ila: my across-state move sucked balls, so i can't even imagine how much mo
Kimberly: Woo, almost a month late! My first car was a '98 Dodge Neon. I got
Lauren: I don't know why but I'm always good at shutting this kind of thing do
Lauren: Yay house! twitter tells me you're still working on it, but even so! (
How can someone else ever really know you?
How can someone else know the fictional lives that play out in your head as you brush our teeth in the morning?
How can someone else know how you delight in catching patterns of color and light?
How can someone else know why you sometimes need to listen to the same song over and over?
How can someone else know the stories you map using threads of overheard conversation?
I don’t know.
Something about December makes me want to wrap a festive string of lights around my torso and huddle under a feather duvet with a handle of whiskey and a bowl of melted cheese, and not get up again until I can walk around the house with no socks on and still feel my feet.
But you can't do that. Not in December, you can't. For one, if you stopped showing up to work your job would stop paying you, and then you'd have no money to buy more of your comfort food of choice. Let alone the replacement bulbs for that string of lights. For two, there's just not enough time. In my house, particularly, we have so little time that we seem to believe it's still October:
Over the long weekend, we cabined.
Everyone ought to cabin every now and again. To cabin is to gaze up at a charcoal black canvas of sky peppered with tiny pinpricks of light, to be utterly surrounded by mossy trees, to be awakened in the middle of the night by a large unknown animal skittering across the front porch and then to lie there for an hour hoping the animal wasn't really a demented serial killer and this wasn't going to end up like one of those folk horror tales where the guy with the hook for a hand slowly scratches through the top of the car and then the UNWITTING MORONS IN THE CAR DIE.
Yeah. Just like that, except with a cabin in place of a car, and maybe the murderer has a machete for a leg, and the unwitting morons are us.
See? See why everyone needs to cabin?
I'm going to be a bridesmaid next year, you guys. First time ever. Always a bride, never a bridesmaid, was my problem. Until now.
I feel so proud and excited. I'm going to be in a wedding party! That's a rite of passage, right? It's special. You get to sit or stand in certain places and perform certain rituals. Just like having a baby. Speaking of which, another friend is having a baby. The first baby and the first wedding in my personal circle of close friends. 2012 is the year, you guys. The year of weddings and babies. The year my people all finally grow up, apparently. The year shit gets real.
You know what hasn't grown up? Me. Some part of me, deep inside, is still twelve years old. Because some part of me, deep inside, is angry that my friend getting married has been stolen away by her fiance.
As I hurtle ever closer to 31, I'm starting to get a little... panicky. Unlike others, who on their milestone birthdays may have dry-heaved a bit into a paper bag before collapsing on the sofa with a cold damp washcloth over their faces, I had no problem whatsoever turning 30. Age 31, however, sounds dreadfully, heart-stoppingly critical. That's, like, what? Practically as old as the pyramids, right? Do they even teach you kids about the pyramids anymore these days? Or do your ancient world history textbooks begin the day Steve Jobs was born?
Well, that joke was in exceedingly poor taste.
God, I'm old.
Last night we were watching the Redskins-Cowboys game when the Redskins quarterback made an unimpressive throw to a receiver.
"That was a horrible pass," the beau muttered to himself.
"You're a horrible pass," I immediately volleyed at him. I rely on this kind of juvenile humor all the time. It's instinct. Second nature. It's a small miracle, in fact, that I didn't actually turn it into a your Mom joke [see: "Your Mom's a horrible pass."].
One year ago this past weekend, we hosted an awful welcome barbecue and then we went on to host a decent wedding. One year ago this past weekend, we got married.
How does one celebrate a wedding anniversary? What is one supposed to do? This was our first, you see, so there's bound to be some confusion. Some hesitation. Some Googling of what's considered appropriate behavior and norms. Some painting of faces and dashing around the house shrieking like loons.
Although in retrospect I'm not sure that last part actually had anything to do with planning our anniversary celebration per se.
I really doubted whether posting about babies right on the heels of Tuesday's post about babies was a good idea. I don't wish to alienate you, dear friends. I don't wish to make you cry in anxiety, or roll your eyes in scorn, or sigh in frustration, or click away in boredom. But my GOD. I have so much BABY inside me that I have to GET IT OUT. Which leads us nicely into:
HELLO! I have come to helplessly windmill my arms in your direction and whine about babies. Enjoy!
Title card: This is my brain. On babies.
