May Peace Reign

We don't fight. There, I said it. We disagree. We roll our eyes at one another. We sometimes, rather passive aggressively say, "what's with this music?" (okay, maybe that should be "I," not "we"). One of us has been known to cry at the drop of a hat. We sometimes mope, sometimes quietly stew in our own juices. But then, we call each other out, but we don't raise our voices. I mean, don't get me wrong, Biker Boy has his share of moments of sheer exasperation because he has to deal with crazy me. Two examples of this come to mind.

On March 11, I woke up in severe intestinal discomfort. I thought that it was just some gas or something. So I took a shower, doubled over the whole time, and thought that I had to get through the day. I had a full day scheduled and didn't have time to get sick. As soon as I got out of the shower, I didn't towel off, but just put my robe on and crawled back into bed. I told Biker Boy that I didn't feel so good, but would get up in a few minutes. A few more minutes and I was moaning and clutching my abdomen in a pathetic way. But I told Biker Boy that I had classes to teach and there was no freaking way I was going to the Emergency Room.

I had been in some discomfort the night before and had run a steaming hot bath and sitting in the boiling hot water had helped. So I decided that maybe I would just let me TA run my class at the University and I would stay home and take a bath before going to my next job. The bath helped a lot. But as soon as I got out of the bath, I could feel the pain start again. I told Biker Boy I'd be fine, there was no need for us to go to the Emergency Room, and if he could just make me a cup of hot tea, I would be forever grateful. And he did make the tea. But while he was brewing it, pain like I have rarely felt before (the broken rib was fairly comparable) overtook me and I was on the ground. I was very dizzy and couldn't stand up. I yelled for Biker Boy (look! I raised my voice). He came in, took one look at me curled in a ball on the bathroom and said, "oh, no. We're going to the Emergency Room."

And we all know how that turned out. I had a kidney stone and we spent the better part of a nice, sunny day at the hospital and I got to experience the joy of morphine (!) for the first time. But it was one of the few times Biker Boy seriously wanted to kick my ass. Why didn't we just go to the ER to begin with? Well, I really wanted to teach those classes!!

And then yesterday, we went for a walk. On the way we passed a cemetery and one of the signs on the wrought iron fence was broken, but not in a normal way, like a car had hit it or like a baseball bat had been taken to it. More like a sticker that was halfway peeled off. So BB wondered out loud what had happened to it. The following "conversation" took place:

"Maybe a bear mauled it."

"You know, other things maul besides bears."

"Maybe a rhino mauled it."

"Mmmmmmm..." (a sound BB makes when he doesn't agree or disagree)

"Maybe," I'm thinking as fast as I can, "Maybe a mammoth mauled it."

"I find that to be highly unlikely."

"What? Mammoths are bad asses."

"They are also all dead."

"That's what they want you to believe."

"Who's they?"

"People."

"What people?"

"The ones who want you to believe mammoths are dead."

"Why do they want us to believe mammoths are dead?"

"So they can keep their jobs."

"So it's a big conspiracy among paleontologists and museum curators?"

"Exactly."

"I find that hard to believe."

"That's what they want you to think."

At this point, Biker Boy rolled his eyes and kept moving. Because what else are you going to do when you are engaged to be married to a CRAZY PERSON? But, but, but, that is not important. The important thing is that we each know that the way to deal with the other is to mock them, not yell.

So it really quite distressing to me when I come home and our downstairs neighbors are constantly yelling at each other. Maybe they are just loud talkers, but their voices are always raised. And, since we do get to hear these "discussions," I'll let you know that there is some severe discord among the two of them about three topics: sex, cleaning, and the use of organic matter to create ethanol. In the last 24 hours, fights over these topics have broken out and I have BEEN ABLE TO HEAR THEM. Anyway, these folks glare at us when they see us. Yesterday I asked Biker Boy why Peter and Janet don't like us. He said, "either they think we're loud upstairs neighbors or they know that we know they are unhappy and they don't like that we know it."

So, keeping all this in mind, yesterday I was also at Target (man, I got around yesterday, didn't I? I also WORKED. Hee). See, one of my friends from high school had a baby on Thursday and I had to find some adorable baby-related things to buy her. Like this and assorted books for babies.

I am a new baby girl! Whee!! Look at me!! My face is quite pink!

ANYWAY, I'm at Target. And this particular store has the Men's Clothes right across from baby items. And this guy is yelling at his wife in the middle of the store. About what kind of shirt to buy. And, this is why I am CRAZY, I immediately start crying. Clearly, I look like I am very early on in some pregnancy, which explains why I am crying in the infant section of the store. I'm sure the woman looking at me crying as I look at layette sets while listening to this man totally verbally bitchslap his wife thought I was INSANE or pregnant. And possibly I am the first, but not the second.

So, I guess I'm just wondering if this is the way things are? Do people argue? My parents fight all the time, but I always thought that it was an aberration and that most loving couples rarely fought? Will Biker Boy and I someday break out into fights in the middle of Target? Someday will BB just stop stopping the argument when I start crying? Will we argue about barley and corn ethanol at the top of our lungs? Or have I just had a string of bad luck, running into unhappy couples who need to reevaluate their communication skills? I really hope it's the latter because that little baby should know that her future will not involve screaming all the time.

My new crush

So, despite my big plans of updating more regularly, it turns out that I have no interesting tidbits in my life. Unless you want to count my jump and squeal at the grocery store today because they actually had the brand of peanut butter I wanted (seriously, the third time's the charm - Katie wrote about the problems with grocery stores in the Twin Cities and I find that the Uptown Rainbow doesn't restock nearly enough - we go back many times to find the same damn things aren't on the shelves). Anyway, aside from my peanut butter woes, last week was Spring Break and I will admit to having spent two days doing absolutely nothing more stressful than going to the dog park with a certain white dog and playing Mexican train dominoes with Biker Boy.

Then, on Sunday, I was catsitting and decided to make use of the ESPN available to me to watch the long program of the men's world's figure skating championship. Oh, yeah. I watch that. I scheduled my WHOLE DAY around it. And fell in love with Stephane Lambiel. He didn't do so well, but if you want to see an awesome spin, watch the last 30 seconds of his program. (If I were cooler, I would put the video of his program up here, but, ummm, I don't know how to do that. So just go to YouTube and put in his name and Worlds 2008 LP. You'll see. He fell all over the place, but the spins! My lord. He's amazing.) He's my new boyfriend. I told Biker Boy that if Stephane Lambiel was in the room, it would be all over between us so I could dig some Swiss action.

I'll leave you with a picture of my Stephane.

P.S. No, my hair is not pixie short. It's just above the shoulders short. With weird bang-y types layers that I didn't want. That I was trying to grow out, as a matter of fact. The thing is, I've been going to this guy for several years and I've never had any problems. So I'm going to let it go just this once.

P. P. S. I can't figure out why the font in the first paragraph is different. Oh, well.

Clip clip

Last week I made an appointment to get my hair cut because we had this wedding shower thing in Iowa and I thought that getting a hair cut once every six months might be a good idea. So I called my hair guy and got an appointment for the next day. How that guy stays in business is a good question. When Biker Boy calls for an appointment at his hair place, he's lucky to get in within two weeks. Me, I can call my guy and get in immediately.

ANYWAY, so I get to the salon and my guy, David, takes one look at my hair and shakes his head despairingly. How could I let his wonderful hair styling go like that? Well, dude, it goes like this. I have three jobs and fitting you in is just not my priority. He asked me what I wanted and I just shrugged and said, "I just want it shorter. And shaped. Last time we put in some layers and I'm not crazy about the layers, so if you could just shape it with the understanding that the layers are going away, that would be great."

And he just kept cutting. And cutting. And razoring. And my hair looks good, but it's so short. And there are even more layers. So many layers that I have been reduced to wearing barrettes to keep my pseudo-bangs out of my eyes. Biker Boy referred to it as "cute" which made me feel like I'm six years old.

So, is there any chance it will grow out enough in the next two months or so enough for some other stylist to put my hair up in an updo for the wedding? I don't know, but I'm going to keep my fingers crossed. And hope that the bangs grow out quickly so I can put the barrettes away. For the rest of my life.

Niceness is overrated

Some kind person gave me their lecture notes, readings, handouts, and assignments for a class I was going to teach once. So when someone else was assigned that very same class to teach, I thought I'd pass along the same information. However, clearly the person who did it for me originally was a LOT more organized than I am because this is turning into hours and hours of organization. What was I thinking?

Party time!!!

Guess what? I'm fine! Tuesday when we got home from the hospital, I was bouncing around the apartment in typical NGS-style and it was like the sweet drip of morphine had never happened. Except it totally had and Biker Boy was worried and I was half-convinced that becoming addicted to morphine should be my next life goal (I joke, I kid - maybe).

So apparently it is easier for women with kidney stones than men with kidney stones because it's a short journey from the kidney to the bladder and once it's in the bladder, it no big deal. You boys, you have a bit more work to get those things out of the bladder. Soooo...it was a couple of hours of excruciating pain and dizziness and whee! morphine and then I was fine. (And the ER folks were kind enough to draw blood, give me an ultrasound, a pelvic exam, a vaginal probe - oh my GOD I just wrote vaginal probe - and a CAT scan. So my girl parts are all just fine and it turns out I have TWO ovaries. For reasons that are a bit obscure to me, this was important for them to tell me. I know I didn't take anatomy and I'm a bit weak on certain areas of the body, but don't most women have two?)

Soooo...now I have one day of school left and then I will be on spring break, which around these parts is known as a week to write that paper, catch up on that grading, go do that wedding shower thing in Iowa, and finish all those pesky wedding details, including figuring out the fucking flowers. I now officially hate flowers. Can I do this whole wedding without flowers? Will anyone notice? Oh, and we're going to get our license. And probably sleep in a bit. But not go to the emergency room.

Sweet. So next time I post, I will have goodies from a wedding shower. And thank you notes to write.

Hee. What a boring entry.

ANYWAY, I'm fine. Thanks for the kind thoughts. Next time I will write about something fun! And exciting! Like why prostitution is not a victimless crime! And why Michigan and Florida should not be allowed do overs! And how exciting it will be when I can ride my bike again!

Dear Mr.Morphine

Seven hours in the ER with a morphine drip in my IV and I'm feeling pretty good. When I woke up this morning in agonizing pain, I was not feeling so good.

Turns out that kidney stones are painful. FYI

PS I also have to strain my urine, which is....gross?

Looming large

What will happen in six months? Where will we live? What will be doing for jobs?

Who will win the presidential election? Will the United States ever again regain its international reputation?

Will I ever get a dog?

Will the winter ever end?

When will I find time to write that paper? Or get my hair cut? Or address those invitations? Or write those thank you notes?

Why won't the CD player in my truck miraculously fix itself? Or, will the radio stop sucking so much?

Why doesn't the mail come at the same time every day? Why is the mail delivery person so sporadic? Does the route change frequently?

When will I finish that box of Frosted Mini Wheats so I can start the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch?

How does Daylight Savings Time work? Why must it already be time for bed when I am not tired?

What does "taste the rainbow" mean anyway?

Why must alterations for my dress cost the same as Biker Boy's suit?

When I can go outside again without five layers on?

Where do the socks go? Why does the fridge always sound like it's peeing? Why does the dishwasher make that sound?

What is that smell in our kitchen?

Do all dogs go to heaven? What about that mean German shepherd down the street? Or the ones that never stop barking?

Would Denzel Washington sleep with me? If I begged?

When will Biker Boy be done preparing his lecture so we can go to bed?

If I ever found a message in a bottle, would I answer it?

Does anyone really read their horoscope? Do they take it seriously?

You Want to Make a Memory

I have a rare two hours in our apartment BY MYSELF. I don't know what to do with myself.

Honestly, I love Biker Boy. I adore him. I dream of him. I dream of his babies. I dream he someday lets me get a dog. He lets me keep a blanket with tiny ducks all over it on our bed. He lets me listen to Bruce Springsteen eight days a week. He has a weird (but strangely appealing) habit of buying samples of perfume to try out and then telling me smell him at random intervals throughout the day. He doesn't mind that I occasionally leave the house before he wakes up and don't come home until he's ready for bed. He is the most important person in my life.

But, every once in a while, I just want to be alone. I want to be able to listen to bad Bon Jovi and rock out without knowing that someone in the next room is (silently) judging me. I want to follow up the bad Bon Jovi with some sad country songs by chicks with names like Julie Roberts and Rebecca Lynn Howard. I want to crank up Taylor Swift. I know she's flat. I know it. Girl can't quite hit those notes. But she's spunky.

I want to say I'm preparing my lecture on the normal distribution and standard scores, but really just sit at my computer and watch the screen saver of my media player. I want to eat potato chips and dip and call it dinner. I want to leave my school bag on the floor in front of the door and not fear someone will trip over it. I want to sit down and cry when I think about how I don't know what the next six months will bring us.

I want to look at the new picture of Bestest Friend's baby and just wonder, if somewhat quietly, what a baby would look like with Biker Boy's chin and my hairline.

And, tonight, thankfully, I got those two hours. And when Biker Boy comes home, I will give him a big, big kiss and be thankful for the fact that I don't have those hours alone all the time.

What's on your bookshelf?

I was at a memorial service for someone a while ago where people got up to read bits of books that were by the bedside of the person who died. The readings were from books of poetry, ancient political texts, and other worldly pieces of literature.

Recently I had an email exchange with someone about how trashy my taste in literature is. If I died tomorrow, what people would have to choose from by my bedside would be the Harry Potter series, a couple of JD Robb novels (this is the romance novelist Nora Roberts writing a futuristic mystery series that I am OBSESSED with), and one political science book (Homestyle, a book by Richard Fenno because I want Richard Fenno to be my friend). Good luck gleaning great memorial readings from that!!

I read a lot of heavy stuff for school. When I read, I want light reading. You know, books you can read in the bathtub. I have the same feelings about movies and television. I want my entertainment to be entertaining. I don't want to watch a documentary on the state of the city government in Newark. I don't want to watch Hotel Rwanda and feel sad about the world for the rest of the day. I don't apologize for this. In some ways I am proud that I can still enjoy bad popular media for the sheer entertainment of it, even though I am surrounded my reminders that I should be reading Oprah's book club book instead of an oddly satisfying JD Robb novel.

Mostly I wonder if other people actually have poetry books by their bedsides. Or do they have Harry Potter there like I do (you know, for quick reference when a question about the Carrow family pops up in your brain in the middle of the night)? Or alternately, do people not read before bed (Biker Boy does not read before bed - he can't read laying down - and I...I don't understand this. It's a genetic flaw I hope he never passes on to any children we may or may not have)? And, if you don't read before bed, what do you do? Do you just lay down and turn off the lights? Because...I just can't fathom this as a nighttime ritual.

How people go to bed is fascinating to me. But that's another story altogether.

I'm going to brush my teeth and go read a couple of chapters from a trashy novel now.

Repeat

If I had just one job, just one job, things wouldn't be like this.

Monday: One job, five hours.
Tuesday: Two jobs, 9 hours.
Wednesday: Three jobs, 13 hours.
Thursday: Three jobs, 13 hours.
Friday: One job, five hours.
Saturday: One job, four hours (and a frustrating half an hour attempting to get fuel for my truck - this is perhaps another entry, but OMG?! with gas at $3 a gallon, you have a limit of $50 on your credit card purchases? whaaaat...?)

These are just times out of the apartment. It doesn't include the hours spent every evening prepping classes, grading, or figuring out how to handle that student who called me a bitch to my face. Or the hours spent lying awake trying to figure out why students hate me and how to get them to learn even when they hate me. I explained my job(s) to my father who said, "so you have three jobs and still manage to work less than 40 hours a week?" Ha.

Next week. Repeat. The following week. Repeat. The following week? SPRING BREAK!! I'm counting down the days. Literally.