June 2011


Nikolai just found a temple built to him in the game he’s co-administrating.  There are: a ziggurat, commandments, kneeling benches, and a shrine.  One of the players that was in the temple bowed when he stepped in to the shrine and “appeared”.

He’s going to be impossible to live with, now.

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Fun Fact:  5am and 6am are totally different times.  this is apparently something I don’t know.  I say this because this morning comfortably woke, stretched, looked at the clock, swore, and dove out of bed.  No, really.  I do a sideways slide so I don’t pull all the covers off of Nikolai.  I’m an awesome bedmate, except for the talking in my sleep and the elbows to the face and the forceful cuddling.  I was out of bed with one unsteady leg in my sweats  before I looked at the clock again.  I stopped.  something was odd. . . I didn’t recall turning off the alarm.  I could see that it was still programmed to go off on time.  Was it Saturday?  No. . . then I made my great realization:  ten past 5 and ten past 6 are two different times of day (four, if you’re being picky).  I climbed back in bed, and took a few minutes of my newly discovered extra hour of sleep to recover from the adrenaline burst.  Believe it or not, I’ve misread the clock many times before, mistaking a 1 for a 7 and a 6 for an 8.

I woke up when my alarm went off, just like every other morning.  And then I almost went back to sleep.

Do you ever just get weepy?  I don’t know about you alls, but I do.  I am an emotional critter but I don’t cry that often.  I save up my tears for about three, maybe four months, then I sob.  I didn’t cry during The Neverending Flight Home From Florida, I didn’t mourn my feet with the Blisters of Doom, and touching moments in shows and movies over the last months only made me sniffle a little.  I’ve been saving up my tears for a few months now, and in these final days I’ve been alerted that my time is near.  For example: everything is making me shaky-breathe.  I watch two seconds of a relatively non-emotion-inducing music video, and my voice goes all quavery.  I look over at Nikolai, and I feel a sploosh of warmfuzzy feelings, and then I choke on a sob.  We visit some old friends of mine and spend the afternoon laughing till it hurts, and I feel my face start to freeze into a crazy rictus of Greek tragedy, as tears attempt to flee my eyeball holes.  The story is funny, but not sad.  Why, eyes?  WHYYYYY????!!
I told Nick that it’s time for my quarterly cry.  He looked confused.  I clarified that I will be needing to watch a tear-jerker from my childhood, as opposed to a newer movie where everyone dies and the heroine is alone and then her dog leaves her.  I cannot handle those.  I will not be watching Where The Red Fern Grows, OR Old Yeller, betch please.  I will be watching like, Peter Pan or A Little Princess or The Secret Garden, something that is joyful and heart-wrenching and that I can cry at for the 90 minutes of running time.  No, I will not watch The Notebook.  I almost asphyxiated on my heart the last (only) time I watched it, and then I spent another week in the mournful sighs and lovelorn mopes.  I don’t need that, I need a feel-good, cry with happiness and be done movie.
Am I the only one that does this?  I can’t be.  Please tell me I’m not. . . . *sniffle*

I know I qualify as a “kid” to some people, but really, kids these days. 

I was driving home from a bridal shower on Saturday and was going 25 through a nearby suburb when I saw a kid on a bicycle on the right “shoulder”.  Seriously, this road has NO SHOULDER AT ALL.  Anyway, kid was cycling along, no helmet (his choice), probably on his way home from the local pool.  I saw him there on the shoulder, and as a good driver I slowly veered left to go around him and continue on my merry way.  Kid swerved left, too, DIRECTLY INTO THE PATH OF MY VEHICLE.  I screeched my brakes, he gave a sheepish, apologetic wave, and continued across the street to what I assume was his home.

Here’s the thing:  when I learned to ride a bike, once I got my training wheels off and could steer with one hand for more than two seconds,  I learned how to signal for a left turn, right turn, and stop.  Always signal with your left arm.  Left elbow up at a 90 degree angle= right turn.  Left arm straight out, left turn.  Left arm down at a 90 degree angle= slow and stop.  EVERYONE KNOWS THIS.  It’s not like it’s a secret code, it’s supposed to be universal!  It’s supposed to be something everyone on the road knows that facilitates the safety of everyone!

And so I almost hit a kid wearing no helmet on a bike while I tried to steer around him except he swooped across the street directly in front of me and I freaked out about it for two days.

In planning for this trip, and by planning I mean studiously avoiding thinking of it in any way except the murkiness of The FUTURE, I knew I would need walking shoes.  I also knew that if anyone attempted to make me wear tennis shoes of any variety in that kind of humidity and heat, I would start kicking that person and never stop.  I needed some comfortable sandals I could walk in, and I did find a nice pair that I assumed would do the least amount of damage while being affordable and cute.  I knew I would inevitably be in pain, so all I tried to do was minimize that.

The sandals did have a heel, because I prefer blisters to having hyperextended knees – call me crazy!!  After that first day in them, when I had the first blister on one foot and what seemed to be a hive on the other foot, I did think that maybe knees that bent backwards and made me walk like a chicken might be preferable.  They’re not, in case you were wondering.  After switching shoes a few days in row and buying certified Disney® flip flops, I had four blisters, one of which had started to mutate.  It began innocently enough, on the pad just as the base of my second toe.  A shoe switch and another day later, the fluid inside had managed to shove itself up between my second and third toes, and IT TOTALLY FASCINATED GROSSED ME OUT YOU GUYS.  I proceeded to show Nick my newest acquisition, and spent the rest of the trip squishing on it from both sides.  It was so gross (but kind of cool).

I snagged another two blisters in Vegas on the LONGEST TRIP HOME EVER, which helped me cement the belief that I do not like Las Vegas, and not just because of the driving winds and the dirtiness that embedded itself in my skin.

 

Stay tuned for a play-by-play of a very long trip that never wanted to end and became travel purgatory.