Because all that happiness was weird
I like the huge spike in readership that I experience when I talk about disgusting things that my body sometimes does. Hooboy, remember the hysterectomy era? Good times! I’m feeling nostalgic!
And, well… frankly, I just don’t feel as close to you as I used to. Remember the old days? Remember our romantic chats about granulation of the vaginal cuff? Those were precious bonding moments, people.
So I know that you are deeply concerned about my current issues. Because, friends: I have issues.
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The Vermont Adventure: Chapter 3
(If At First You Don’t Succeed, Shop, Shop Again)
I truly believe that there is someone out there for everyone, just as I believe that there is a dream purchase for every woman on every shopping trip. No, no… I’m fine. There’s just a little something in my eye. I’m fine!
The secret–of course–is perseverance. In both cases. But the difference, with shopping, is that a really awesome purchase doesn’t later leave dirty socks on the floor or dis your friends. Nor will it get jealous if you go shopping again.
Anyway. Oh! Hey! I went shopping in Vermont. And, uh, again in New Hampshire, on the way home. And I think I can say without hesitation that THIS particular shopping was set apart from ALL OTHER SHOPPING in many, many ways.
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The Vermont Adventure: Chapter 2
(You’re Pretty, I’m Pretty, We’re All Pretty!)
Armed with a really good story about why we rolled into town half an hour late, we entered our destination town, triumphant! “Welcome to Manchester” said the sign. And there was much rejoicing! And then some more driving! And then “Thank You For Visiting Manchester.”
Ummmm. Wait.
Then there was stopping at some random inn to declare myself “just a little bit lost,” followed by arriving at Joshilyn’s inn. And let me tell you this: people in Vermont are so cute and friendly! Observe:
Me: Hi there! I’m looking for Joshilyn Jackson.
Nice Innkeeper Lady: Well hello! She’s staying in the cottage right across the way, there.
Me: Great! Thank you very much!
Nice Innkeeper Lady: Just go ahead and knock, and if she doesn’t answer, I can get you a key!
Me: Fabulous! I just need to go get my axe first!
Clearly she had not talked to my friend the State Trooper to find out what a dangerous person I am. Or maybe she was just too polite to acknowledge it. Either way, I’m sure Joshilyn is very grateful that unidentified visitors to her lodging were aided and abetted–no questions asked!–in their stalking attempts.
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The Vermont Adventure: Chapter 1
(How Vermont State Troopers Are Sadistic)
It was a dark and stormy night….
Wait. No. Wrong story.
It was a bright and beautiful morning (there we go)! We set out, coffee and maps on hand, ready to wend out way into Vermont. I have a very careful method of trip navigation, and it goes like this: I type some stuff into Mapquest, print out whatever it gives me, and then drop it into the lap of my travel companion. “There ya go! Let me know when to turn!”
Of course, I often forget that Mapquest sometimes smokes crack.
My first clue should’ve been the series of directions in the middle of the plotted route, all of which claimed to occur within several tenths of a mile of each other, all sounding something like this:
Bear left on Route 112W / Route 34B / Route 9576E / Old Cow Road South / also known as the following: Betsy Ross Memorial Parkway, Edgar Allen Poe Landmark Route, John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt Congressional Thruway.
But far be it from me to take a clue.
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The force is with me
The teensiest of updates, as a lead-in for what’s to come:
Arrived; though not without sirens and flashing lights and a couple of tears that I had to suck back into my eyeballs before they escaped.
Shopped; Joshilyn was clearly the day’s winner in terms of pure bargain nirvana, but I now possess some aubergine tuxedo-pleated pumps that made me want to make out with myself a little bit when I put them on.
Clarified; to a certain someone that it was most certainly NOT okay to walk two miles to your own signing out of an unwillingness to “bother” anyone by finding out whether arrangements had been made for transportation.
Laughed; harder than I have in a long, long time. A dear old friend on one side, a dear new friend on the other, and something about grub puppets. I think.
Ready to ruuuuuuuuumble!
Before I left work today, I tidied up my desk. The papers had been mating. When I was done, you could hardly tell I work there, even.
My car is freshly gassed up–only cost $432.64 to do it–and gulped down a gallon of windshield wiper fluid. I took out the booster seats, and vacuumed the Horror That Lay Beneath.
I have my maps, my camera, my laptop, and a deep need for pretty new shoes and someone who will call me a gigantic dork and mean it as a compliment.
I dunno… I looked it up, and supposedly the Vermont state motto is “Freedom and Unity.” I am here to tell you that that’s all wrong, this weekend. THIS weekend, the Vermont state motto is, “Estrogen, footwear, and drunkeness.”
I’ve never been so excited to bring my stalking tendencies to a head! This time tomorrow, Joshilyn will have finished her book tour. And I will have hopefully made her spew at least one drink out of her nose. Because that’s what friends are for, and I’m pretty sure there isn’t anything else worth doing in Vermont, anyway.
On Friday the 13th
I’m not really one for superstition. 13 would be my lucky number, if I believed in numbers being lucky. It’s more like my pet number. I like it because no one else does, and it’s cute and just wants to be loved, and I suspect it’s just misunderstood. Anyway.
So I’m not on the lookout for bad luck today. That would be silly. Plenty of bad luck finds me regardless of the day! Besides, today is a milestone for me.
Woulda Coulda Shoulda is one year old. (What a long, strange trip… oh, you know.) Happy blogiversary to meeeeeee!
But that’s not what I was thinking about when I woke up, today. That realization came somewhere between brushing my teeth and reiterating that it’s one sock PER FOOT (and wearing two socks on a single foot does not get one off on a technicality).
What I was thinking about when I woke up was that last night I was asked to sing at a wedding next month. I was very flattered, and after a quick calculation of the payment being (when you figure it over time expended) a higher rate than I’ve ever earned as an engineer, I agreed. So I was thinking all the standard things that I tend to think before I perform: what if I screw up, what if I totally suck, what if there’s a mic problem, what if I have to pee? Etc.
And then I realized, the wedding is on my… uhhh… anniversary. Or–as I like to call it, now–my unniversary. Huh.
It’s not that I’m any stranger to bad omens, you understand. It’s just that I’ve not (so far as I know) actually BEEN one, before.
13 and me… we understand each other.
In which I roar
Two months ago my ex and I sat in a small office with a specialist who described to us in excrutiating detail what sort of testing she thought Chickadee needed, and why, and how long it would take.
Oh, and how much it would cost.
My ex put on his best I’m-a-6-figure-earning-indigent face and told the doctor that if the insurance wouldn’t cover it, he couldn’t afford it. I said I would cover it, but the damage had been done–the doctor subsequently refused to even schedule Chickadee’s testing (despite the 3-month lag in getting an appointment) until we got the insurance approval.
I considered breaking all of the ex’s teeth. With my foot. But it seemed more prudent to allow him to handle the insurance stuff, instead.
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Marlin Perkins is turning in his grave
Today at school, one of the kids found a painted turtle over by the playground fence. It was just a baby—about the size of a half dollar. When I arrived to pick up the kids, everyone was clustered around the bucket containing the wee, irate turtle. It kept trying to climb the plastic sides and sliding down and starting over again. The capturer’s mother had arrived and agreed to bring it home and try to raise it.
“No fair!” hmphed Chickadee. “How come HE gets to keep the turtle?”
“Because HE found it,” I answered. Then I grinned at one of the teachers and added, “and also because his mom is a lot nicer than yours.”
“Well THAT’S for sure,” she grumped.
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Lost and found
(Or, Random Snippets Out Of Which No Sane Person Would Try To Assemble Something.)
I am not sleeping well. The good news is that half of what happens when I’m sleep-deprived is RILLY RILLY RILLY hilarious (see previous post for reference; Robotic Monkey + No Sleep = hilarity). The bad news is that the other half of what happens is SO IMPORTANT and EARTH SHATTERING and possibly SO MEANINGFUL that in my quest to decipher the impact of said events on my terribly serious existence, I often end up quite melancholy. On account of the far-reaching, dire implications of things like… being out of sandwich bags.
Yes. You understand.
Wait… you don’t understand? Okay, that’s not a problem. Just, um, go about your business for the next 24 hours, taking care to sleep a maximum of 3 hours out of those 24. Then come back.
That’ll work.
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