Book Purge

Moving is a great excuse to get rid of crap you don't really need, and most of it joyously: Goodbye misshapen umbrella, half-full bottles of shampoo and lotion, twin-sized Wal-mart comforter from Freshman year of college--you shan't be coming with me!

And then there is the crap which really should get retired, but you keep around move after move because you can't bear to get rid of it--which is why I'm still holding onto Things Fall Apart (appropriately, being held together with a rubber band) and a copy of The Blind Assassin that's been read umpteen times, lent to everyone I know, and chewed-on by an overexcited chihuahua.

In fact, most of my books fall into this "egregiously-used" category; that, plus the books I've "rescued" from other people's moves (!!) because they would have been thrown out. Surely I had good intentions at the time, but Guide to Texas Politics: you have been moved three times now and never once read.

This time around: Operation Show No Mercy.

Old Dog, New Tricks

M: "Baby, it's cold in here. I'm turning the fan down." [pulls fan chain once]
R: "No, see, this will be better...." [pulls chain twice]
M: "It was on medium! You just put it back on high! Why do you have to mess with everything I touch?"
R: [pulls fan chain three times]
M: "You didn't have to turn it OFF! I just wanted it on low!"
R: "Shhhh."
M: "Arrrgh."
R: "No, look." [Stops the fan with a finger, flips a switch, puts fan on medium.]
R: "See, now it will push the warm air down."
M: "No..."
R: "Yes. Feel it?"
M: "I don't believe you."
M: "You're making this up."
R: "No I'm not, you're supposed to reverse the fan in winter."
M: "Fans are reversible?"
R: "Yes!"
M: "No..."
R: "Yes."
M: "Explain the physics, please."
R: "See, the curved part of the blade can push air down if it goes this way, or up if it goes this way."
M: "I have never in my life reversed a fan."
R: "Well, you learn something new every day."
M: "Reversible fans. I'll be damned."

Nice Chatting with You... Not.

A wise person once advised me, in a break-up situation, not to speak or have contact with one's former beloved for at least a year.

I can understand the wisdom behind the idea: Out of sight, out of mind; time heals all wounds; absence makes the heart grow fond--err... nevermind the last one.

For me it's always been hard to stop communication, especially with the invention of cell phones and the resulting "drunk dial" or, more accurately, "drunk text" (even MORE dangerous). I'm a second-guesser and what-if?-er by nature, which does not lend itself to clean breakups. Plus I romanticize everything after the fact. I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I really, really suck at being an ex-girlfriend.

After a certain spiraling climatic crash of self-induced ex-boyfriend mayhem this year (which none of you knew about, but I am now confessing), I grew sick of it; sick to my stomach, and out of rope with which to pull and be pulled around. I no longer craved the secret late-night phone calls and visits; nor did I desire affirmation from a past lover that I was still attractive and intelligent and lovable.

I had reached the absolute lowest point--that ground zero of dating where the only way to go is up; and the only way to get there is on your own. It was a slow and exhausting liberation.

And from there, it was easier to stop speaking than I thought it would be.

And much harder to start up again.

Love[seat]sick

This weekend I went to Austin with Richard so he could get more work done on his tattoo. Since dating Richard, whose "half-sleeve" is still a work in progress, I have learned that there are two distinct variations of tattoo pain: 1. the "feels like a cat is scratching you, HARD" fleshy pain, and 2. the elbow/ ankle/joint "bone rattling" pain. This weekend he experienced both, and I experienced neither.

In case anyone's concerned that I missed out on an opportunity to do something drastic, I did hit an important "adult" landmark: that of Purchasing Furniture Of Value (Not From IKEA). I'd love to say I was an excellent barterer, but anyone who knows me could have predicted that there was no way I'd leave the city without the fire-engine-red leather loveseat and matching chair and ottoman. (This is the closest approximation google images could come up with--but mine has cleaner lines and less puffiness. I hate puffy couches.)

I followed the important bargain-hunters advice of "don't worry how you're going to get it home" and we shoved half my purchase (chair and ottoman) in Richard's SUV. The couch is waiting until January 15, when I'll be in Austin again for work and we'll pick it up on the return trip.

"What's the big deal?" you say. "It's just a couch."

For all the apartments and rooms I've lived in, for all the mattresses I've slept on and dressers I've assembled (some with a little help from some wood glue and my friends), the tables and chairs I've salvaged from garage sales and consignment shops, I have never purchased any piece of furniture that:

1. I loved; or
2. I planned to keep around and in good condition for an extended period of time.

I'm trying to explain this landmark event and my newfound love for a shapely leather silhouette to my mother on the phone, and she says, "Does Kitty know not to scratch the leather?"
M: "She gets one free swipe and then I'm having her declawed."
Mom: "Ok."
M: "Cats don't like leather, do they?"
Mom: "Are you kidding? Cats LOVE leather."
M: "Mine won't."
Mom: "...Ok."
M: "I'll buy her a kitty condo. Three stories of carpet-covered amusement. I love this couch."
Mom: "I know."

In other landmark news, this is my first Texas Christmas.
Bring me glad tidings of good cheer.

Really and Truly?

The time is 6:09 pm. I am sitting in my office finishing up some meeting packets. Every night this week, I have left the office at 7 or 8 pm only to go home (or, more accurately, to the boy's house) and work more.

The phone rings. I consider letting it go, but answer on the off-chance that it's Ryan J. calling to invite me out for a drink (sadly, no can do, as I'm headed off for evening #3 of homework).

It is The President's brother!! On my phone!! We set up a time for him to meet with the executive director and he tells me he's sorry he called so late and I should go home and be with my family.

Really and truly, he told me to leave work. I sense a vast right-wing conspiracy. They want me to leave my work undone and go home and watch reality television that will rot my brain but I WILL NOT SUBMIT! I will work LONGER and HARDER! I will stay until 8! 9! 11! TOMORROW MORNING! TAKE THAT, PRESIDENT'S BROTHER!

I'm still riding my wave of righteousness when my departing co-worker says "Don't stay too late, Mary," and I tell her "Leaving now."