I don’t really feel like it

I don’t have much to say, but I feel like I’ve been MIA a lot this past week, and I don’t like that feeling.  We’re on Long Island for the funeral of John’s cousin Kerri’s husband, and we spent the entire day yesterday at a funeral home for a very emotional wake.  Lots of people, lots of tears.  The burial is this morning (Monday), followed by lunch with the family (I think), and then John and I will spend the evening with his parents, hopefully discussing happier things.

Then back home to Oregon.

We met Emily and Sean’s new baby boy yesterday (SO cute at nearly 6 weeks old), who fell asleep in my arms during breakfast.  That was maybe the best part of the day.  They went home last night, though, so I don’t have that to look forward to today.

Cracked

When we were packing for this move, we packed up the wine glasses for storage and decided to use the four monogrammed glasses (whisky glasses?  tumblers?) we got for our wedding.  We never touched them, and making them our default wine glasses (stemless) seemed like a good way to actually use them.  They made it through two moves just fine, three moves, using them all the time.  We used them one night last week, washed them, put them away in the cabinet.  They were fine, unblemished.  Then, a couple of nights ago, I pulled a glass out and, well, LOOK.

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That horizontal line just under the rim is NOT part of the design.  That is a crack that goes almost all the way around.  We have NO idea how it happened, but we’re very not happy about it.  It’s just one of the four, but MAN.  We really liked those glasses.

To avoid breaking the other three, I’ve been drinking wine out of normal glasses.  Looks ridiculous, and it doesn’t taste as good, although that might just be in my head.  And this weekend, we will run out and buy cheap wine glasses.

Our poor fancy glass.

I cried all the tears

I did a lot of crying today, all over one book.  I only cried three times, but my eyes still feel tearful and my nose is stuffed up (I think that started before the crying, though).  The thing is, it wasn’t a sad book.  There are sad things in it, but it wasn’t about sadness.  And when I cried the first two times, it was in reaction to someone doing a good thing.  The third time was in relief (I think) at the very end.  Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell.  Good book.

I have NO idea what I’m going to read next.

Mom can’t always be right

A couple of months ago, I went to my favorite nail salon, and the manicurist talked me into trying gel nail polish on my fingers.  Mom has been talking it up to me for a long time because it doesn’t chip, so it lasts longer, and it looks nicer, and she’s right on all of those counts.  I was going to go bare (just buff up the nails) because I don’t really like color on my nails and clear nail polish chips, and the manicurist said, well, gel doesn’t chip, and it comes in a natural color.  Okay – it’s time to try it.  First, natural my ass.  It was light pink and sparkly.  Pretty, but in no way natural.  Still, it was pretty and light enough not to bother me much.  It dried super quickly (always a plus), and then the lady swiped nail polish remover across the nails and it didn’t come off!  I was impressed, and everything was great for about three weeks.  My nails were growing, but it wasn’t obvious to anyone but me that my nails weren’t all painted anymore.  After that, I was about done with the pink and sparkly and ready to go clear again, so I went back to have the gel polish removed (since I had no idea how to take it off myself).

What Mom neglected to tell me is what a HUGE PAIN it is to have it removed.  You can’t just swipe with some special gel polish remover.  Oh, no.  My nails were wrapped in acetone-soaked cotton and foil for what felt like an hour (and was at least 20 minutes in real time), and then when the manicurist removed the foil and cotton, she still had to chisel away at each nail to get it all off.  It took FOREVER.  I thought it was never going to be over.  And even once the polish was removed, my nails still felt like regular polish was fading and chipping off on its own.  Not a nice feeling.

Conclusion?  No gelicures for me.  No way.  Uh uh.  Sorry, Mom.  Can’t agree with you on this one.

Lost, not found

What do you do with one diamond earring?  Sounds rhetorical, but I really need an answer.  John bought me a pair (little diamond studs) last Christmas, and I love them.  They’re exactly what I wanted, and I wore them every day, with everything.  Then, out at dinner the evening after we spent the day at the Maryland Renaissance Festival (more on that later), I reached up to my earlobes and noticed that one of them was bare.  How do you lose just one earring?  Clearly, it’s not that hard.  And since the earring wasn’t in my immediate vicinity in the restaurant, and it wasn’t in the car, it was most likely lost on the ground in 16th century England (otherwise known as some woods not too far from Annapolis).  Maybe I can get my remaining earring turned into a necklace or something.

Guess who we ran into while we were there?

We don’t know what Captain America was doing at a 16th century renaissance festival, but his was the best costume we saw all day.  Other than the Doctor’s, of course.  His being there made more sense, what with all the wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff (speaking of that, I totally want these).  I wasn’t able to get a picture of him, but his costume was fantastic.

I am not pleased

John had brunch with the band this morning (Rock stars do brunch, don’t they?  No?  Well, they should.  Brunch is awesome.), so I took my book (The Bloggess‘s hilarious Let’s Pretend This Never Happened) off to Starbucks with me.  I got my favorite drink (tall skim no-whip toffee nut white mocha – I mention it all the time because I assume you’re planning on memorizing it so you can order one for me next time we’re at Starbucks together without even having to check with me.  You’re planning to do that, right?) and sat at a table outside to sip and read.  Lovely half-hour or so, only slightly marred by the kid at the next table who stared every time I laughed at my book (which was about every 10 seconds).  He was just jealous.  Then Wegmans (Yes, I actually went to the grocery store this weekend.  Can you believe it?), home to unload, and back out to get my nails done.  I was desperately in need of both a manicure and a pedicure.  I went to my favorite place, but for the second time this weekend, I was turned away.  Terribly sad.  The first time was Friday evening.  My friend Chastity was in no hurry to face traffic on her way home, so we decided to get our nails done and went to this place.  Turns out this weekend was prom weekend, so they were fully booked.  Sad.  We gave up that night, but I assumed that by Sunday I’d be able to walk in.  I should have asked, since when I got there today, there was a sign on the door that said they were closed for a private party.  Disappointed, I went to my old favorite salon.  Unfortunately, they’re under new management, and I am not happy about it.  It wasn’t a terrible experience, but it wasn’t the relaxing afternoon I’d hoped for.  They didn’t stab me in the toe or anything, and my nails look okay, but they’re cut too short, and the lady was a bit rough with my cuticles.  So I have to find another back-up nail salon (or plan ahead).  My life is so hard.

My guilt will follow me to the grave

I’m dangerous and shouldn’t be allowed out of the house.  It was an accident, of course, but still.  Bunnies all through the neighborhood are in mourning tonight, I know it.  I’m a murderer.  I killed a bunny.  A poor defenseless little rabbit who ran into the road.  I felt a bump, turned the car around, and ran into the road myself.  Already dead.  At least it was quick.  But what if my victim had little baby bunnies at home?  What about them?  Are they huddled up in their burrow (warren? nest?) waiting for a parent who won’t be coming back?

Am I anthropomorphizing perhaps a bit too much?  Maybe, but I think this is the first time I’ve been directly responsible for the death of any animal (insects don’t count).  Cut me a little slack.  Or don’t.  I’m a killer, and I don’t deserve slack.

I always wanted to Impress a dragon

Anne McCaffrey died today.  She was my first favorite author.  (I think.  Asimov came soon after.)  My tattered copy of Dragonflight is the same copy I read for the first time when I was ten (ish), after Dad and Corey read it.  So is my copy of The White Dragon.  (I had to replace Dragonquest – it survived being dunked in a pool because of a lousy toss (NOT my own), but not falling into chunks on a school bus after a sudden stop.)  I always wanted to meet her.  My never-quite-planned trip to Ireland would have included a trip to County Wicklow, just to be where she was, where she imagined and wrote.  She seemed so cool.  She had horses and cats and all those worlds in her mind that are now in mine…well, damn.  I might be tearing up.  Reading the comment thread here (he’s how I found out) isn’t helping.