Ah, the travel bug. As far as recurring afflictions go, this one is a gnarly beast. It sneaks up on me, slowly, over a few months or so when regular life is plodding along and the things I've put in the Looking Forward To column are far away and a little less than grandiose. Like, the work trip to Vegas in a few weeks. It's Vegas! But it promises to be hot and schmoozy - two things I can manage with any amount of grace for very short periods of time. Disney World and all its awesomeness is all the way in December, which, because I am six, is too many months away to seem real.
If you'll pardon me channeling a certain little mermaid for a moment, I want more. Wait, or is it less? I think it's less. Less time busting my tush on projects that go nowhere. Less grocery shopping, and litter box cleaning and loads of laundry that I'm just going to wash again in a few days. In short, less of real life. And just for a bit. I want an island with a hammock - make that two - and the smell of brine and Cyprus trees and water so blue it makes my heart take up temporary residence in my throat. I want to walk up crumbling stairs to places so old and magical that I won't be quite sure that I'm not imagining them. To fall asleep next to my snoring fella, tipsy on cheap wine and wake up in puddles of other-hemisphere sunlight to no plans at all. To wear white linen and tan lines and feel the slight sting of an almost sunburn on the top of my nose. Freckled, smiling, full on new food and adventures.
Instead, because travel is expensive and the reason I'm in debt I might never dig myself out of, I'm sitting on the ottoman in my living room, filling out government forms for work, while the dog lays on the couch occasionally emitting farts that smell like rotten broccoli.
It's probably a good thing I let my passport expire.
If you'll pardon me channeling a certain little mermaid for a moment, I want more. Wait, or is it less? I think it's less. Less time busting my tush on projects that go nowhere. Less grocery shopping, and litter box cleaning and loads of laundry that I'm just going to wash again in a few days. In short, less of real life. And just for a bit. I want an island with a hammock - make that two - and the smell of brine and Cyprus trees and water so blue it makes my heart take up temporary residence in my throat. I want to walk up crumbling stairs to places so old and magical that I won't be quite sure that I'm not imagining them. To fall asleep next to my snoring fella, tipsy on cheap wine and wake up in puddles of other-hemisphere sunlight to no plans at all. To wear white linen and tan lines and feel the slight sting of an almost sunburn on the top of my nose. Freckled, smiling, full on new food and adventures.
Instead, because travel is expensive and the reason I'm in debt I might never dig myself out of, I'm sitting on the ottoman in my living room, filling out government forms for work, while the dog lays on the couch occasionally emitting farts that smell like rotten broccoli.
It's probably a good thing I let my passport expire.
In the short version of the story, I drove home to meet the Boy for lunch yesterday and smelled a very strong gasoline smell. Alarmed, I called the VW dealership and spoke to a service advisor who shared my alarm. So I arranged for a tow truck, and waited to be picked up and taken to the service center where I'd be given a loaner and sent on about my business.
Only, it got complicated. And thus the long version of the story has me walking back to where my car was parked in a stall in the dealership lot (in search of my insurance card - for the loaner), to find that the tow truck driver had scratched the hell out the passenger side. A representative from Tow Jam (totally not kidding) came out, spent many inarticulate phrases telling me that the truck driver could NOT have been responsible. The down-to-the-metal chunks out of the paint were...wait for it... door dings. And the series of scratches on the wheel well? They must have been there before.
"If the driver hit something," he explained, "there would be many more scratches."
"If there driver had not hit anything, there would be no scratches AT ALL."
It went on like that for a while. He talked to me like I was an idiot. I calmly told him he was effing nuts. I even shared with him the heartwarming tale of sniffing around my car in search of the gas leak earlier that very afternoon, with my face within inches of the now scratched-to-hell door panels, seeing no evidence of the current and appalling ruination. He remained unmoved. So we both took pictures. His photo album will be a bit thinner than mine; he took pictures of only one door panel because, if he gathered evidence of the whole show, no one would buy his story.
Then, when I was about ready to fall apart if I did not go home - where no one could break any more promises or talk to me like I was the intellectual equivalent of a box of hair - right that very second, it was revealed that there wasn't actually a loaner car to be had. And the rental car that would have taken its place was given away while I was trading witticisms with Mr. Tow Jam. They'd have one in oh, maybe an hour or so, if I wanted to go wait at the Enterprise office. Near to tears, I texted the Dork Lord, Please come get me. He arrived twenty minutes later - pissed.
"Calm down," I said, patting his arm as his head spun round in circles looking for someone to kill.
"No. They aren't treating you how you deserve to be treated."
He stalked off toward the Service Center and I put on a solemn face. But it was really hard not to smile. Even with all that overdone hype about white horses, spell-breaking kisses and climbs up long braids of hair to the tops of very high towers, being rescued is still totally underrated.
Even when being rescued means driving off into the sunset in a rented Chevy Cobalt.
Only, it got complicated. And thus the long version of the story has me walking back to where my car was parked in a stall in the dealership lot (in search of my insurance card - for the loaner), to find that the tow truck driver had scratched the hell out the passenger side. A representative from Tow Jam (totally not kidding) came out, spent many inarticulate phrases telling me that the truck driver could NOT have been responsible. The down-to-the-metal chunks out of the paint were...wait for it... door dings. And the series of scratches on the wheel well? They must have been there before.
"If the driver hit something," he explained, "there would be many more scratches."
"If there driver had not hit anything, there would be no scratches AT ALL."
It went on like that for a while. He talked to me like I was an idiot. I calmly told him he was effing nuts. I even shared with him the heartwarming tale of sniffing around my car in search of the gas leak earlier that very afternoon, with my face within inches of the now scratched-to-hell door panels, seeing no evidence of the current and appalling ruination. He remained unmoved. So we both took pictures. His photo album will be a bit thinner than mine; he took pictures of only one door panel because, if he gathered evidence of the whole show, no one would buy his story.
Then, when I was about ready to fall apart if I did not go home - where no one could break any more promises or talk to me like I was the intellectual equivalent of a box of hair - right that very second, it was revealed that there wasn't actually a loaner car to be had. And the rental car that would have taken its place was given away while I was trading witticisms with Mr. Tow Jam. They'd have one in oh, maybe an hour or so, if I wanted to go wait at the Enterprise office. Near to tears, I texted the Dork Lord, Please come get me. He arrived twenty minutes later - pissed.
"Calm down," I said, patting his arm as his head spun round in circles looking for someone to kill.
"No. They aren't treating you how you deserve to be treated."
He stalked off toward the Service Center and I put on a solemn face. But it was really hard not to smile. Even with all that overdone hype about white horses, spell-breaking kisses and climbs up long braids of hair to the tops of very high towers, being rescued is still totally underrated.
Even when being rescued means driving off into the sunset in a rented Chevy Cobalt.
Let it be known that the only reason I finally caved and saw Twilight was because my boyfriend wanted to watch it. I'm not kidding.
"I just want to see what it's all about."
"I know what it's all about: bad acting and teen vampire love."
"Snob."
There just so happened to be nothing else On Demand in HD (because in this household we don't WATCH programs in regular definition. Ahem.) that wasn't entirely too serious, so I conceded. Fine. I would watch it. But I wouldn't like it! And I didn't. I didn't hate it, but it very well may have been the biggest piece of cinematic cheese I'd ingested in years - and I watch Seven Brides for Seven Brothers on a startlingly regular basis.
Also, VAMPIRES DON'T SPARKLE IN THE SUNLIGHT, THEY BURST INTO FLAMES AND EVERYONE KNOWS IT!
Last summer, I picked up the first Twilight book and within 30 pages, put it back down. It was bad writing and that's all there was to it. Yeah, yeah, I understand that it's a very story driven kind of series, and that you can become deeply invested in this forbidden blood-sucking romance, but it was bad and I felt insulted by it. So when I saw my friend Amy's Facebook status reference her most recent read being about teen angst and vampire love, I immediately rushed to provide intervention. But before I could save Amy from herself, she dropped what has to be the most honest and compelling pro-Twilight review out there (and this shit should go on the book's back cover):
I called off the intervention. God knows I do love a little "Cracklin' Rosie" every now and again.
"I just want to see what it's all about."
"I know what it's all about: bad acting and teen vampire love."
"Snob."
There just so happened to be nothing else On Demand in HD (because in this household we don't WATCH programs in regular definition. Ahem.) that wasn't entirely too serious, so I conceded. Fine. I would watch it. But I wouldn't like it! And I didn't. I didn't hate it, but it very well may have been the biggest piece of cinematic cheese I'd ingested in years - and I watch Seven Brides for Seven Brothers on a startlingly regular basis.
Also, VAMPIRES DON'T SPARKLE IN THE SUNLIGHT, THEY BURST INTO FLAMES AND EVERYONE KNOWS IT!
Last summer, I picked up the first Twilight book and within 30 pages, put it back down. It was bad writing and that's all there was to it. Yeah, yeah, I understand that it's a very story driven kind of series, and that you can become deeply invested in this forbidden blood-sucking romance, but it was bad and I felt insulted by it. So when I saw my friend Amy's Facebook status reference her most recent read being about teen angst and vampire love, I immediately rushed to provide intervention. But before I could save Amy from herself, she dropped what has to be the most honest and compelling pro-Twilight review out there (and this shit should go on the book's back cover):
I was just going to make an analogy about the difference between listening to a truly great band like the Rolling Stones and someone like Neil Diamond. Neil Diamond is very entertaining to me. I enjoy his songs. But he is no Rolling Stone.
Twilight is my Neil Diamond.
I called off the intervention. God knows I do love a little "Cracklin' Rosie" every now and again.
My friend Shiv, who is annoyingly photogenic (as well as in possession of many other good qualities like, creativity, generosity, wit, charm, etc), is applying for an amazing job via a video contest. If you've got nothing to do at the moment, I'd love to help you out by suggesting you hop on over, have a look-see at her video and, I don't know, vote for her, if you feel so inclined. Again, Shiv is all of the aforementioned good things and then some, so if you DID vote for her, you'd be helping out a first class individual. And that's nothing if not feel good!
I woke up this morning exactly where I fell asleep but still, somehow, on the wrong side of the bed. Hoo boy, was I cranky! I was cranky with my sleeping boyfriend, whose GIGANTIC head was taking up half of my pillow. Cranky with the cat for (seriously, the nerve) wanting to be fed. And cranky all the way through my workout (between sets, I had intensely bitter, imaginary arguments with everyone I anticipated dealing with that day) until I caught my image in the mini-gym mirrors. Watching them reflect my cranky face - incidentally, strikingly similar to the expression my mother wore on her face for oh, two and a half years before The Divorce - was a kick in the sweatpants. On the list of things I'm glad to inherit from my mother (soft skin, ninja like organizational skills, very nice penmanship) mad face is not one of them. I will be spending this weekend renting beauty pageant documentaries so as how to learn to put on a pretty happy face when I don't mean it even a little bit. Vaseline on my teeth and such.
Speaking of mad, I want to quickly address the last post and the number of you who are SO.UNHAPPY. about the last line. Friends, I cannot imagine any of you being around this long and still taking me so seriously that you'd get upset by that. Was it smug? Oh, yes. Overly so. Because it was tongue-in-cheek and meant to be silly. Jeez louise. Do I literally mean that my big-headed boyfriend is better than all the other men out there? Um, no. If your man is being a twerp, gimme a holler and we can talk about the time mine announced that marriage sounds like a really awful idea - right before the lights went down in a movie theater. At that moment, my boyfriend was not better than anyone's boyfriend and I seriously questioned the dedication it took to sit through Terminator: Part Christian Bale for such a man. Or about the time we moved and I did all (ALL!) the unpacking while he futzed around with computer cords. Look, I'm in a human relationship. If some days I feel like crowing, there are plenty of days when I feel like issuing karate chops to sensitive parts. It's funny, because I was in the middle of writing a big old essay about the harder, not-so-cheery parts of my relationship, but hadn't posted it for fear it was too negative. Now I'm wondering if that's really more up the collective alley.
Food for thought, I suppose.
Speaking of mad, I want to quickly address the last post and the number of you who are SO.UNHAPPY. about the last line. Friends, I cannot imagine any of you being around this long and still taking me so seriously that you'd get upset by that. Was it smug? Oh, yes. Overly so. Because it was tongue-in-cheek and meant to be silly. Jeez louise. Do I literally mean that my big-headed boyfriend is better than all the other men out there? Um, no. If your man is being a twerp, gimme a holler and we can talk about the time mine announced that marriage sounds like a really awful idea - right before the lights went down in a movie theater. At that moment, my boyfriend was not better than anyone's boyfriend and I seriously questioned the dedication it took to sit through Terminator: Part Christian Bale for such a man. Or about the time we moved and I did all (ALL!) the unpacking while he futzed around with computer cords. Look, I'm in a human relationship. If some days I feel like crowing, there are plenty of days when I feel like issuing karate chops to sensitive parts. It's funny, because I was in the middle of writing a big old essay about the harder, not-so-cheery parts of my relationship, but hadn't posted it for fear it was too negative. Now I'm wondering if that's really more up the collective alley.
Food for thought, I suppose.
It was one hundred and two degrees outside and the air conditioning at the San Antonio airport wasn't working. Every several minutes or so, I'd succumb to the heat and the long day of travel and meetings, nod off, jerk awake, and then scan the crowd to see if anyone had caught my latest performance. I am the picture of grace! But no one seemed to be paying any attention. The older, preppily-dressed couple to my right was bickering. It reminded me of my parents. The dark-haired woman to my left smelled so strongly of body odor and cigarette smoke, I thought I might choke, so I gave up my seat and limped toward the tiled corridor. I needed an ice cream cone pronto.
Oh, yeah, I limped. After what could have been as many as 75 trips down three flights of stairs and then UP three more flights of stairs, my quads and calves were a disaster, and after thirty minutes of not moving, they were pretty stubborn about getting going again. I promised them ice cream, and that seemed to do the trick.
En route to ice cream, I looked up at the boards and saw that my flight had been delayed again and set my jaw. I would not have at total breakdown at the airport. I just wouldn't. But oh, how I wanted to. I was tired, in pain, and the five-and-a-half-hour meeting I'd sat through earlier in the day wasn't what you'd call invigorating.
My boyfriend is better than your boyfriend.
Oh, yeah, I limped. After what could have been as many as 75 trips down three flights of stairs and then UP three more flights of stairs, my quads and calves were a disaster, and after thirty minutes of not moving, they were pretty stubborn about getting going again. I promised them ice cream, and that seemed to do the trick.
En route to ice cream, I looked up at the boards and saw that my flight had been delayed again and set my jaw. I would not have at total breakdown at the airport. I just wouldn't. But oh, how I wanted to. I was tired, in pain, and the five-and-a-half-hour meeting I'd sat through earlier in the day wasn't what you'd call invigorating.
Heather: I just want to come home.Aw, loving a man who loves fast food. I should have suspected I'd get absolutely zero sympathy for a diet based on red meat and fake cheese (to him, it's heaven in a foil lined wrapper). But that's what I wanted. Sympathy. And a hug. And to be home with climate control and my shoes off. By the time I climbed into my car at the Dallas airport and headed home, the Boy was already gone for the evening, off to watch the Stanley Cup Finals. I was a little disappointed - that hug would have done the trick. But when I walked through the apartment door, I saw that in his place, he'd left behind a dozen long stem red roses and I thought, Who needs a stinkin' hug, anyway?
Dork Lord: I know, baby.
Heather: Now they're saying there's a crew change. I'll never leave! I will have to live in the airport and eat McDonald's. FOREVER.
Dork Lord: That's not too bad!
My boyfriend is better than your boyfriend.
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.
My patience.
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 babyCylon 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.
All that crazy love is going to double in November when my brother and his wife have a baby
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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