I be loving’ it

That was a nod to the lip gloss song.

Here’s something I thought today that made me feel pretty lame.

We are going to have a game night tonight with Ashly, Juan, Jordan and George. I tried to decide it it would be appropriate to wear sweatpants. Then I thought, not only would it be appropriate, it would also be an excellent excuse for not going out in the event that the idea gets thrown out there.

I don’t think it will actually be thrown out there, so I’m currently trying to decide whether it’s worth it to change pants with my nails slightly wet. I have developed what I believe to be quite a talent for painting nails, though it takes hours of devotion and thus does not happen nearly enough.

I discussed with Maria yesterday why I am always on board for happy hour with co-workers yet I never want to go out at night with my close friends.

Happy hours are awesome.

1. There is generally food, or at least the option of food.

2. Everyone is usually sitting down.

3. You can hear people without screaming.

4. It’s normally over no later than 8:00 or 8:30.

5. There’s no taking care of anybody hanging over a toilet.

6. Nobody expects (or wants) you to drink until you’re stumbling all around like a fool.

Un-happy hours are generally the opposite of everything I just listed. Plus I feel the extra need to dress up nicer than I did during the day. And all my clothes are ugly and I hate them.

I propose we abide by happy hour rules only from now on.

Now, time to grab my bottle of wine and go school some people in Cranium.

I’m aliiiive

Ever since I was a child, I’ve had these random moments where I become eerily aware of my existence.* These moments make me feel small and big and scared. I am a living creature, and I think things, and I do things, and I could think or do anything I wanted to think or do if I chose to think or do it. And one day I will not think or do anything.

I’m not necessarily afraid of my own mortality. No, wait, I am. I am not one of those people who has come to terms with death. I have mostly accepted that it’s going to happen to me someday, but there is still a little bit of me that wonders if I might be able to get around it if I just maintain enough awareness of myself at all times. Unagi. (Or salmon skin roll, depending on if you ask Ross or Rachel.)

I do not have unagi, nor am I unagi, if Ross was correct in stating that it’s something you are, not something you have. I may not be remembering this episode correctly. But, at any given time, I am probably less aware of my surroundings than the average person, so my unagi/salmon-skin-roll theory will likely never be tested, at least by me.

This is one of those posts that I will read months from now and wonder why in the world I thought this was worthy of posting on the Internet.

(Is Internet still capitalized in AP style? Was it before? iPhone thinks it should be. I work in insurance now, so I don’t have to retain this kind of knowledge. And it’s probably clear that I don’t make much of an effort to do so.)

This clear lack of focus is exactly why I’m going to die like a regular human someday.

*I describe my self-diagnosed restless leg syndrome similarly. It is an uncomfortable awareness of my legs.

How it goes

This is dinner at our house:

Me: It’s frittata time!
Eddie: Don’t make a frittata. Make pasta.
Me: But I really want a frittata.
Eddie: I’ll make pasta.
Me: Fine, if you really want pasta, you can make it.

I retreat to the couch, half sad that I won’t be eating a frittata, half glad that I won’t have to cook.

Me: Are you going to make it now?
Eddie: No.
Me: I’m sooooo hungry.
Eddie: I’ll make it soon.

We go on to talk about these memes we both wasted a lot of time looking at today after he tweeted them to me with the hashtag #firstworldproblems.

Five minutes elapse.

Eddie: You can just make the frittata.
Me: OH MY GOD, you made me wait for pasta that you’re not even going to make now. Now I will be eating frittata five minutes later than I should have.

He laughs at my first world problem. I remind him that I have had but a meager PB&J today. I leave out my meager breakfast of oatmeal for dramatic effect.

I go to the kitchen to start my frittata.

Eddie: I’ll just make pasta instead.
Me: OH MY GOD, STOP TEASING ME.

Fifteen seconds later, it is clear that he is just teasing. I get back to starting the frittata. 

Me: OH MY GOD, I have to cook the sausage first.
Eddie: See, you should have just made pasta. It’s quicker.
Me: But I want a frittata!

Then I look for the sausage in the refrigerator. It is not where I left it. I find it on the top shelf, hiding behind the milk. Opened. In a ziploc sandwich bag.

Me: OH MY GOD, you ate half the sausage!
Eddie: Yeah.
Me: Now we have to eat it with only the amount of sausage that the recipe calls for!

I mope, only half jokingly, and tweet to him  about how he ruined my life by eating half the sausage, so that the whole world (my 30 followers) will know I have been wronged.

I cook the sausage and put the frittata together and put it in the oven to bake for 30 to 40 minutes. I think, “OH MY GOD, NOW I HAVE TO WAIT? What can I do with 30 to 40 minutes?” Then I remember I have the internet.

And that is the story of why I am here.

It also doubles as the story of how Eddie ruined my life.

OH MY GOD, IT’S ALMOST FRITTATA TIME.

Nonsense

Why do I have pets?

I thought this as I fed Jack a few minutes ago. My purrfect little kitty was giving me purrs for food. He hadn’t done anything wrong. I just suddenly questioned my desire to take care of animals that don’t serve the same purpose people used to keep them for, or maybe people still keep them for.

Jack doesn’t catch mice. Granted, he probably would, given the opportunity, but that opportunity has not presented itself. At the most, he eats a moth every so often.

And Heidi. Heidi is no watchdog. I guess she serves as a good alarm to let us know when the UPS guy comes. But she’s no protection. She’s 11 pounds, and, if someone came and robbed us, I’m pretty sure she’d gladly jump in the getaway car with them for a joy ride.

I have eaten nachos for dinner twice in the past four days, and I seriously considered round three for tonight. But Jack and Heidi eat all natural food that I spent hours researching. It’s not super premium. But it’s not cheap, either.

And let’s not forget all the poop. I voluntarily clean up poop. Constantly. Poop. So much poop.

And today I thought about it. Why do we put so much time and money into pets that will never make any sense on paper?

And furthermore, why do even crazier people, people I will probably join someday, have babies? Pets cost nothing compared to children. They love you no matter what, as long as you keep the food coming. We are not producing children for farm labor anymore (at least not here). They are not a financially sound investment. If you’re lucky, they grow up to be well off and they take care of you, and the tables turn. This is not true of pets. Heidi will certainly never change my adult diapers. I guarantee it. But if I took all the money I’d spend raising one child and invested it wisely, I think I could probably hire someone way better at cleaning my poo than my future child will be.

And marriage? Two people get together and decide they will bank on being able to stand each other for the rest of their lives, which may be a few days and may be several decades and may seem like an infinity either way. We decide to go from being self-sufficient human beings who make our own choices to living a life of checking in and compromising and sharing and eye rolling.

I could be a single dame out there with no strings attached. We all could be.

Why do we choose to be tied down? I can’t just go on a weekend trip without arranging for somebody to take care of the animals. And I’d never just head out for the weekend without consulting with Eddie.

I guess I choose it because I like it.

I can’t come up with any better answers. I value the companionship of Eddie and the furry ones more than I value my own self-sufficiency and unquestioned freedom. It doesn’t make sense on paper, but it makes sense somewhere in my heart and brain and probably several other organs.

And I want a baby someday, someday that is not now, probably partially because I am a vain human who wants to pass on my genes because I think they’re so damn great, but also because I think I’ll love whatever blob of DNA pops out of me.

I love my wittle cuddly baby wabies (Jack, Heidi and Eddie, that is). I want them and I keep them in my life because I’m selfish. Because they are mine and they are what I love and what make me happy, and I value my own happiness.

It’s like that episode of Friends, when Joey told Phoebe there were no selfless good deeds.

This so did not deserve to be a blog post, because I am already totally over it. My brain just thought something for a split second, and my fingers rolled with it. Guess who just lost three minutes of their lives? You did. You.

But I lost more, because I’m typing on a phone. And since I am selfish, I care more about that.

Meh. I need to wash my hair now and maybe find my inner Phoebe and donate to Sesame Street to prove I can be selfless.

Speaking of which, I thoroughly enjoyed the documentary Being Elmo. Netflix it.

I think this actually probably came from the bit of Michael Ian Black’s new(ish) book that I caught a little bit of on my lunch break. Time to read more of that now.

If that wasn’t a glowing recommendation to stay away from a book, I don’t know what is. But seriously, the book will not disappoint like this blog does.

I can’t actually say that. I’m not finished reading. It may be wildly disappointing. But I’ll never find out if my index finger doesn’t shut up.

Two years

Still thinking of my Koopa Troopa.

What do you call cheese that isn’t yours?*

Eddie: We still have chips?
Me: Yes.
In unison: Let’s make nachos!
Me: I love you.

*Nacho cheese

Ask me if I’m freaking out

I’m freaking out.

I don’t care if it’s true

The things I want to do to Ryan Gosling make me such a female stereotype.

You know what’s great?

When you haven’t seen someone in a long time, and then you finally do, and everything still feels so natural.

Our friend Ceily was in town from Chicago, and we had a great night sitting at the dining room table with Eddie and Beth, drinking wine and catching up.

If the ability to maintain relationships, even when you only see each other every year or two, is part of growing up, I guess that’s ok.

As much as I miss my friends who live out of state, it’s nice to have friends in other parts of the country and know that they are happy where they are. That’s really all you can want for anyone you care about.

It was a good night.

Gush

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about how lucky I am.

Except when I play the lottery.