Monday, October 31, 2011
Look, I don't try to hide it: I'm not a fan of Halloween. If I had children, I would probably have a lot of fun with it (if nothing else, I would make it fun for them), but Halloween and I have never jived. I think I was in second grade when I told my mother that I didn't want to trick-or-treat anymore. I wish I could pinpoint what it is that spurs this massive abhorrence…maybe I'm just a killjoy.
Fall is my favorite season. There's not much to dislike: hearing rustling leaves, seeing beautiful colors, feeling stillness, breathing crisp air, smelling spicy cinnamon, appreciating the coziness of home…such a delicious season. The only real mar is this silly Halloween thing. (Well, I am kind of charmed by really little kids in adorable costumes, but that's it.) I don't care for spiders, bats, ghouls, or vampires. Is this what people aspire to be!? Why can't everyone just be sweet little kitty cats!?
I've spent the day with a fake smile plastered on my face…now I'm off to sit in the dark until I'm sure the candy-beggars are all gone. I am a killjoy, aren't I? This is really my only scroogy holiday...aren't I allowed one?
Boo. For real.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Laundry: it's what weekends were built in for, sadly.
When Nick is doing laundry, he takes the clean clothes up to our bedroom to fold them in piles on the bed. When I do laundry, I fold the clean clothes on the living room floor and then repack the basket to take upstairs. I'm not quite sure why I do it this way—except that it's the way I've always done it, and I like patterns.
I think of Mufasa telling Simba that everything the light touches is his kingdom. To Sophie, everything that touches the floor becomes hers by default. She's a territorial mongrel, but she's like Attilla the Hun with rosy little cheeks that you just have to squeeze: possessive, but distractingly cute.
Even though I knew she was going to bug me with the laundry, I held out hope that this time would be different…that she wouldn't look at my neat piles like pins that her bowling ball body will take care of. Not the case. I kept shoving her away. She kept coming back. Nick laughed from the couch, and I threw a pair of his boxers for Sophie to chase down (she loves playing fetch).
Once I was done and reclaimed the diversionary boxers, I noted that they were coated with bits of catnip. I brushed off what I saw, shrugged, and folded them to add to his pile. Nick is going to be a very popular human with the feline population one day this week…
Everybody has quirks. The trick to living with someone else without turning into a monster is either finding someone with the same quirks or who doesn't mind yours all that much (and vice versa, naturally).
Well, Nick's had it in his head for years now that he is going to be able to reform me of a few of mine. I think he's getting a little frustrated that I'm not the malleable ball of clay he thought I was. I can be just as stubborn as anybody, I just store the cement wall behind behind an acquiescing smile. (It's very effective in the business world.)
I have been spending a lot of time with my cousin Michelle over the past year. At first I was awed by how quickly we reconnected and how deeply we bonded. Now that I've had time to think about it, the connection is obvious. We were raised with the same role models, our heartstrings are played to the same tune, and our logic speeds along the same zip line. Even with ten years of little communication, we recognized a part of ourselves in each other.
Nick has grown close to Michelle over the last year when he really didn't know her very well before. He's been trying to get her to contradict me on something just to feel like he's got someone on his side (the side that believes my quirks to be stupid). Her uncoached answers to his questions always tickle me because they are almost verbatim what I have already answered.
I think Nick needs to seek an ally elsewhere.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
There is a certain flow to my routines. Since they flow rhythmically and unfettered, I subconsciously repeat the same sequences every day…over and over again…forever. I catch myself sometimes and have a little chat with my reflection on the proper way for sane people to behave. Inevitably, my reflection sasses back during my exhaustive speech that I should shut up because sane people don't talk to themselves, either.
When I arrive home from work, I…
As you'll note, my little routine involves the cat. My sequence is a Rube Goldberg machine, and feeding Sophie is the marble rolling into the little cup to raise the flag at the end. I did not fully appreciation my routine until today.
I came home, and Sophie was waiting for me at the iPod charger. She was underfoot as she raced to get ahead of me in front of the key basket, then the Power Mat. I hung my bag on the door knob and she pranced over to the closet while I removed my shoes. As soon as my coat was on the hanger, she ran to the kitchen like the devil was on her heels. She looked at me with eager eyes, sitting where I always set her bowl on the floor, and waiting for me to raise that glorious flag.
She was having a lot of fun, I could tell from her eyes. This was a game to her, this figuring out that the Food Giver is crazy—but who cares because it ends with food. At what point did the tides turn? I thought the cat was supposed to entertain me, not the other way around. Maybe it will all make sense after I talk it out with the mirror tomorrow morning.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Soph and I were a bit frazzled with the thunderstorm last night, and blogging was the last thing on our minds.
Nick loves thunderstorms…a lot of people seem to. I hate them, and I always have. I hate that they are loud (I don't like loud things as a rule). I hate that the hard rains make me feel like our fort is under attack. Most of all, I hate that there is electricity randomly missiling through the air (I don't think that "missiling" is actually a word, but it's the best I've got). Electricity should stay corralled in outlets, end of story.
Sophie feels the same…she told me so in her way. When the skies open up, she either hides in a dark corner or becomes excessively loving on my lap. She definitely takes my mind off the madness outside because I worry that she's going to work herself up into a full anxiety attack.
Lighting blares through the window and she looks sharply right to see what's going on. Then thunder crashes and sounds like it's coming from the window at her left. She throws herself dramatically into the blanket in a way that looks as though she would have also sighed "Fiddle-dee-dee!" Oh, our little southern belle.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
I haven't cared for running for several months now. Earlier this year it was from terrible pelvic pain…then it was because it felt like my insides were shifting with each step…then it was because it made me realize my back was feeling great (because I felt the ache only when I ran). I have valid reasons that no one can really argue with, least of all myself.
But argue, I do. I am fit enough to run, and I vowed after my mother died that I would use my health to benefit those who do not have theirs. When I received the email for this year's Gilda's Run, I knew that I would sign up. I told Nick that I would do the walk, but as the day grew closer and I read more about little Grace, I felt like I was supposed to run this one. I know better than anyone that Cancer affects more than just the physical, and Gilda's Club nurtures the emotional.
The run starts in about two hours, and my stomach is in knots. I keep asking myself why I just can't stay away from these, why I just can't give it up all the way. This is probably the classic definition of addiction: being compelled to do something long after it stops being enjoyable.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
I have decided that when I design my version of the game CLUE, I am going to add an apple slicer as a weapon. It was Colonel Mustard in the library with the APPLE SLICER! Solid gold.
As you might have deduced, I had a little mishap with an apple slicer a few weeks ago. I don't typically use apple slicers because I'm pretty content with how efficiently I can slice apples with a knife—and it seems like I waste a lot less apple that way, too. But I had a new apple slicer to try out, a freebie as a result of my Pampered Chef order.
It was about 15 minutes before I had to leave for work, and I was packing the last bit of our lunches. I pushed down with the slicer (which can be tricky for me because I don't have a lot of leverage with my height, or lack thereof). As is usually the case, I couldn't get the slicer all the way through the bottom skin. So, I did what I always do and flipped the apple over to push the stuck bits through metal.
And just like that, I cut my thumb. No, I don't feel like "cut" cuts it. I gashed my thumb…split it like a banana…I slaughtered the poor unsuspecting fool. Luckily it wasn't my favorite thumb, but still.
Like all my deep kitchen cuts of years gone by (I should really be restricted to light plastic sporks), it ached for a second, maybe two. Then, the bleeding started and would not stop. I sneered at the pathetic appendage, all but spitting, "And you thought you were least loved before!"
Nick, shaking his head while I muttered obscenities over the kitchen sink, brought down a box of bandages. I took a couple extra bandages with me to work, knowing I would need to change it at least once. I got to work, expecting shock, dismay, and outright anger that such an innocent device should do so much damage. I got none of that.
I got a bunch of snooty know-it-alls. "Oooh, you can't do that with Pampered Chef slicers! They're extra sharp!" Thanks, genius…I deduced as much on my own.
Nick has been jumping ahead of me for weeks now, making sure he gets to the apples before I do…and probably pondering the feasibility of an all-spork kitchen. Stupid, lesser loved thumb. You ruin everything.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Sophie's parents got iPhones on Friday. They have been totally absorbed in them, often sitting in silence, hip to hip, as they play. Sophie doesn't understand what is happening, why all eyes are not going to her as she struts into the room. How much cuter does she have to be!? GAH!
Armageddon must be near.
Concerned that these new devices are brainwashing her parents, Sophie has been diligently creating havoc this weekend in effort to break the trance. Nothing seems to work. No matter how many times she jumps on the counter, tries to steal food from between their fingers, or reaches up to knock objects from the coffee table, they remain consumed. She isn't sure what to do or who to call (not that she'd know how to work one of those newfangled phones anyway).
She believes they are a lost cause. She has nothing left to try. Dejected and beaten, she hunkers down to wait for the end of days.
Friday, October 14, 2011
It's all my fault, really. I'm the one who brought it up, and I'm the one who imagined the Quasimodo-meets-Beast scenario after they outlined my likely future if I didn't take a particular course of action.
I just got back from the dentist. Let me give you some background.
Nick and I love our dentist. We found out after we started dating that we had the same dentist as well as the same hygienist. Crazy world, right? Anyway, since the office knows both of us, they were all very interested in the whole wedding thing that happened back in January. When it came time to invite our friends and family to the reception in August, Nick and I put together a booklet (well, Nick put it together and I told him what I didn't like when he gave me proofs…group effort) of some of the 700+ photos we took during our two weeks in Florida.
Since Nick has to go to the dentist more often than I do, he was badgered for pictures first. When the booklets were ready to go out, he took one of them to the dental office. I did not see her until a couple of weeks ago when I was in for my second cleaning of the year.
I am used to people complimenting the way I looked on our wedding day—everybody compliments the bride's dress, hair, or whatever…whether they mean it or not! It's just what you do. Well, when my dentist complimented me, I knew it was sincere because she's the only one who commented on my teeth. Yes, my dentist looked through our wedding photos and oohed and ahhhed over my teeth. I am not sure if she even saw anything or anyone else in the pictures because she just kept going on about how pretty my teeth looked in the pictures. Like I said, I love my dentist. She's the only one who appreciates me.
She always has my teeth's best interest in mind (not mine, but my teeth's). She's talked me into some pricey things with her wooing, let me tell you. I should know, I just slapped down two bills at her office.
So I was getting my normal cleaning, nothing out of the ordinary. The hygienist still tried to carry on a conversation with me (asking me questions while she's got her hands in my mouth), same old, same old. Then the part of the appointment came where the dentist asks if I have any concerns, and I opened my big mouth.
I mentioned that it's getting harder to floss my lower incisors...almost like the teeth have gotten schmushed together. I mentioned it because of another spendy thing that she charmed me into buying. Though, I must admit that it has single-highhandedly wiped out my migraines (when I remember to use it). One of the warnings with my night clenching-guard is that it can cause the teeth to shift.
Well apparently, the NTI plus my advancing age (they keep telling me that it's my aging jaw) is causing just that.
I will admit that I was completely unaware that teeth could just up and move around throughout life. I thought you were born them them standing one way, and they remained that way until the end. Apparently this is something that everyone who has had braces knows, but I've never been to an orthodontist: my teeth aren't perfect, but they suit my needs well enough.
Once I opened the can of worms about my teeth, they gave me all the gruesome projections for the next few decades. I have some space on my lower jaw, plenty of room for my teeth to do the jump and jive. Then she said that my canines will likely fall forward and start pointing out towards my lips. Oh no you didn't.
At my look of dismay she soothed that I can get a bonded retainer. Again, poor, ignorant me, I thought retainers were only for people who have had braces (to make sure all of that bracing isn't undone). She patted my hand and said, "No one will see, and your teeth will never move from where they are today."
Well, between incisors that are a little hard to floss and teeth that point out to stare people in the eye, I really had no choice.
I sat in the chair, apprehensive about the whole thing. When the technician came in I felt the need to ask, "Is this going to hurt?" She laughed and shook her head. I just didn't know what to expect, but now that it's over, I understand why she laughed. She basically had to glue a wire to the tongue-side of my lower incisors, that's it.
Oh yeah, real painful.
Now I just have to convince the rest of my mouth to accept the new addition, because right now my tongue is going berserk and I am subconsciously holding my jaw from closing all the way. Poor little, shifting incisors. I've made them social pariahs with my attempt to help.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
I was sitting in my second meeting of the morning with my friend, K.
Meetings are always better when I have a friend there with me in the room (better, but probably a touch less productive). K is sweet and funny—lackadaisical but driven. I met her earlier this year, and we bonded instantly. She's just as girly as I am if not more, and I love getting goofy with people who uphold the same unimportant standards that I do.
K started an email to forward me a document. She remarked after several starts and stops that she was having trouble typing today. I looked at her hands with their fresh coat of shimmering burgundy polish. "Looks like it's time to cut the nails," I murmured drolly.
If looks. could. kill.
She eyed me up and down where I sat. All snotty, she spat, "Looks like it's time to wear something besides a dress."
I raised my eyebrow. "...never happen."
She raised her eyebrow. "I rest my case."
Indignant and both offended by stupid suggestions, we went back to talking about work.
(Page 1 of 2, totaling 16 entries) » next page