love. My sister quit the rat race, went back to school and became an elephant trainer. She now works at the San Diego Zoo saving elephants. My brother ditched a job in software to go to school nights and weekends so he could be a cop. He loves to tase, what can I say? I’m a little disappointed with myself that it took a big forehead slap to realize I found my passion a long time ago and didn’t make a go of it, but mostly, I’m just pleased that I found it at all.
February 8th, 2010
I was putzing around on Facebook the other day and discovered that my old running buddy, Bob, got engaged last month. And I will not lie, I was totally crestfallen. On my Feelings Meter (where one end is labeled with glittery gold lettering, “Happy for Bob! Yay!” and the other with, “Crazy Jealous Like a Pathetic Stereotypical Chick Lit Cat Lady”), the indicator is decidedly right of center, and fluttering wildly.
Engagement is a sensitive topic in our household. See, I don’t give a rat’s ass about tradition and I don’t really care for the whole formal proposal with three months salary riding on my ring finger bit. We’ve made the decision to get married. We’ve even marked the five year calendar with when we’re going to start adding kids to this whole chaotic mess. We have a joint savings account. In short, we make every decision together. But this one? This one, because tradition says so, is entirely up to him. And he couldn’t be in any less of a hurry to make it.
And it stings. Mightily.
I hear his reasons for waiting – he doesn’t like where he is financially at all and his Man Pride won’t let him bend that knee until he feels better about it. He wants to pay cash for the ring. And while I hear his reasons – and understand them in their universality slightly better after talking to my similarly-minded brother (there is, apparently, a very insightful Little House on the Prairie episode in which Almanzo temporarily cancels his engagement to Laura over money issues) – they do nothing to quiet the discontent I feel over the matter. I’m broke and in debt, too. But what’s that to do with love? I don’t need to be provided for – I’ve been doing a damn good job of that all by myself.
When we initially talked about moving in together, I said I’d like to be engaged first. Not as a rule, but as a preference. He had other ideas. Namely, that he thought we’d live together for six months or so and then get engaged. That didn’t seem unreasonable to me at all. So now here it is, one year later, and I’m keeping house and making dinners and picking up step-dog poop and folding laundry and helping with homework – playing the housewife without the title. I do all of these things gladly, but the lack of forward motion in our relationship makes me feel like a bunch of old ladies are sitting around somewhere tsk-ing about how he’s gettin’ the milk for free. He’s not moving forward because he has very little incentive to.
Except, you know, for being in love and excited about our future and wanting to.
The part of me that doesn’t fully understand Man Pride has been unable to help feeling that if he were as excited about us as he used to be, money wouldn’t matter. I don’t want a diamond ring. I don’t. Period. Because that’s not where our priorities should be right now, or really any time within the next five years. He’s in school. We’re in debt. But what I want is for our plans to be official and public. And, yes, I suppose I do care that we look legitimate to the rest of the world. He doesn’t, but I do. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do.
Also – and I’m fully aware of how selfish this sounds – I’d like a little something for me. Something to be excited about. Our lives right now revolve, with minor interruptions, around dog excrement and school work. Investing in my beloved’s future is an investment in our future and so I’m happy to revisit fractions, edit English compositions and research Mt. Rushmore, but some days it feels like, in playing the supporting role, I have very little to look forward to for myself.
He loves me. Unquestionably. I know how much I matter to him. We’re happy together. And in my brain, I know that’s more important – that’s most important. But there’s another part – the heart part of me – that doesn’t know anything except that there used to be something so exquisitely special in feeling like we were terribly in love and couldn’t wait to spend forever together. And the more he hesitates, the less special I feel.
Like I said, it stings. Mightily.
February 6th, 2010
Sometimes I miss waking up in New York. Especially on the weekends when I want to do something and nothing all at the same time. The City is good for sublime adventures in nothingness. An iced coffee and a meander in Central Park. The man behind the bodega counter always seemed a bit relieved to see me, maybe because my presence meant that the pot of room-temperature joe wouldn’t go to waste on winter days when the sky was sulking. A dollar twenty-five beginning to an afternoon of bliss. And when you’ve got $4.28 in your checking account, even that feels a little like decadence.
I miss New York today. Broke and bored in Dallas, Texas is a terrible cocktail.
February 1st, 2010
I had a fitful night’s sleep, finally waking five minutes after my alarm should have gone off (helps if you set it, I guess). Deliriously tired, I headed downstairs to let Jillian Michaels give me a good ass-kicking before work and when we got to the punching part I felt this funny little jolt of optimism. Like, “Oh, yeah, this is going to feel good.” I’m never just punching air — it’s usually some imaginary offender. Like, that lady who has absolutely no idea what a yield sign means. Or that ex-coworker of mine. The one who could not shut up. Ever. This morning, though, I wasn’t in need of vindication so much as eleveteen more hours of sleep so I punched with little enthusiasm. And then I remembered.
Today is Sarah Brown day! If there was any perking up to be had, it was from knowing that this afternoon, I get to road-trip it up to Tulsa, Oklahoma and deliver a hug that’s two-and-a-half years in the making. We’re probably going to paint each other’s nails and watch Meet Me in St. Louis and eat things which are bad for us. And talk about boys.
Sarah and I went through some relationship doozies in New York. In fact, I met Sarah the same night I met one of the biggest relationship mistakes of my life. We were bonded from that very moment. But the same week that I met the Dork Lord, Sarah met her own love, moved to far, far away London to be with him and await a fiance visa (me, I’m just awaiting the fiance (ba-dump-bum!)) so there is much catching up to do.
So blah, blah, I’m excited about seeing Sarah but can we for one second talk about how BAD Taylor Swift’s performance was last night? Is that, you know, like a regular thing for her – the whole, not being able to sing thing? It was terrible. And up until that point, I have to admit I was pretty enamored of her. Gosh, she’s so cute. And nice. And ohmygod, totally tone deaf. I felt like I was watching a talent show at church and it felt really, really awkward.
Discuss.
January 28th, 2010
Yesterday I purchased plane tickets for my sister’s wedding. I did not get a sweet deal. And if prices come down before our travel date, I hope to be blissfully unaware of it. Buyer’s remorse is the worst. Wait, I take it back. Buyer’s remorse runs a tight second to One Night Stand remorse, followed closely by I Can’t Believe I Ate the Whole Thing remorse – a trilogy which beautifully sums up a weekend I once spent in Florence, Italy. But you know, that’s kind of a long story.
The wedding is going to be one of those awesomely warm fuzzy events, not just because it’s full of mushy I Do love stuff, but because I don’t get to see my siblings very often – I’ve never even met my niece, Penny – so this will be our chance to get in some good bonding time. While wearing pinned-on flowers and acting on our best behavior. I snorted while typing that. You just couldn’t hear.
Well, mostly the wedding will be a warm fuzzy. My mother and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms, which should make the whole wedding weekend one big Lifetime Original Movie Starring That Woman From China Beach. Sometime shortly after Christmas, I (totally against my better judgment) let my mom know that I didn’t appreciate her advice. I said I thought her assessment of the situation was incorrect and that she was wrong to butt in. She said F–k you – just like that. Only spelled out in full, with exclamation points and maybe the @ symbol for good measure. I’ve come to expect a certain degree of fall out from disagreeing with the one who birthed me (the last time we dared question motherly love, she took our photos off the mantle put them away in a cardboard box) but this – this is new territory. I won’t lie. I think it’s unhinged. I have never had an argument with anyone that deteriorated into “Screw you!” Ever. A first for everything, I suppose.
If you’ve been reading for any length of time, you’ll know that things with my mother have always been difficult – in cycles. One, we’re both strong willed. Two, like with my father, there are greater factors at work. My sister, brother and I spent our childhood being parented by two people who were terribly stressed out and suffering from, at times, severe depression. And now that I’m an adult (and I’ll be the first to admit that yes, the following statement makes me feel bad about myself), I’m running out of patience for it. Enough, already. Suicide talk from a parent is truly horrific. And it’s unbelievably disappointing that with all of the available help out there, all the hours of therapy and medication have changed nothing. NOTHING. And I want to know who’s to blame for that.
I’m angry about it. I’m angry that my parents are unstable. That their instability is going to affect their relationships with my future children. That they may not HAVE relationships with my future children. That I find much more comfort in other people’s parents because they behave normally.
My siblings and I spend hours sighing over phone lines, wondering what to do. Yes, accept the people you love for who they are. And then… what? Then don’t have weddings, because you’re tired waging wars on guilt and self pity? Don’t share information or say how you really feel? Oh my god, the amount of truth-avoiding we do! I even do it here – the one place I created to be a more thinking, feeling, expressive person – because I fear the reaction. But not today. I’m done with that crap. This is mine, and I’m taking it back.
My brother was right when he said, “This is the information age, not the feelings-suppression age.”
And today I’m feeling angry.
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About Writer. Mother. Hiker. Yogi.
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