I listen to EVERY word you say

Sunday was Biker Boy's birthday. Here is a list of things I purchased for the man as gifts.

1) A book on quantum physics.
2) An evil monkey tshirt (you know - the evil monkey from Family Guy).
3) Two boxes of chocolate lovers Poppycock(oh, the juvenile jokes).
4) A kite.
5) Two white pillar candles (unscented).

He said, "I thought you were asleep when I said I wanted to fly a kite." I immediately looked offended. "How many times must I tell you that I listen to EVERY word you say?" "But you were asleep." "Sometimes you talk in the middle of the night. I WAKE up to listen, just in case you are mumbling something about WHAT YOU WANT FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY."

"I told you about this Poppycock..." At this point I snort (he said cock!! - I know, I'm totally in junior high) "....in January." "Yeah, as soon as Christmas is over, I gotta start thinking about the birthday. You know that!"

So, the gifts were completely appropriate and appreciated. But I think the valuable lesson learned by BB was that I do, indeed, listen to EVERY word he speaks. I think he's scared.

Overheard

Yesteday, while walking downtown, I heard Def Leppard's "Let's Get Rocked" blaring, blaring, out of someone's car. A normal looking car. It was awesome.

Enough is Enough

I once read in a women's magazine that every woman has a particular item of clothing that she can't get enough of. (I have no idea if this applies to men - maybe they can't stop buying boxers? or white t-shirts?) One woman interviewed had 16 (16!) black skirts because she just couldn't stop buying them. One woman had ten pairs of the same tennis shoes because she just couldn't find any others that were nearly as comfortable. I vowed then and there to not be one of those women.

Until I started cleaning my dresser.

Here's the deal. I live in a ROOM. Everything I own fits in this room and the two closets I have claimed as mine (except my bike - it's in the garage). I don't have anything in the rest of the house. I have minimal bathroom accessories. I have NO kitchen items (except my salad spinner, which hardly seems fair to count). Everything fits in this room.

So I'm a purger. I must clean my closet and my dresser (it's not a dresser, even, because that would imply a commitment to furniture I don't have, but it's a plastic thing I purchased at KMart and put my clothes in) once a month. It's no holds barred throwing out of stuff. If an item of clothing hasn't been worn, it's gone. I have even started purging shoes. Because, frankly, there's no place to put my new shoes if the shoe rack is full of shoes I purchased in high school and haven't worn since then.

Today the cleaning of the dresser was brought on a shopping trip in which I had purchased two new tank tops. And I realized that the drawer were I put such items was MESSY. My desk can be cluttered, my bed can be unmade, my books can be in unalphabetical order, but my clothes drawer MUST BE ORGANIZED. See, when I was younger, my mother never put the laundry away. I never wore matching socks - not because I was color blind or trying to make a fashion statement, but because I could NEVER find socks that matched. So, as soon as I was old enough to take on the laundry responsibility, I did, but I never outgrew the desire for clean, organized, matched, and easily obtainable clothing. So I sat down on the floor and organized. Even though I had to be somewhere. But cleaning my room was definitely more important to me than being on time. Because I am neurotic. Hence my name.

As I cleaned my drawer, I noticed that I have become one of those women from that magazine article. It's not black skirts (I have four of varying lengths - I think that is completely acceptable). It's not tank tops (although I do have eight or nine). It's not even shoes (although I love them - I do purge them). It's camisoles. I have nine camis in the drawer. And that's not counting the half dozen hanging in my closet. And the ones in my dirty laundry basket. And half of them are white.

And, here's the worst part. I can't bear to part with any of them. I will fold them and gently put them away and cram the rest of my clothes in nooks and crannies of my closet because I will not be without a camisole to wear every day of the rest of my life.

Note: New shoes. Purple. Onitsuka Tiger by Asics. They are yummy and make my feet happy. If it ever stops threatening to rain, I will actually wear them out of the house.

Relevance Uncertain

I tried to find some sort of connection between the two stories I am about to tell you, but besides the fact that they both involved cell phones, I don't believe a link exists. And I'm in grad school. I can find a link between ANYTHING. But I can't. So here goes two unrelated items from the NGS news desk.

1) I wouldn't call myself an inconspicuous bicycle rider. As a driver, I am all too aware of obnoxious behavior of other cyclists on the road and I strive to not be an obnoxious cyclist (this extends to my behavior as a pedestrian, too, but that's another entry altogether). Now, RC-30 may not be the most visible bike in the world. I love him and he treats me well and gets me from point A to point B, but he's blue and kind of, ummmm, don't tell him I said this, boring looking. But he does have streamers. Purple ones. With pink and silver. And if that doesn't distinguish him from the other bikes on the bike racks, I don't know what does. And, then, there's RC-30's rider. That's me. NGS. And I have on a purple helmet. And my normally highly visible clothing.

So about three weeks ago, I left the house wearing the most obnoxious coat ever. It's pink (it's actually coral, but now we're arguing over hues). And I was following all biking rules. I was visible (and how). I was riding in the correct lane. And some SUV didn't stop at the end of an alley and HIT ME. AND RC-30.

I'm fine. The bike's fine. But I'm slightly paranoid now and I worry that within every car lurks a bike runner over. The guy said, "you came out of nowhere." And I'm thinking to myself (as any Harry Potter fan would) you can't Apparate in the Muggle world without getting into serious trouble. And I haven't passed my test. But what I really said was , "Did you see the pink coat? And the streamers? Could I have been anymore VISIBLE?"

Oh, and the cell phone part of the story. I was mere blocks away from my house when this "accident" happened. I packed RC-30 into the back of my truck and drove to my original appointment. Then I drove over to school. Then I called Biker Boy because I thought he'd be PO'ed if I didn't. This proved to be true when he said, "this happened THREE HOURS ago and you're only now calling me!!" Good thing I didn't wait until after the doctor's appointment. (Oh, and for anyone who cares, I want props because I went to that hideous class after the doctor's appointment. I so could have gotten out of it.)

2) Tonight I went over to Biker Boy's to watch the Cruft's dog show on Animal Planet. I don't want to spoil it for anyone who might want to catch the suspense-filled competition in reruns, but the winner was (look away now if you're going to watch) the Australian Shepard. FROM USA!! Take that, you Brits. Okay, my moment of unreasonable and unexplainable nationalism is finished.

I have to get up really early tomorrow, so I left Biker Boy's after the dog show and The Oblongs. BB, a gentleman through and through, insisted on walking me to my car, merely a block away. There has been much ribbing from me on this front in the past and as we walked out in the rain, I again asked him if he thought someone would look at me, the grad student, and mug me. He just smiled that smile. And continued walking.

Then a woman passed by us. She was stumbling a bit, but this is Uptown, so you get that sometimes. But her nose was bleeding. BB and I walk by her, then do that thing where you look at each other (in shock and awe, to use a cliched phrase) and then we immediately started walking backwards, towards the woman. After several "ma'ams" of which I am a bit embarrassed, she turned around and told us she wanted to go home. She was very disoriented and I was nervous she was going to fall down.

BB dialed 911 and pretty soon we had a whole posse of emergency vehicles to serve our needs. And this is what I want to say. The first responders were wonderful. They picked up the contents of her purse, which we found spilled a little bit aways, were patient with her as she started to mumble about going home, and were very polite to us, even thanking us for calling it in. I'm glad I live in a place where I can count on someone showing up when I call a number that everyone knows. And that those people will do something.

Oh, and lesson learned. I won't tease anymore about the escort to my car. I don't know what I would have done if BB had not been around.