Just Wednesday

A weekend convention is going to keep me from blogging for a few days. As if I needed to tell you that. Notice how I like to pretend that I blog more regularly than I really do and you might miss a post one day and worry that something happened to me.

Rest assured, I will be fine, not counting the fact that I will be courting illness, breathing stale germs in a 10x10 booth and shaking people's sweaty hands for 3 days straight.

Tonight I am staying in and steeling myself for the days ahead by reading articles on the BBC about things like soup and butt stabbing. I suspect the benefits of soup will not come as a surprise to anyone. I don't really know what to say about the butt stabbing.

We're really more CareBear people

Rob and I were in Virginia visiting Penny, Bill, and Lola the Dog this weekend. We rented a Zip car and drove down on Friday afternoon. We brought no CDs and no adapter for our I-Pods, so we were stuck with the radio for 8.5 hours. The radio, my friends, is a very bad thing. Towards the end of the trip, I had turned it off and was loudly singing all of the Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley songs I know. Rob drove faster.

The weekend was a blast and a blur, as is typically the case. We ate pounds of delicious and decadent foods: fresh breakfast sandwiches on biscuits, blueberry pancakes, crab dip, manchego and parmesan risotto, oysters, and crisps filled with lemon, blueberries, and strawberries. We had some excellent wine tasting experiences, which I don’t normally equate with my knowledge of Virginia—mostly because I don’t have any knowledge of Virginia. We watched birds. We played one rousing game of Cranium, despite Bill’s utter and complete hatred of the game…you have seen nothing until you have seen a grown man beg—BEG—to be allowed to go to bed rather than advance his little pink-mohawked game piece seven more spaces to win. He curled up on the couch behind Penny, who was eagerly leaning forward, since both she and I LOVE Cranium. After asking him a question about Smurfs (We don’t know anything about Smurfs, honey,” Bill informed Penny) we finally released Bill and he fled the scene. We don’t know anything about Smurfs, honey: my new favorite sentence.

On the way back to New York, we stopped for an adapter.

Luckily, someone else is interesting

The blog slacker has had nothing worth sharing to share. I have been working too much, and Rob will simply not say anything hilarious (because he's been in California all week and our conversations consist of text messages.) Last night I was lying on the couch, attempting to relax so that my new eye twitch might go away, when I suddenly had an urge to get up and move the furniture around. It looks better now, but I mean...it's furniture. These are the days of my life.

And just when I think I'm really out of things to say, AMANDA decides to join the world of blogs with Wild and Precious. We all thank you, my friend.

Talking about Amanda makes me think of how we used to hang out in her basement and drink wine from a box when we were in high school. I can't wait to tell Grace stories like that when she's old enough to hear them. I'll probably wait until she's two or three so that she's really good at repeating stuff.

Boldly Going

Rob and I went to see Star Trek on Sunday. Having been warned by Ellie that the beginning was a bit of a tear jerker, I was prepared. This is good, because I have been known to cry at less intense programming, such as Juno or any number of random telephone commercials.

Let us pause for a moment to appreciate the fact that even when Ellie and I don't talk for a week or so, we can just read each other's blogs and feel connected. Is that a poor excuse for actual interaction or is it a brilliant way to stay in touch even when life gets very busy? I choose the latter. Hi, El.

One hour and 8 minutes into the movie, I started checking the time. I might have played a quick game of Solitaire on my cell phone. But the attention deficit was brief and I got back into the story somewhere around the time that Leonard Nimoy made his appearance and all the nerds in the back row started clapping. I'm not making fun of them. I love nerds. I have friends who are nerds. Hi, Joe.

The greatest thing about going to see Star Trek at the theater is what happens after the movie. You go to the women's room and...no line. That's right. Meanwhile the men's room line was out the door.

It was like some kind of alternate reality.

And it reminded me of this:




Yes, I know Star Wars and Star Trek are not the same.

A Joke

"What does a cat say on December 25?"

"Meowy Christmas!"

Are you laughing? My Aunt Carolyn stalked me with this joke over the holidays, repeating not only the punchline, but also her fervent desire to see it posted on the blog. You see, she wrote the joke. I come from a very talented family.

The thing is, I forgot to post it. But guess who didn't forget?

I was in Chicago this weekend. My very thoughtful sister concocted a plan for the two of us to fly in to surprise our mom for Mother's Day; we departed from our respective coasts, meeting in the place where we used to verbally and physically attack each other for sport. We're better now.

My mom is not good with surprises, it turns out. Liz and I showed up about a day apart, but both arrivals seemed to have a similar affect on our mother: they killed her brain. She wouldn't speak for several minutes when my sister got to the house, and when she saw me, she refused to get out of the car. This is how we know she loves us.

We had a fabulous weekend of eating and eating, snacking, cooking, and then eating some more. On Mother's Day, my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins came over and we spent several hours sitting around laughing. At jokes like this one:

"What does a cat say on December 25?"

"Meowy Christmas!"

See, Care? Two times.

There's no Rob in Team

As I have shared before, my cat Smokey has kidney disease. He's actually Rob's cat Smokey, and has been for 17 years. He has been our cat for the last 3, at least.

What does this mean? Mostly that we take turns feeding him: cat food or blue corn tortilla chips, depending on what he's in the mood for; we open the door and let him walk around in the hall, rudely sniffing the neighbors; we endure his pensive nightly jaunts across our bodies as we try to sleep; and we inject him twice a week with fluids to help his kidneys work.

The injection falls mostly to me, but I'm ok with it since Rob is the exclusive handler of kitty litter duty. Plus, as I've also mentioned before, I'm better at it. So tonight, as we were watching another rousing episode of 24, I noted aloud that it was an injection night.

Rob and Smokey watch TV curled up in a ball together, so Rob leaned over and whispered in Smokey's ear, "Don't worry, I'll distract her and you can get away."

"I heard that," I informed them.

"RUN INTO THE BEDROOM, SMOKEY!" Rob yelled.

Four Eyes Sees Again

I got new glasses today. I had glasses already, but I rarely wore them, so they were about 4 prescriptions behind and weren't really that fun to wear, what with the searing headaches and random floating spots. Plus they were crooked.

So I forked over one fourth of my annual salary and bought new ones. When I picked them up at Oliver Peoples, the store manager said, "I'm so excited!" Hmmm...me too, I guess.

I put them on, and was immediately sure something was wrong. "I think something is wrong," I said. [Regular readers of this blog will have noticed by now that there is not a whole lot of lag time between the things I think and the things I say. Occasionally, I consider working on this.]

"You feel like you're in a fishbowl?" she asked.

"Yes." I said.

"Perfectly normal," she assured me. "Just wear them a LOT, and if they still feel like that in two weeks, then..."

She had trailed off, so I filled in the sentence with "Come back here, waving them around and looking for you?"

I walked out of the store in my glasses, and the small step at the door, which hadn't phased me on my way in, was incredibly hard to navigate. I tottered off of it and headed down the street, experiencing what I imagine an acid trip or a Cirque de Soleil show to be like.

The subway stairs were particularly special. I actually took the glasses off and walked blindly down the steps. I had to touch the railing, which was horrifying, but it was that or slide down the stairs on my butt. Pros of the butt slide: less chance of swine flu. Cons: everything else.

And now the world is a beautiful place.

Things You Should Know

There are a few things in my life that I hold as static truths. I have examples.

ONE: If you work at Baskin Robbins and you think it's a good idea to mix all the ice creams and all the toppings together to make one large shake...you're wrong.

TWO: Stuffing all of your junk into a drawer or nearby closet will only make it go away for a little while.

THREE: Vincent Van Gogh, he of the Starry Starry Night, cut off his ear in a deep depression over his artistic and personal failures. Learned this one in art class when I was 6.

You know, obvious things.

Yet today, my truths have been rocked, in at least one way. According to the BBC, my constant source of important world news (as well as an excellent fount of knowledge on the sexual habits of people in other countries), Vincent Van Gogh's ear was in fact cut off by his "friend" and fellow artist Paul Gauguin outside a brothel in 1888.

Here's the thing: the authors of the new book on this subject say it's not clear whether or not this was in an argument or an accident. Because, you know, if you're an avid fencer and you're waving your epee around outside a brothel one night, someone could lose an ear. But it was all just for fun, whoa, how did that happen? Which brings me to Truth number

FOUR: You should always keep your sword sheathed at a brothel.

April Showers bring May Showers

It’s raining. Just like yesterday—which was actually not so bad, since it gave me an excuse to sit inside for several hours drinking coffee and reading the newspaper online. I suppose one doesn’t need an excuse to do that on a Sunday morning, but I excel at obsessing over the things I should be doing, like enjoying nice weather, brushing up on my French, or becoming a neurosurgeon.

One must have goals. The neurosurgeon thing is not actually a goal—shocking, I know—but it does make me think of the time I told my college guidance counselor that I wanted to take an intermediate psychology course focused on the brain, and she shook her head and told me to take Physics for Poets. Which I did, along with the entire Wisconsin football team.

Anyway. The rain, and our lack of real plans, kept us close to home this weekend. On Friday, we went across the street to an Italian restaurant and carbo-loaded for the weekend of couch sitting that was ahead of us. After dinner, we walked back into the apartment building, chatting with Johnny, the chatty doorman. I was looking back to say good night to him as I stepped into the elevator, and—whack!—the door slammed shut, right on my head. Dazed and totally embarrassed, I stepped quickly into the elevator, as three people groaned in pain for me and tried to make sure I was ok. Blood was pouring from my head, so I can understand their concern.

Inside, Rob flew into night nurse mode, getting me a towel filled with ice and some anti-inflammatory pills. “What are these?” I made a face as he held the blue pills in front of me. I hate taking pills. But the bossy nurse said I had to. Fine.

I inflamed up, despite the medication, and had a nice bump along with my cut. It’s pretty much settled down now, and I only kind of look like Frankenstein.

For this, I blame (in order):

-the elevator company
-the weather, for making me lethargic, and therefore less able to react with a speedy Matrix-style leap to safety
-the pasta, for adding to the lethargy
-my college guidance counselor