Dear John: A Love Letter (Or Why I Don’t Write Love Letters)

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Dear John, – no, sounds like we’re breaking up

Dearest John – how many of them are there?  Besides 8?

Dear John who I love more than anything in the world,

I love you more than anything in the world. Oh, please.  Start over.

Dear John,

I love you.  I love that you make me laugh.  I love that I make you laugh.  I love how delighted you look when you make me laugh.  I love your principles and how you stick to them.  I love how when you’re excited about something, you fill up the room.  I love that you’re a better cook than me, and when you decide to make something, you throw yourself into it and make it from scratch (and make it better than I could have made it).  You throw yourself into everything you do.  I love that you have more hobbies than you can count and that you always have a pile of books you’re in the middle of reading.  I love that you don’t think there’s such a thing as owning too many books, that you pushed us to get those pictures hung, and that you hold my hand every night as we fall asleep.  I’ve loved you for 14 years and I’ll love you for 140 more.  (Keep an eye out for that deadline in 2152, though.)

Happy Valentine’s Day and every other day.

I love you,

Zannah

Get it together, card industry

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Cards have always tended towards dumb.  If you go to the card section in any drugstore, grocery store, big box store, or card store and pick a card at random, it will be either schmaltzy or cheesy.  A very very teeny tiny eensy weensy small percentage of cards are amusing, and an even smaller amount are actually funny.  And I know this makes me sound old (Get off my lawn, you crazy kids!), but I really think cards used to be funnier.  Or at least less dumb.  I feel like I had a better chance at finding one 15-20 years ago that I would actually give to someone than I do now.  Maybe my sense of humor has changed, but I don’t think that’s it.  (I share my sense of humor with my 6-year-old niece, so I’m fairly certain it’s not me who changed.)  The bottom line is that I don’t buy cards that often anymore.  I don’t even send e-cards as often anymore.  And it’s a little sad.  I used to send cards just for fun.  Because they were funny.  Sending funny emails is not even remotely the same thing.

Funny.  Funny.  What a weird-looking word.  Funny.

Obviously, since it’s Valentine’s Day, I was thinking about Valentine’s Day cards in particular, and how I didn’t buy any (except the one for Gaby’s class, and it didn’t even say Happy Valentine’s Day.  It said Happy Heart Day.  When did that become a thing?  It doesn’t even make sense.  At least say Happy Happy-Heart Day.  Every day would be Happy Heart Day because everyone has a heart, in whatever condition.  You might be wishing someone a Happy Broken-Heart Day.  I need to get out of parentheses.) because they were dumb.  John and I don’t usually do much for Valentine’s Day anyway (takeout and a bottle of champagne tonight), but it’s the principle of the thing, Hallmark.  And whoever else makes cards.  Be amusing or you’ll go out of business.

Somebody lives here!

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We hung pictures today and for the first time in probably 4 years (since the downstairs walls were repainted), it looks like people live here.  The books and the food might have been a clue, but pictures hanging on the walls (that we took our very own selves) means grown-ups live here.  (It’s not very grown-up to call yourself a grown-up, but we can all get over that, right?  Baby steps.)  Someday we’ll get around to painting our bedroom and rearranging the furniture.  But first I have to pick a color.  And a new duvet cover.  Hard decisions are hard.

Ideas wanted

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This (from Catalog Living) is almost as hilarious as the llama picture.

A couple of weeks ago, John and I hung a shelf above the couch in the family room.  Now I don’t know what to put on it.  The studs aren’t spaced right, so we reinforced the bottom, but I still don’t think it’s sturdy enough to pack it full of books.   We were going to hang a second one above the TV, but we’ll have the same weight distribution problem.  So what do we do?

It looks a little ridiculous empty, but I’m afraid it’ll come crashing down if we put anything heavy on it.

That’s where the sea monsters live

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I like how the internet is like magic on TV.  Anyone can find out anything in one quick search.  And don’t get me started on the police and the FBI.  All of their databases are connected, all the time, and the TV character doing the search has the right access to pull information from any legal database in the world.  Wouldn’t it be nice if it really worked that way?

Have a pretty picture.

I want to go to there. But only in daylight. That cave would creep me out at night.

Every time I see a great house on the water somewhere, I think how great it would be to live there.  But then I remember two things about me and water:

  1. If it’s still, it will have mosquitoes and I will be eaten alive.
  2. If it’s running, I will have to pee ALL the time.

So maybe I shouldn’t go live in a house on the water.

I burn more calories than this while I sleep

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This may come as no surprise (although who knows what I’ve been writing about lately), but I’m trying to eat healthier, and while eating less goes along with that, today was a little ridiculous.  And not remotely balanced.  Not on purpose – it just worked out that way.  I got up at 5 this morning because I had to leave the house by 6 to get to Baltimore on time (with a stop for gas and Starbucks).  It was 5:50 by the time I made it downstairs showered and dressed.  Not enough time for breakfast.  Barely enough time to make a sandwich for lunch.  So I ate a fig newton.  A whole grain fig newton, yes, but only one.  In my defense, it was way too early to eat.  So I left the house on time (well, five minutes late, but who’s counting since I got to Baltimore with 15 minutes to spare?), stopped for gas, got my calorie-dense and not at all healthy toffee nut white mocha latte (But it’s made with skim milk!  And I don’t get whipped cream!  Too little, too late.), and went to work.

Small tangent.  When I got to the shopping center with the Starbucks, the twinkle lights were still on in the trees.  Like it was still night.  I mean, I get that it was dark enough to still be night, but I don’t want to feel like I could be on my way to a dinner out when it’s really after 6am and I have to go to work.  Not cool, shopping center.

It's the worst picture ever, but you get the idea.

Anyway, it was a busy day at work, and I ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich while helping someone organize user lists, and then all of a sudden it was time to drive home.  In the snow.  I had more work to do once I got home, and before I knew it, it was 6pm and I needed to leave for the gym by 6:15.  Dinner?  Not really happening.  So I ate the two fig newtons I didn’t eat with my sandwich for lunch.

Let’s recap: in the course of about 12 hours, I ate 3 fig newtons, one peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a Starbucks latte.  And then I went to the gym for 2 hours.  This is not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.  It turned out okay (I wasn’t starving, no passing out, all is good), but I came home fairly hungry.  But you know what else you’re not supposed to do?  Eat right before going to bed.  So what did I just do?  Yup.  I ate half a turkey sandwich.  And I forgot my chips!  Damn.  (I was going to put potato chips on the sandwich for crunch.  SO good.  Back me up here, family.)

Anyway, not a good food day.  Yay I didn’t eat very much?  No.  Boo – I didn’t eat enough to keep a normal person alive.  The last thing I need is for my body to think I’m starving myself and to store all that excess fat.  I wish fat would listen to reason.

I’m not asking much (just a token really, a trifle)

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I had plans for this evening.  My plans included homework.  My plans got derailed by Homeaway.com.  The slightest passing reference to a possible trip to the UK and I get sucked in.  Not a good use of my time.

Now I’m watching the clock.  I’m doing that thing I do where I start to feel tired a few days in a row (late nights, early mornings), and I know I need to get more sleep, but it’s hard to get to bed earlier.  So then, every time I look at the clock, I’m calculating how many hours of sleep I can get before I have to get up.  It’s 10 to 9 right now.  If I can be asleep in 10 minutes, I could get eight hours tonight (I’m going to Baltimore tomorrow and I have to get up at 5).  I won’t even be ready for bed in 10 minutes, let alone asleep, so 8 hours is not happening.  And that’s mildly upsetting because it means I’ll be tired tomorrow.  Actually, it means I’ll be visiting Starbucks at 6am tomorrow morning, which is not so good for my health.  But when I have to drive an hour and a half when it’s still dark outside, you better believe I’m going to allow myself to have a tall skim no whip toffee nut white mocha.  Is it too much to ask to be able to sleep in at least until the sun comes up every day?

Wherein I over-emphasize

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So…I bought new yoga pants yesterday because I found a hole in my old pair.  I’m sure the hole came from overuse and the fact that they were cheap pants and is NOT a commentary on my weight.  I’m sure of it.  (Me?  Defensive?  No…)  Anyway, I was inspired to get rid of other old clothes – clothes I don’t wear, clothes that even if I could fit into them I wouldn’t wear, other clothes that are so old they also have holes in them.  I went through every drawer in my dressers and filled one garbage bag with clothes to give away and another one with clothes (old socks, old underwear, a pair of sweatpants that has holes AND is covered in paint, etc.) to throw away.  Okay, the trash bag of trash isn’t filled with clothes.  I don’t have that many things that were so torn apart they had to be thrown away.  Although I am throwing away the pair of red nylon running pants I ruined with a hot iron.  I honestly can’t remember why I tried to iron those.  Seriously, let’s think about this.  For one thing, I HATE ironing.  I do it when I have to, but usually I just ask to John to iron something of mine when he’s ironing his work shirts in the morning.  For another thing, these pants are NYLON (or some other synthetic fabric that MELTS when it gets hot).  I had that information before I tried to iron them, really I did.  I knew what would happen, but obviously, my brain wasn’t present at the time.  For one more thing, these were jogging pants.  Why would I be ironing them?  They don’t get wrinkled in the first place, and even if they did, who cares? Maybe, just maybe, the pants happened to be on the ironing board while I was in the midst of ironing other things (unlikely – see my first point), and I just happened to set the hot iron on one of the legs.  But that doesn’t ring true.  We might as well assume I’m an idiot.  It would be closer to the truth.

Am I right or am I right?

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I’ve read in lots of places (I can’t name a single one, but at this point, it’s probably in the public consciousness so I don’t have to) that to be successful at losing weight (or at anything), it helps to set up little rewards at certain milestones.  I found my first little reward.  But I can’t have it yet.  I had the afternoon off work today (left early to take my data modeling exam (got an A), and had a couple of hours left over), so what did I do?  I went to the mall.  Horror of horrors.  I wasn’t in a shopping mood, but John needs new brown work shoes and he has enormous feet so no one ever has his size in stock.  I went to Nordstrom because I know they’ll order or transfer shoes from other stores so he can try them on before buying.  Nice people there.  And while I was at the mall, I decided to shop for skinny jeans.  Not because I’m particularly skinny, but because it’s time.  Sadly, I’m between sizes.  So my reward for losing the next few pounds will be a pair of skinny jeans.  Mostly so I can wear my boots over them.  My shopping mood didn’t last long (it never does), and I escaped from the mall before it could ruin my day.  Malls have a way of doing that.

Overload

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Stress.  Busy day.  Lots of work done, lots of work to do, not enough time to do it.  And then the realization that I have to take an exam for my data modeling class before Monday.  Almost didn’t go to classes tonight, but was sane enough to remember that one of the things that is stressing me out is my incapability (incapableness?  Lack of capability?  I don’t think any of those are words.) to eat right (I say as I take teeny bits from a piece of Dove chocolate), and I usually feel better after the gym.  So I went.  And I do feel  better.  A little.  But tomorrow is another crazy day (with a long commute with my boss) and it seems to have started already and – no.  Tomorrow is tomorrow.  Not here yet.  Even if I am mentally calculating how many hours of sleep I need before getting up early tomorrow.  (I’m coming up short.)

Yoga’s great for calming me down while I’m in class, but that feeling doesn’t last long enough.

Of course, I’m very rarely anywhere NEAR Kristen Bell’s meltdown level.  This is funny, kinda cute sometimes, and so very weird.

Strike up the band

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Stand back, people, history is happening.  This post, this very special (not all that special) post, is my 1000th post. That’s a lot of zeroes.  That’s a lot of inanity.  I always miss little milestone like this.  It’s only dumb luck that I happened to look at the number of posts this morning.  I missed my car’s odometer passing 100,000 miles when we drove to Long Island to visit John’s grandmother on Christmas Eve, even though I knew it was coming because I noticed how close it was the day before.  I remember birthdays (usually) and anniversaries (sometimes), but even though I try every year, I blow right by the smaller things (like the anniversary of our first kiss, or the anniversary of adopting Roxy and Riley).  I remember it a few days early, think to myself “don’t forget this year”, and then I remember again a day or two after it’s passed.

My point is that the fact I noticed this and am doing something about it (however little) is as momentous as the fact that this is post #1000.  Where’s my musical episode?  I should have had ten of them by now.  I guess I’ll have to settle for these.  The last one isn’t from a sitcom, but you’ll have to forgive me because 1) it’s awesome, and 2) it’s my special blog day!

Chasing some thoughts as they flit through my tired brain

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I like tea.  Might have put too much sugar in this cup, though.  I gave Roxy a kong toy with frozen peanut butter and dog treats stuffed inside.  She chewed happily on it until she chased it under my desk.  She was heading my way to tell me to fetch it for her just when I noticed that the gnawing sounds had stopped.  Smart dog.  I think I chose the wrong book to read.  I want to read it, and I want to want to read it more, but I clearly don’t want to read it enough since I’m here typing instead of reading.  I’ll read it.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow is Tuesday.  Tomorrow is almost February.  Technically, today is also almost February.  When does almost start?  Definitely not earlier than halfway through the month before.  I was having this conversation with someone about age recently.  I’m almost 33.  Who says that at this age?  When you’re a month away from your 13th birthday, it makes sense to say you’re almost 13.  Almost 9.  Almost 16.  But almost 33?  Three weeks to go.  So do I give in and just say I’m 33?  I’m closer to 33 than 32.  Or do I hold on to 32 (“as long as you ca-an”) until the actual day?  Seriously, I wonder about this almost every day.  The cardio machines at the gym ask me for weight (depressing, but that’s not one of the choices) and age.  From a purely physiological (is that the word I’m looking for?) standpoint, 33 would be closer to the truth.  I hope the machine doesn’t mind that I’ve been lying to it for almost six months.  Almost.

Decisions, decisions

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I finished All Clear today (when I should have been doing Statistics homework), and now I have to decide what’s next.  (Don’t suggest Watership Down.  That’s not funny.)  The last few decisions haven’t been all that hard – The Hunger Games trilogy, then All Clear – but the local library sale was this weekend (we went Friday night), so we picked up a few things, including a Robin McKinley book…and I did finally order Elizabeth Bear’s Hammered…problem solved.  One, then the other.  Sometimes you just have to talk it out.  Thanks!

My guilt will follow me to the grave

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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.

A combination of two of my favorite things

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John and I discovered How I Met Your Mother a few months ago (November, maybe?).  Seven years late, of course, but being so far behind has its advantages.  We’ve slowed down some, but there were some nights and weekends where we’d watch episode after episode after episode…  We’re in season 5 now, aware that we’re catching up quickly, so we only watch a handful of episodes a week now.  🙂  Anyway, I found this on YouTube last night.

I want them to finish singing it! They stopped at the best part. Man, I love that show.

I’m probably making this harder than it has to be

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I was going to post something yesterday, but then I didn’t.  True story.  And one of my better ones, I know.

You know how sometimes people suggest doing something together (“We can carpool!” or “You can sit in here with me!”) because it sounds like a good idea?  To them, anyway.  And you don’t want to do it, mostly because you just want to be alone, but if you say that, it’ll hurt their feelings.  Or look like an attitude problem.  Yeah, I hate that.  Except when I don’t hate it.  There are times when I’m all for it.  Usually at the beginning, but then I’ve set a precedent (“Carpooling is a great idea!”  ‘Wow, it makes so much sense for me to sit in here with you instead of over there by myself!”) and backing out is difficult.  It’s like breaking up (“No, it’s not that I don’t like you.  I do.  I just need some space.”  “It’s not you, it’s me.”), except not so permanent.  I need an excuse that sounds reasonable and won’t hurt anybody’s feelings.

I’m just not in the mood for people.  People in general.  You guys are good, the people at my gym are good, but everyone else?  I want to hide from everyone else.  For now, though, I’ll settle for sleep.

My not very well thought out review of The Hunger Games

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I finished The Hunger Games trilogy over the weekend.  After one small hiccup at the very beginning, I couldn’t put them down.  The hiccup?  It’s written in the first person point of view, but in the present tense.  I nearly gave up on the first page.  But I got over it almost immediately and stopped noticing.  Stopped noticing to the point where I’m not 100% sure the second and third books are written the same way.  They must be.  I could check, but they’re in the other room.  I’m lazy.  Anyway, aside from that, I was hooked right away.  Dystopian society in the not-too-distant future, people pushed to the edge, hard choices, fight for survival – good stuff.