That's What She Said

It's been a rough seven days. Lots of feelings accompanied by lots of tears. What's left is a wake of used tissues and ice cream wrappers, an ephemeral shell of a person, and, surprisingly, a desire to shop like I've never known. What is it about being emotionally assaulted that leaves me itching to spend money?
I no longer possess the clarity to determine if I realistically need the items I'm in search of (or if I need them for anything beyond my own momentary well-being). Am I just looking to distract myself? Most likely. Luckily I can justify a few of my purchases with the knowledge that I've wanted (and maybe needed) these things for months, but never got around to buying them because I was otherwise occupied.

Item #1: Duvet Cover:
I bought a new bed at the beginning of the year, complete with new sheets and a new down-like comforter. It was white. Then it lived on my bed for six months without protection. Now it is almost white. Almost. So I have spent the better part of the morning (!) looking for a duvet cover online. I'm not asking for much really. A simple, solid, reasonably priced cover available in an assortment of colors from which I can choose. Easy, yes?

Wrong. It seems that amongst all the Pottery Barns and Land's Ends and Targets and Bed, Bath and Bludgeon Me's, you should be able to find this most basic item. Instead, all I can find is an limited selection of hideous and hideously overpriced covers for my once pristine blanket.

Why is this so difficult? My request is as modest as it gets and it's 2009 for crying out loud. Aren't you supposed to Google anything and be able to purchase it in just a few clicks? Apparently, this does not apply to bedding. I suppose it would mean this particular concept of an item would have to be manufactured to begin with.

Maybe I'm being too picky, but it seems that what I want should not be harder to find than a Ruched 400 Thread-Count Floral Embroidered Organic Duvet available in each Cocaine White, Bone(r) White and Kiss My White Ass White. Seriously. I do not want leopard print cerca 1989. I do not want flowers that look like a freaking table cloth you'd find at a yard sale. I do not want stripes, not even monochromatic stripes. Is someone fucking with me?

Once I do manage to find a few companies that sell a PLAIN duvet cover, I'm left to eliminate by price. $150 for a blanket holder?? I mean, come on, it's two flat sheets sewn together for god's sake. Are you kidding me? (Sidenote: If I had a sewing machine and knew how to sew, you wouldn't be suffering through this post at all).

Now I'm left with very limited color choices. Why are solid duvet covers only manufactured in white, chocolate, hunter green, sage, red, navy blue and burgundy? Why? Why does everyone who owns a comforter want a goddamn ugly hunter green duvet cover? I cannot understand this phenomenon. The ability to see colors and connect emotions with colors is one of the greatest things about being a human. Why in the hell do we limit ourselves to effing navy blue and burgundy?!? WHY DO WE FORSAKE THE RAINBOW?!? What is wrong with us?

I finally weeded my way through Overstock.com and found a nicely priced duvet cover available in sage (ugh), navy (GRRR), taupe, hunter green (WHYYYYY), bone, white, and (gasp) RASPBERRY!!
Really?? Raspberry? Not red? Not wine? Raspberry. Yes! This is what I was looking for. An escape from the palette of 1990's Lazy Boy love seats. Triumph!! On to lamps!

Item #2: Soft Light Lamp:
Are you fucking serious? After all that, like I'm going to try and buy a lamp today.

And so help me god if the color of that duvet cover is even CLOSE to burgundy...

My attention span is short, folks, but I don't want to leave you hanging just because we been lazy 'bout postin' since Friday. So enjoy this list of Things I Think You Should Know, starring me (!) (and occasionally some other crazy people).

Since Friday I have:

• Tried a fabulous new recipe in the company of wonderful friends and lots of laughter.
• Been really, deliciously happy to see my husband.
• Toured awesome local architecture and a street art fair. Was sad I could afford neither condo nor work of art.
• Saw "The Hangover" which...honestly...go see it. Just go.
  
• Found out that oh mah gawd Old Navy is having the SALE OF MY LIFE. And took advantage.
  
• Drank copious amounts of beer and ate seriously spicy corn on the cob at the Printers Row Lit Festival. Books + Beer + Friends + Corn on the Cob = Happiness. (as if you didn't already know that!)
  
• Comforted a friend with sympathetic words, a little laughter, GOBS OF CHOCOLATE, and a good old fashioned stomach ache.
• Turned my air conditioner on and snuggled into my down comforter with my puppy dog. Awww.
• Discovered that there exists a feasible if complicated mathematical calculation that says we won't be drowning in educational debt until we qualify for Social Security, which, WHEW. We have been concerned about that for some time.
  
• Helped my sister nail down some important song choices for her upcoming (Really Fast Upcoming, GEEZ) wedding. I would link to the song(s) but I think she might want that to remain confidential, bitchez.
  

As I'm sure you'll agree, I've had a pretty good (with the exception of a few rough moments) couple of days. Which does nothing to explain why I can't focus enough to write a real post. But I provided all those nice shiny links for you to click, so get busy. Huzzah!

Perhaps a real post tomorrow. If I feel like it. Or you know...not.

Me hears there's something terrible a'brewing over at Fox. Go on, click that link. You know you wanna. It's okay, I'll wait.

*****

OH MY GOD, I KNOW RIGHT?!

Fox actually has a show in the works called I Married a Stranger, where a woman agrees to marry a man chosen for her by friends and family. Before meeting the dude. Ever. That's CRA-ZAY! There are six initial husband-to-be contestants (way too small a pool if you ask me), which the family whittles down to two. Both finalists (if you can call a guy about to marry some lady crazy enough to wed him blind a "finalist", but then maybe he's just as whacked?) walk down the aisle before one man reveals himself as the "winner" ("weiner"?).

This is most definitely an arranged marriage situation (ick). But isn't it also some type of long-term, one-john-specific prostitution ring? Assuming of course that Fox is paying the ladies to marry these strangers. Cause, you know, screwing your husband is an important part of marriage and all.

Ugh.

My heart hurts for these people.

I will so so SO be watching this.

While we're sharing our sex dreams and posting pictures of our asses, I think it's time I made a little Internet Confession. Step into the Confessional, friends, and behold.

I have baby fever. Which shall heretofore be known as "The Crazy".

[Peeps one eye open] Whew.

Pretty much every time I see a human being under the age of, oh, twelve (because who wants an ucky twelve-year-old with attitude, blech!) I get all "OMG BAAAAYBEEE!" and Zack is all "OMG YOU'RE A FREAK ISN'T THERE A VACCINE FOR THIS?!"

Clearly we do not have similar feelings re: The Crazy.

While I am a steaming pile of hormonal mush, Zack's all responsible and adult and reminds me that we uhhhhh live in 680 square feet, dumbass.Which we do. So squishing even an infant in with us and our three (yes, three) pets seems crowded at best. Not to mention little details like Money! and Childcare! and School! and Newlyweds! and did I mention Money!

Seriously, though, you guys don't even understand. I don't WANT to feel this way. Logically, I comprehend how un-ready we are. But damn if I can keep from being a damn puddle every time a baby poops.

Aaaaawww BAYBEE POOPS. I mean...gross. Do you see? Do you see how this is not okay?

Let me also add to this list that very few of my friends have kids, are married, or are even really ready to settle down and start thinking about that stuff. Which, like, cool. Enjoy your twenties and do all that other junk when you're ready. Later. Except...could you talk Zack into a baby for me? I mean... What? Did I just say that out loud?

It's actually taken me quite some time to go public with this Personal Life Development. Mostly due to the fact that I know I am quite alone in my desire for a baby within my social circle, but also because...okay, COME BAAAAACK into the Confessional....

I've discovered Mommy Blogs. They are delicious. And I love them very much. Gah.

Wow, getting that off my chest didn't really make me feel any less lame for being addicted to mommy blogs. But...they are so witty...and funny...and amusing...and I just said three words that all mean the same thing.

In all seriousness, though, I have always liked kids and been good with them (former preschool teacher and oldest of seven, holler!). I feel like I'm SUPPOSED to be a mom. So I feel a certain bond, or kinship, or understanding with these women who are totally In Love with their kids. Sometimes I read their posts and am like "oh yeah, I totally get what you mean!" and other times I am like "wow, I can't even imagine what that must be like". But I know that someday, and someday soon, I'll be ready for it all.

And honestly, I just can't wait.

I guess I tend to think of myself as a couple of years younger than I actually am. When I hear something about 20-21 year olds, I empathize with them in ways that I don’t when someone mentions a girl in her “mid-twenties”. I’m constantly referring to senior year of college as “last year”, as in, in the last 12 months, even though it was a good few years ago.

In the ER this past summer, I was asked how long it’s been since my last tetanus shot.

“Ummmm....,” I shrugged, “Beginning of high school I suppose? So...5 years ago?”

And the woman just stared at me. “How old are you again?” she asked, incredulously.

“23,” I said, and again, she looked at me blankly, waiting for me to put it all together. Which I didn’t. (I may have been distracted by the fleshy tip of my finger dangling on a thread from its proper position ON my finger, but still).

“So...that would be...eight or nine years ago then?” she encouraged me to keep thinking.

Finally, “OH! Yes...eight years ago...eight years ago I started high school...Damn.”

I don’t know why I have such a mental block about aging. Or why I’m clinging to an age group that is no longer mine. Perhaps it’s because when I was a teenager, trapped in the daily suffocating HELL known as wealthy suburban high school, I wanted nothing more than to be 19-21. Why that age range I can’t say exactly, but it seemed to represent a freedom and control over one’s life without the responsibilities of actually being an adult. And looking back, that’s really what it was.

It’s not to say that my life is all that burdensome nowadays. I have my bills to pay and a few other grown-up obligations. But overall, it’s not too taxing and there isn’t anything tangible about 20 that I miss. Still I guess since I had dreamed and wished so hard to be 20, I can’t seem to grasp that I’ve passed it. What age do I want to be now? I don’t know. That’s why I’m so confused. And really, I am. Confused.

Just yesterday I was chatting with Erin about the fax machine in my office, which was teetering on the brink of death.

me: man
so i was all like, ‘too bad, fax machine is broken, lets just get a new one!’
but now i realize that means i'll have to figure out how to use the new one
ugh
i hate technology
Erin: me tooooooo
man, i thought i would be OLD when i started saying that kind of shit
but here we are.

Confused. What age am I? What age should I be? I have the sense of humor of a fifth-grader and a fear of technology that rivals my Grandpa’s. Identity. Crisis.

I have a birthday coming up in a few weeks. I’ve always been the baby in my class with the summer birthday, so for my friends, my anxieties over 24 are easily dismissed. They’ve already reached that age and don’t want to hear it. And really, to be fair, I’m not concerned about “being 24” and there being some social stigma that the best days are somehow behind me. I mean, that’s ridiculous. It’s more that I don’t know what to expect from 24 or where it means I should be in my life. Or where I thought I’d be at 24 because I never really planned for this. I fear the answer is that I should have a little bit more direction. Less floating. More focus.

Bummer. I guess well...that’s what makes it more fun to let my mind just pretend I’m still 20 and live accordingly in my own personal Never Never Land .

I'm having sleep troubles! Of all things!

So Zack's gone and waaaaaah poor me, so lonely little Austin. But really, I've been pretty okay. No crying, no tearing of the hair or gnashing of the teeth. Gold star, right? Totally!

Except that I haven't had a good night's sleep in days and it's beginning to piss me the hell off. Because damn; I like sleep. And I sort of depend on sleep to get me through my eight hours of bleary-eyed staring at a computer screen, where I work and write my love notes to you, lovely Internet.

First thing's first. I am going to stop letting my damn cats sleep with me. They are annoying (ELLA) and needy (SAPPHO) and are only cute at 10:30 when I go to bed and they are curled up together at my feet but not so much at FOUR FUCKING O'CLOCK when they are JUMPING ON MY FACE. Because...well, because they are idiots. (Or maybe I'm the idiot. Yeah, that's probably it.) Anyway, the cats are officially Kicked Out.

Also, my subconscious decided to jump start an irrational fear that SOMEONE IS TOTALLY GOING TO COME IN MY SLIDING GLASS DOOR AND RAPE ME IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT just as I'm about to drift off. From 34 stories up, they are going to do this. With their springy legs and Stretch Armstrong arms and Spider-Man abilities to climb up buildings and shit. Ha. But still, I stumble out of bed to close and lock my slider (which we rarely close and never lock) and am then awake. Wide Awake. Not anywhere close to sleep anymore. Shit. (Note To Self: Would be good if this fear made itself known before going to bed so as to avoid leaving bed to assuage it. Would also be good if you knew how to work the lock.)

And have I mentioned that I thrash around in my big ol' empty bed looking for a comfortable position? (Moment of Truth here, folks: I'll admit that being able to throw my arms and legs out with abandon was an appealing thought before Zack left...uhhh...not that I do that when he's there, no, definitely not). I spend a lot of time trying to figure out a way to be comfy. Which takes foreverrrrrr. All that flopping around is a really good way to wake oneself up. I should know.

Alright dudes, I am boring myself talking about this so I'm sorry I'm putting you through it, too. I'm going to go have a damn beer and shut my damn mouth. And then sleep. A lot. Weeee!

Anyone who knows me knows I’m prone to injuries. Generally self inflicted, or a result of my own stupidity, I am constantly waking up with scrapes, bruises, splints, bandages. On any given day at any given time, there is something wrong with me. I’m not sure exactly when this ‘condition’ of mine began, but I think I can trace it back to my first couple of years of college when I began indulging in alcoholic beverages, the ones that impair your sense of balance and motor skills, things necessary if you want maintain the “wholeness” of your body.

Over the past few years, I’ve face-planted on my chin (my already scarred chin). I frolicked my way down a sidewalk where I fell on my ankle, severely spraining it and damaging myself for life. I’ve had multiple bruises the size of cantaloupes decorating my thighs and ass. And I deftly chopped off the tip of my finger as a birthday present to myself. My knees are permanently purple from bruises and scars (hardwood floors + vodka + dancing = wipeout). I walk around in jeans with rips on both legs. No point in getting new ones, it’s just bound to happen again.

Musing over this topic (I’m concerned because I’m more than due for an injury, it’s been a few weeks), I decided the best solution for me may be to look into a personal, well, bubble. Ya know, something soft and squishy to surround me and protect me from my environment (and myself). A mobile bubble, I imagine something of a clear beach ball, maybe? As I discussed this with Erin, I started to get really excited about the things I could do with my bubble. It would be endless fun, living in a bubble. Erin and I even came up with a list of fantastic activities I could participate in if I had my own springy sphere.

Things I could do in my bubble:

• Float on the lake, or walk on water, if you will.
• Roll down a giant hill.
• Let Erin to take me to a Flaming Lips concert and have the audience pass me around over their heads.
• Attach a parachute to the bubble and free fall off a building.
• Be a toy for whales and dolphins.
• Clambake the bubble!

But as were happily brainstorming the bubble list, things that I couldn’t do with in the bubble started popping up in the conversation...

Things I could not do in a bubble:

• Ride an elevator, or any type of public transportation.
• Lay down flat.
• Enter a cave, go spelunking.
• Be in the sun (lest you become a ball of fire, ant-magnifying-glass-style).
• Approach cacti.
• Climb the hill I want to roll down.
• Go swimming.
• Use a ladder.
• Play hide and go seek.

It seems that perhaps the cons outweigh the pros of the bubble. But that might only be temporary. Who knows what injury is in store for me next and how imperative it will become for me to seek extra protection if I have any interest in seeing 30.