Monday, January 31, 2005

The Post I Shoulda Posted Yesterday

I am such an idiot.

The day can only get better when, while getting ready to shower, I notice a pain at my rib cage. It doesn't ache on its own, but when I touch the area, it's tender, as if I had been punched during the night. I'm severely nearsighted, so I don't detect a bruise when I look in the mirror. But when M joins me (we really have to get the second bathroom in working order), he points to my midsection.

"What's that?" he says.

"I don't know. You tell me."

"That's a tick."

"Get it!"

So he pulls the quarter-inch devil out with tweezers, even the head, but my ribs are still hurting hours later, and the wound is, well, gross. (What will the gals at the gym think tomorrow? Better bring extra bandaids.)

Apres shower, apres tick (which I send down the shower drain--usually Rex nibbles on them in order to illustrate the irony of the food chain), I put the space heater on the bathroom counter to defog the mirror, a ritual I've had to implement on the chilliest mornings recently in order to apply my minimal makeup. I leave, dress, return, and stand agape at the mirror.

"What's that?" I say.

"I don't know. You tell me," M says from behind the shower curtain.

"Is that a crack?" There's a twelve inch crack in the mirror, snaking prismatically from the bottom support.

M pokes his head out. "Yep."

"Is that from the heater?" I've been doing this for weeks. Why today? I am an idiot.

"Yep," M confirms. "You know. Hot and cold." He ducks back into the cocoon of the shower.

My day can only get better, and it does.


Houston, We Have a House Problem: So, with the deck, French drain, patio, walkway, and new bathroom projects in 2004, I resolved that there would be no other home renovation expenditures made recently, what with the wedding and all. But an issue has arisen.

When we bought the house nearly five (can it be that long?) years ago, we cringed at the kitchen linoleum, which must have been original to the house. Burns, tears, scrapes incurred apparently from moving large appliances, and general pattern hideousness have been our constant companion. We talk about new floors, but have, as aforementioned, resolved to live with the hideous linoleum for a while longer.

However, we came into a cheap deal for a portable dishwasher two years ago, an appliance I cherish almost equally to the clothes washer. Apparently, the heat from running the tap water through the dishwasher has caused the kitchen flooring under it to lift from its moorings in a bubble and tear, reminding me vaguely of the Jiffy Pop foil dome. Only this is not pretty, nor does it hold the promise of a hot and tasty treat. Now that I've had time to, ahem, reflect, it reminds me too of the crack in the bathroom mirror. I don't want to live with it much longer, but don't feel that I have much of a choice.


Weekend in Review

Date Night on Friday: Why do I love splattering alien zombies so much? M took me out to dinner to a Mexican place where we hadn't been before (decent quality, enormous portions, a family next to us that made us so grateful to not have children of our own), and then we went to the local "family fun center"--mini golf, batting cages, and a video game arcade. Pinball, skeeball, and air hockey (our early dating activity) out of the way, I focused on blowing away radiated zombies, gamely ignoring the kids thirty years my junior on either side. I could've done it for hours, but it's expensive. Though we didn't quite finish off a twenty--the teen behind the counter patiently explained that you can't exchange tokens back for cash, but "you can save them for next time" he helpfully pointed out.

The Tyranny of Salt on Saturday: a friend from the City and I met for lunch and window shopping in Mill Valley. I had never been there before, which seemed odd to me. In addition to a cousin's wife, this friend is one of the few connections I have to an upper-crusty world and it's fun to pretend that money doesn't matter a whit to me for the few hours we're together every few months. We luncheoned at a whitelinentablecloth joint, and yet--no kosher or sea salt, just table salt--the Horror! I could barely bring myself to pass it to my friend when she requested it. However, white wine at lunch--Divine! As was the rest of the meal, properly salted or no. We've perfected the art of catching up while window shopping, caressing scarves, shoes, toying with wedding invitations, kitchen gadgets, passing judgment on this season's palette, all the while discussing and dissecting feelings and activities. These visits take me out of my usual rut, and make me so happy, and also humbled, somehow--I guess I'm grateful for friendship with certain people in my life that could so easily and naturally fade, and yet are kept vital, by mutual nurturing.

On the way home from Mill Valley, I stopped in San Rafael, hoping to return the vintage wedding dress I had purchased two weeks earlier to appease the Shopping Gods. I didn't expect to receive any actual refund--I had prepared myself for a consignment or wholesale price. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a store credit for the full amount (will I use it? is the question) and some happy wedding banter to boot. Yes, I am now officially considering white as a wedding dress color, imagine that.

Home, the dog and I tramped the hills, then and watched the first two episodes of Twin Peaks with M in a vain attempt to recapture feelings of Young in New York. (Me, not Rex.) No go.

With Desmond & JeriLu at Howard's
Originally uploaded by suzipaw.

Sunday, Jour des Diners: Breakfast of berry pancakes at Howard's in Occidental in the company of two friend I don't see often. I was miles away from bed and canine and homo sapien at a much earlier hour than usual, so let the mugs of java flow without a care! A political discussion ensued, how refreshing! A seed is planted for a trip to Eureka to see one of the friend's plays, how refreshing!

Writerly chat and some writing with the writers group gals followed, including the imbibing of additional caffeine at The Box, served by The Angels. Two were there behind the counter: skin like sun-kist cream, wide clear eyes, curls of honey and chocolate tresses pinned up carelessly, both wearing tank tops despite the morning chill. We often comment on The Angels and the otherworldly beauty they bear effortlessly. They have a tendency to dress minimally--one of them wore a strapless top last summer, and viewed from the other side of the high counter appeared to be completely undraped, as we former professional life models say. Are they aware of the effect they have on us mere mortals? Are they here to inspire worship or envy? Sunday was my lucky day--one actually seemed to recognize me, dowdy matron that I am!

Home on Sunday: bad knitting decisions when I should've been napping led to a great ripping out of the latest kitty pi, more dog walking, spaghetti sauce making, reviewing of wedding plans thanks to a tome loaned to me by a similarly pre-nuptial co-worker. The upcoming trip to Chico in just a few short days has place the lid squarely on the pressure cooker for M and me. (Wait, but isn't a pressure cooker round?)

And that's all I'll write about that, for now.


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