January 2011


I bet zombies would think my brain tastes better than other brains.  Because I have amazing ideas.  Like I just had this idea, this brilliant, brilliant “idea”, of mixing srirarahrcharahrarcha red hot sauce and mayonnaise.  Okay, lay off me.  I know it’s not my idea for realsies, but I thought of it just before I reheated my dinner.  And now my dinner is even more delicious than it was last night when I first made it.

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My phone has been getting worse, I think.  When I answer calls or make them, a good portion have been all robot-voicey and stuff.  Even though I have good reception and the other person has been likewise in a good spot, the connection is bad somehow.

I don’t think I’ll be able to replace it very soon though, because. . . . .

We went furniture shopping!  We succeeded, too.  Our loveseat that only seats two adults sitting straight up, that was free, that is covered in fabric that reminds me of my aunt and uncle’s house from the nineties, that has what seems to be either silly putty or gum ground into one cushion, has brought us to the breaking point.  We no like no more.  We originally went in search of a coffee table to make our couch more survivable.  Then, once we went out shopping, we couldn’t find a coffee table for which we were willing to spend money.  Then we smelled the leather couches.  We found a place nearby with quality products that was running a 30% off sale.  We looked at every couch in the place.  We sat on the ones we liked, we tested out flopping on them sideways, we tested out their snugglability, and their spooning conductivity.  We bought an entertainment center that was partly on clearance, went home and slept on the couch idea.  Today we woke up and decided to go back to the store to visit the top 2 contenders and see which one we loved more.  The price was maybe $50 difference between the two, so that wasn’t much of a decider.  We even brought a third opinion, our dear friend Gingy.  He proclaimed couch #1 to be sexy.  Couch #2 was butt-eating.  As in, the couch was so deep that when you sat in the corner your tush was consumed.  I compared the color option for couch #2 to the other piece we’d already bought, and it . . . ew.  So after trying out a good 3 other couches that were not even contenders yesterday, we decided on couch #1.

Let that be a lesson to you:  sexiness wins.

 

Also we have a possible 6 month wait.  But IIII want my sexy couch nooooowwww!

I’ve been thinking about theater more and more lately.  I was a drama kid in high school, and man, it was fun being someone else!  It was fun being a part of a concerted effort to make people happy, sad, laugh.  I think we always had happy endings.  Friends have suggested I get into community theater, and that might be fun. . . I’m just not sure.  I think what I really want is for my old troupe and my old director (yes, from high school, leave me alone) to get back together as adults and just continue on.

While the idea might seem preposterous, there are enough of us living within a half-hour drive-time radius that I think we could do it.  I know this because of Facebook, of course.  The director would probably even be impressed that our years away from high school have deepened our experiences and ability.

Until then, Jazzhands.  Exit, stage left.

Monday morning I was running late.  I was supposed to be leaving by ten till 8am,  but was barely dressed at five till.  I walked into the bedroom to check the clock and said something profane.  Then I saw Nick, sitting bolt upright in the bed, hair all askew, and said something else profane.  My very first thought upon seeing his bizarre silhouette in the darkness of our bedroom was not awww, he’s awake!  I didn’t think, uh oh, did I startle him with my shouted profanity?  Nor did I think, I guess he’s going to get up now.  No.

 

 

My first thought – Oh crap, Nick’s a zombie.

I have a question I need answered.  If someone brings in a box of brandy-filled chocolates, and makes them available to the office at large, and I eat two, am I technically drinking on the job?

Nick is a night person.  He likes to sit alone and know that he’s awake when most people near him are asleep.  I like doing the same thing – sitting and knowing I’m awake when others are asleep – in the morning.  I am a morning person.  I wake up at 6am, maybe dozing an extra ten minutes on occasion.  Even more rarely, I sleep in.  The latest I have ever slept in was noon, and before that ten am was my latest by determined effort.  I cannot comfortably stay in bed later than 8, unless I was up super late the night before.  Nick is uncomfortable being up and awake before 8 am, and he prefers 10.  I don’t know how we live together, I really don’t.  For work nights, I like to be in bed by ten.  I’ll read or we’ll talk for a little bit, but lights are out for me by 10:30.  Because I get up at 6, and I want to be happy when I do that, not snarly and confused and angry.  Nick then stays up for another few hours, till 2.  Earlier in our marriage he’d stay up till 3, 4am.
I remember vividly one night, I had gone to bed at say 11pm, and had woken up at 3:45am rather suddenly.  I stretched a leg out – no contact.  I rolled over and stretched out an arm, swiping back and forth to see if he was somehow tucked under a pillow or scrunched under a blanket.  Nothing.  I rolled the opposite direction to look to the door, and it was outlined in refracted light from the living room.  Sudden fear and anger suffused my sleep-muddled mind.  I flipped the blankets off of me with more force than was necessary, and shuffled out into the blinding glare of a single soft white  bulb from across the room, arms folded and tightly tucked to my ribs.  Shuffle shuffle. . . eyes scan the room only to alight on. . . Nick.  Sitting at his computer, also outlined by light.  This light was blue, and came from bolts of magefire being flung across the screen.  I believe I said, “What the hell?”  Only, I was still moderately asleep so it sounded like, “wha thahell?”  He turned around.  “It’s ****ing quarter of 4 in the morning, ***hole.  Wha tha hell?”  I get very profane when woken out of a deep sleep by the sudden knowledge that my bedmate is missing.  His answer was both profound and elegant, ” Huh?”  Mine was equal in profundity and beauty, “I hate you.”  (don’t be concerned that I tell my husband I hate him on a regular basis.  It is less a true statement than an expression of passing emotion.  No, I never left kindergarten.)
After that lovely interlude, we chose a nice curfew for him that both allowed him the nighttime like he craves and allowed me to not mumbleyell profanities at him at 0 dark 30.  He comes to bed at 2.

I love the few spam comments I get.  It’s not like I’m something so very special, but a bot or two seems to find its way to me now and again.  They always leave ambiguous but complimentary sentences, or one word comments, “cool”, “neat”.  A few posts ago, when I revealed my new hair?  Something posted, “this is what I expected about the topic.  Great information.”

The topic, the information, of my burning need to alter my appearance every January?  I see.  I’m so glad I could help you.

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