I know. I know.
I’ve been having a hard time finding a theme that feels right. You’ll notice this time I added little sketches of my cats up on the top there. Maybe I’ll keep this template for more than a few months simply because I’d feel guilty deleting them. Maybe they’ll prevent me from getting so restless.
I guess time will tell.
When you’ve been dating someone for a long time, eventually (usually sooner rather than later) you hit a point where the courtship ends and you settle into a routine. On the one hand, you achieve a level of stability and predictability that can bring great comfort. On the other, you risk falling prey to a “You don’t bring me flowers anymore” partner who accuses you of neglect and insensitivity to their needs.
The Captain and I have been together over three years now. Though we can’t imagine our lives without each other, admittedly we don’t spend our days shouting it from the rooftops.
Until now.
The Captain’s birthday is fast approaching and I have decided this year to prove my undying love to him. After all, this is the man who shares his home with me, cooks me dinner, and tolerates my cats occasionally pooping in the bathtub. For all these reasons and more I made the ultimate sacrifice in getting him . . . Celine Dion tickets.
Before you loudly decry that I am a selfish bitch who clearly is dragging my poor, unfortunate beloved to see my greatest musical idol, let me inform you of the following:
1. I loathe Celine Dion’s music. I acknowledge that she is wonderfully talented with a gorgeous and powerful voice, but sorry, I don’t want to hear her ballads blaring from my radio, less mind in person. I’d rather listen to my tone-deaf younger sister try to play Mozart on her plastic recorder.
2. The tickets cost a small fortune. For the price I paid for crappy seats, I could have made a car payment, taken care of my cell phone bill, and purchased a week’s worth of groceries. Oh, and I would have had enough money left over to buy Celine’s latest CD and a gallon of premium grade gasoline with which to burn it.
3. There are people at concerts. Lots of them. I don’t like people. I especially don’t like people who are going to sing every craptastic song in my ear while they sway and scream and text their friends about how the experience changed their lives.
Of course, there is a way out.
The Captain’s birthday isn’t for several more weeks. I could potentially sell the Celine tickets on the secondary market for 75% above what I paid for them, buy the Captain a pretty damn good gift for the original cost of the seats, and make a tidy profit in the process. And he’d never know.
OR I can suck it up, give him the tickets as I originally intended, be forced to endure an evening watching the woman he calls “an enchantress” from nosebleed seats, and hope he understands how meaningful a gesture it truly is.
Tough decision.
My mother likes to tell me the story of when she brought me to the doctor’s office with her the day she confirmed she was pregnant with my sister. I was about eighteen months old at the time and amused myself in the waiting room by looking at books and calling out the letters I saw. The other women smiled at my apparent precociousness, although they assumed I couldn’t possibly know which name was associated with which symbol.
That is, until I pointed above the door and exclaimed, “Look, Mommy. E-X-I-T. That spells exit!”
That moment sealed my fate. From those days in diapers through the present, my mother has repeatedly told me, “You are smarter than most people.” I suppose such statements were intended to be good for my self esteem. Unfortunately, I believe my well-meaning parents provided me with just enough hubris to make me into a giant Know-It-All.
I realize that it is a particularly irritating personality flaw and my recognition of it within me leaves a gnawing pain every time I hear myself interject an unasked for answer. I’m sure the professors I corrected during college classes thought I was a smug, self-satisfied bitch. I’m certain past colleagues have whispered about me being a pretentious, ass-kissing elitist. I’m pretty positive I’ve annoyed multitudes of people, and all while just trying to be helpful.
So as much as I can nowadays, I try to keep quiet.
But is there ever a time that being a Know-It-All is a good thing?
Yesterday the Captain and I went for a walk. As we strolled along the road beside the lake I noticed a child, no more than two, naked except for a diaper, standing in a driveway. Alone. The toddler took no notice of us as he was busy examining the back of the truck he was standing behind.
“Nobody is watching that baby,” I said.
“Come on, there’s no one outside?”
“No, look. That child is out there by himself. I bet no one even knows where he is.”
There were several vehicles in the driveway (where the toddler was wandering), but the yard was quiet. No one else in sight. The only indication there were people around at all was an open side door leading out to the deck (above and behind the driveway).
“It’s none of our business. Come on.”
“But he’s about five feet from the road. I know it’s not a busy street, but across the road is the lake. What if he falls in?”
“What are you going to do? Ask the people around here who he belongs to?” The Captain seemed concerned but hesitant.
“We’ll end up reading about him in the paper tomorrow.”
Eventually the Captain convinced me that I’m not responsible for other people’s children and coaxed me along on our walk. Ultimately, I guess he’s right. Yes, it wasn’t my place to interfere. Yes, I do need to learn to mind my own business. Yes, I shouldn’t be dispensing advice unasked. But although I know saying something would have been extremely intrusive and would have most likely made serious waves, part of me feels like a terrible person because I kept walking.
With the frenetic pace of my life lately, I couldn’t have asked for a better time to enjoy a three day weekend. Fortunately the weather is supposed to be beautiful for the duration. I hope the meteorologists get things right for once. If I spot a single raindrop I may just have an aneurysm.
In the event that you’ve noticed I seemed to drop off the face of the Earth, here’s a brief recap of the things that have been consuming my every waking moment recently:
Work. I’ve been putting in a lot of 10+ hour days. People have been tossing around that “workaholic” word. I need to find a balance between getting thing done and making it home in time for dinner.
Gym. I finally managed to get myself to the health club. I met with a trainer to put together my “I’ve never truly exercised in my life” fitness program and discovered that I am somehow unintentionally hilarious. Apparently complete honesty cracks people up. For example:
Trainer: Now, don’t be intimidated. Ninety-five pounds sounds like a lot, but not for the leg press. Think about it. Your legs hold up your own weight and you walk around all day.
Me: No I don’t. That’s why I’m here.
I’ve never seen someone laugh so hard at such a matter-of-fact statement.
Road Rage. By my own good fortune, nearly every morning I wind up with someone behind me who is in a real hurry to get to wherever he’s going. This is a problem for several reasons. First, I know I’m going to be early to work and don’t see the purpose in moving faster because someone else possibly has a punctuality issue. Second, it’s not like I’m driving below the speed limit (in fact, I’m generally above it). And third, it’s much too early in the morning for me to cater to assholes.
Last week someone rode my ass the entire length of a particularly windy road (where SUVs come around the corners smack in the middle of street instead of on their own side). When we finally hit a stretch of straighter pavement he blew past me, passing illegally.
. . . And promptly got stuck behind a schoolbus that abruptly pulled out in front of him. I had been doing about 35mph. The schoolbus hovered around 20mph. It’s nice to know that once in awhile karma’s got your back.
Indy. Pressed by a friend, the Captain and I were putting together an Indiana Jones party. The boys planned to watch the original three movies to gear up for the newest installment. Unfortunately said friend will be entertaining his girlfriend’s parents all weekend, so the party plans tanked. That’s not going to keep the Captain and me from the movie theater, however. This afternoon we’re off to see if Indiana Jones is still as good in his social security days. (And to count how many times I hear “It’s not the years, it’s the mileage.”)
Blogging. Oh, wait . . . Scratch that.
How excited am I that it’s the weekend? You can’t even imagine. Now excuse me while I go do a whole lot of nothing.
Gah. Is it Friday yet?
Every day this week I’ve come home with a headache and more than a touch of fatigue. I’m so exhausted that I’ve got the Netflix movies coming again, but I’m too tired to watch them. Well, unless I want to work through them in twenty minute segments.
A couple days ago, in a rare moment of post-dinner consciousness, I decided to do an impromptu time-study to figure out where all my time goes. I came up with something like this:
10 hours spent at work (99% of that time actually working, yes, even through “lunch hour”)
1 hour spent showering/dressing/preparing for work
1.5 hours spent commuting to and from work
8 hours spent “sleeping” (accounts for all time spent in pajamas, whether or not sleep actually occurs)
0.5 hours spent eating dinner & sharing details of day with the Captain
3 hours of “free time”
When you have errands to run, blogging to do, cats to appease, and you really need to start spending time at the gym, three hours a day is not a whole lot of time. Can you imagine all the things I could accomplish if only I had more “me” hours?
I have. In fact, I’ve made a list of the top ten things I’d love to do if only I had unlimited time (and money):
1. Travel the world.
2. Learn how to salsa dance.
3. Get a pilot’s license.
4. Take voice lessons.
5. Do some rock climbing.
6. Spend more time baking.
7. Find inner peace.
8. Master the art of making balloon animals.
9. Learn how to sail.
10. Take web design classes.
It’s my personal goal in life to manage to do at least one of the things on my list. If I could somehow do them ALL, well, I’d die a happy woman.
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