Awkwardly Social

I had a dream the other night.  I was making baked spaghetti.  You told me your mother made it the best.  Dream me knew it was pure folly to try to perfect your mother’s dish.  You once told me she also makes perfect scrambled eggs.  But I’ve had her eggs and I’m not sure they’re perfect.  I looked at the nest of noodles in my white corning dish and figured I didn’t care.  And the noodles looked so pretty and dry and just like I like them.

So last night I made you spaghetti.  The sauce was from a jar.  We sat at our table that is older than your mother and didn’t tell you about my dream and the baked spaghetti I made for you.

One fortune says: “You have the makings of a leader, not a follower.”  And the other one said something like, “Common sense is not that common,” but I’m paraphrasing because I threw it away.  I can’t be weighed down by stupid fortunes that aren’t fortunes but rather sayings.  I have no idea what the leader not a follower one means other than I hope it doesn’t mean I’m going to give birth to the leader of the robot resistance and a machine is on its way to kill me, because I’ve had it about up to here with delusions of grandeur.  I don’t need those delusions made reality.

I’m too scared to look at my horoscope right now.  And if you’re too scared to look at your horoscope, you know one of two things is going on:

a.  Shit is going down and you don’t want to know for how much longer, because it’s probably going to be for the rest of the year.

b.  You’ve lived in California for too long.

Health = good.  Relationship = good.  No babies = good.  Lula = crazy, but good.  It’s just that one last slice of the pie we’re looking at and wow, it would be a delicious slice if only someone didn’t keep wrenching it out of our grasp.

So I’m going to leave you with this photo of the roses in our front yard.  They exploded last week.  So much so that our gardener cut 50% of them off and left us with a million roses.

Someone tell the planets to stop fucking with me.

I got my car back!  After much hemming and hawing and trying to figure out how to get my car, my plates and return my rental all in one morning, I gave up.  I managed to convince myself that somehow I would be ok without a car.  That just releasing my car into the wild would be better for all involved.  Taking the bus would be far superior!  I overwhelm easy.

Seth swooped in to the rescue.  It’s really quite refreshing to be able to just say, “Look, this series of things that needs to be done is overwhelming me, can I have a xanax?  And will you return my rental car?”  And half a xany and a call to Enterprise later, I’m in my car with a new set of plates, sitting in traffic with no air conditioning.  There was a small part of me that wondered if I could convince my insurance company that the thieves stole my air conditioner out of my car and have them replace it.  Thankfully that small part of me is easily silenced by good sense and the knowledge that I don’t really drive my car that much anyway.  Now and then we’ll take my car if we need to pick up something large (like a BBQ - OMG, we’re getting a BBQ!!!) but mostly we take Seth’s car.  Because we are not fools who drive cars without airconditioning when there are air conditioned cars to be had.

I almost didn’t recognize Affnuf when I saw her.  She looks so adorable and clean.  I can’t believe what a difference a wash makes.  Hi, I’ve had my car for a year and a half and haven’t washed her once!  See also, oil change…

So, this weekend I’ll be getting an oil change, a car alarm and a BBQ.  Or maybe I’ll just sit around and think about how overwhelming all of those three things are and read a book instead.  You just never know!

I took one bite of my spicy tuna salad yesterday and knew immediately that the fish was bad.  One bite!  And now, I’m currently in the throes of some kind of bad sushi intestinal nightmare.  I would like to just leave it at that, but I can’t.  And for that I’m sorry.

Which brings me to communal restrooms and the women going through bad sushi intestinal nightmares who are forced to use them.  Hi, ass trumpet, I’ll see you at your desk later and pretend to not know that you just blew your guts out with the force of a hurricane while I sat quietly beside you separated from your absurd noises by only a tiny piece of tin and this little thing I like to call dignity that I use as a shield while tinkling daintily.

I mean, come on! I’d like to put in a formal request for bathrooms with privacy to be used for shit emergencies.  Those bathrooms would be reserved for people who are shitting.  And they would be sound proofed.  And well ventilated.  People would see you come out of them and know you were just in there crapping your guts out, but will just move on with their lives and not have the aural memory of your ass trumpetry.

I’m never eating ‘cheap sushi’ again.

*From The Devil Wears Prada.

I’m overwhelmed at the thought of the two things that need to be updated over here.  I have two things to tell you, and I’m overwhelmed.  This is probably a problem.  Do you other bloggers ever look back at your archives and go, “Wow, I used to be funny.  What the fuck happened?  Maybe I should just kill myself.”  No?  Just me then…

If you don’t read my twitter updates, (which, seriously, I am almost completely over twitter) you probably don’t know that they found my car.  It’s all in one piece, missing its plates and smelling slightly of unwashed cigarette smoking man, with only a busted door lock.  I’ll have it back either Friday or Monday, and I am really happy about it.  Although, a little sad about not getting the BMW 7 series Seth scoped out for me.  Honda Civics suit me better.  I’m way too blue collar for a BMW, right?  (*sob*)

We had a weekend away in Palm Springs over Easter at Two Bunch Palms.  And to say the vibe was “fat swingers looking for lovely ladies” is not exactly right but it was leaning in that direction.  Seth and I walked down to the hot springs pools after having a cup of coffee in the wack-a-do restaurant they call “The Casino” for no reason at all, and every person turned and stared.  I felt like a piece of meat.  And not in the good way where you’re like, yeah, I AM hot, in the way where you think your flesh might actually be cut from your bones and consumed.  Aside from the cannibal swinger thing, it was a great weekend.  My relationship with Seth basically started in a hotel room, so there’s something decidedly comfortable and familiar and perfect about us when we’re staying in a room that doesn’t belong to us.  And for those of you who are considering staying at Two Bunch after my cautionary tale, I will say one more thing to deter you, THERE IS NO ROOM SERVICE.  WTF?

So, now that you’re all caught up, I’ll disappear for a few days and come back with the story of how I am now unable to drink more than one drink (wine included) without getting floppy and weepy.  Because I assure you, in the next couple of days I will once again face down a second margarita or glass of wine with the fortitude I learned from my German grandfather and once again be unable to make it to the door without trying to lay down on the floor of whatever fine drinking establishment I’ve been forced upon. Where-for-art-thou, tolerance?

Last week will for ever go on record as the week I got my car stolen and served with a lawsuit. *

This week has to be better.

I was smugly telling a co-worker about my upcoming trip to Palm Springs, how I was so excited about the resort we were going to and she walked back into her office calling over her shoulder, “Make sure you get a room away from the Easter Egg Hunt.”

I grabbed her and hissed, “What FUCKING EASTER EGG HUNT?!”

After a few frantic phone calls and some verification from a bored operator at the hotel that I was totally fucked, I cancelled my reservation for my awesome Palm Springs vacation and booked for an awesome Palm Desert vacation instead.

Thank god for bougie resorts who don’t allow children and ask their patrons to speak in hushed towns, is all I have to say.

Also, this only reinforces my smugness. Because if I hadn’t been smugly chatting it up about my vacation, I would have be really irritated when my relaxing vacation to Palm Springs turned into some kind of “Hell House” for people who think they want children.

*Remember the car accident I got into a year and a half ago… Yeah.  That.  I’m not going to talk about it until it’s over but wow, last week could have been better is all.

Seth is still unpacking.

Let that sink in for a minute.  We’ve lived in our house since the end of October.

Every once in a while he goes into the guest room and opens a box and brings out a few things and tells me a long story about the things, asks me if he should keep them in some cases, in other cases he just tells me he’s keeping them and yeah, it’s been a long process.

Living with someone who was born in 1901* ensures  you’ll be faced with a lot of stuff, a lot of stories, and occasionally some awesome shit that you want to steal for yourself.  It’s rad.

A few weeks ago he opened a box full of watches and me, being like a crow, spotted the ancient sparkly Seiko, and put it on my wrist.  I have freakishly small wrists so I slid it all the way up my arm like an arm cuff, and fooled around for a while as I’m wont to do, when I decided I wanted to have it.  So we did a little measuring and figured out how many links to remove and I forgot about it.

Then two nights ago I came home and it was sitting on the dining room table.  I told him that if this was a some kind of misguided (and misread) Gift of the Magi situation and he sold my car to pay for the link removal in the watch, that I wanted my car back.  He assured me the two had nothing to do with one another.

So, now I’m wearing the watch he wore when he was a teenager (back during the Roaring Twenties!**) and sometimes when I look down at the time, I think, “He was just a kid when he wore this watch. Now he’s in his seventies!***”

And it makes me feel like I’m somehow connected to that teenager in the pick-up truck who like girls in tight white jeans.****

And that he had no idea that there would be an insane girl like me wearing it all these years later.  It’s like my version of wearing his letterman’s jacket.

*He wasn’t born in 1901.

**He didn’t go to high school in the Roaring Twenties.

***He isn’t in his seventies.

****He did drive a pick-up truck and lust after girls in tight white jeans.