Hooray for Canned Food!!

Mr. Bump just left a wee bit ago. He was visiting me for the weekend, and we spent an indordinate amount of time watching the show House M.D. on DVD. Mr. Bump is not much of a vidiot, meaning he just doesn't watch tv much. He gets excited about books on economics and statistics (barf.), to the point where he can't speak or look at me for fear that his head might explode if he breaks the loving and committed gaze with the book he's been shmooing with since breakfast. I keep telling him he has a problem, but he just won't admit it.

Anyway, apart from said books, I have rarely seen Mr. Bump attach to something so immediately and intensely. Mr. Bump has taken to this show like a leach attaching to a hemophiliac. We managed to get through six episodes (back-to-back) in less than 12 hours. This is sick. I mean, we enjoyed it, and didn't even think about stopping, but it is sick, nonetheless. Also, the fact that Mr. Bump enjoyed this particular sitcom is not to say that he didn't interject comments (at a breathtaking 4.5 second interval) along the lines of "no immunologist on earth does their own ultrasounds" and "pfhm, you never hold that in your left hand, this is so fake." This was not at ALL annoying. Not even a little bit. I tried to suggest that if someone were to make a sitcom out of days from his work, they could actually euthanize people by making them watch it, and voila, less work to do! This had little effect on the rate or quality of commentary issuing forth from his pie-hole. Looking back, he may not have realized I was in the room.

In other news, my extensive fan club (ha! This blog is Top Secret! Google will not help you! If you have stumbled here by mistake, you will be visited in the night by a team of experts who will remove your...oh, right. I can't talk about that.) will no doubt be interested to know that it does not appear that anything exciting will happen this Valentine's Day. It appears that proposing on Valentine's Day is "too cliche". Whatever, dude. Groundhog's Day? Hello? Other missed opportunities: January is National Prune Breakfast Month, National Oatmeal Month, and National Bread Machine Baking Month. C'mon! Where. Is. The. Love. ?? But rest easy, Mr. Bump, February is National Canned Food Month. And we have Wave All Your Fingers At Your Neighbor Day (Feb. 7, because most people only wave one finger at their neighbors, obviously.), Umbrella Day (Feb. 10), National Battery Day (Feb. 18) and National Hoodie Hoo Day (Feb. 20, wtf is a hoodie hoo?) to look forward to. (You can play, too! Find stupid holidays at http://www.holidayinsights.com/moreholidays/)
I started this out not so much to bust Bump's balls, but more to comment on his rationale. However, having typed the last paragraph, I now realize that there are other humanoids in the world whose actions and underlying rationales for inventing the lamest possible holidays EVER are in more desperate need of smacks upside the head than Mr. Bump is.

Good thing National Do A Grouch A Favor Day is coming up...

Surviving February

So, hi.

Nothing is new, other than my unshakable case of the blahs. I attribute this to the fact that it is February, which means we've survived January, but it's not Spring yet.

So, what to say here....I have no adorable children with amusing and entertaining antics or excrement to comment on.

I don't even have amusing pets.

I have plants.... but they're not very charismatic. They just sit in dirt and grow quietly. This is more or less what I've been feeling like doing lately. Hey, it's better than starting to look like your purse poodle, so shut up.

In my line of work, sitting in the dirt is something that happens when the weather warms up, and whilst one is sitting in dirt, one does not think introspective thoughts or feel particularly restful. So apart from sitting in dirt, here are some of the things that are making February survivable.

Reading
The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd
What a raw, powerful and overwhelmingly great book. Especially if you ever had a mom. Each chapter leaves you stinging, and wanting more.

Listening
Nino Rojo by Devandra Banhart
Sweet, like a bird song. Fresh, like a the way a baby's head smells. Totally absorbing.
The Avett Brothers
My favorite boy band. Punk Folk. Or something. It's not punk. It's not folk. It's simply addictive. If I say anything else, I'm going to sound like a poser, so here I stop.

Wearing
Philosophy's Hope in Jar-- I thought the name was a bit immodest, and then I put some on my face and I felt.... soothed. Also available as part of a great kit.

Wanting
Itty bitty pretty. Aahhhh, Spring! Around my neck!


See you in March.

The Silver Bullet: a holiday story

When I was in college, I dated a quietly conceited fellow who has since earned the title of “Last Gearhead (bike geek) I Ever Want To Know Well.” Yet, for all his charming faults (ladies, if they shave their legs more often than you do, …please run.), he introduced me to the beauty of the bicycle, and the thrill of cycling (some years before Lance Armstrong got a rock star complex, thank you very much). Cycling had also been something that had interested both of my parents in their younger days, so it felt quite natural to gradually become enamored with the sport. What did not feel natural was that the prettiest bikes cost more than my crap-ass Saturn LS, and had half the wheels. And so, the years passed, and now and then, I’d walk into a bike shop and there would be rows of sparkly, gleaming bicycles murmuring “hey baby, wanna go for a ride? I can take you places you’ve never been before.” And I longingly replied, “You look so sexy, but I just can’t afford you today.” And that was that. I’d watch friends and strangers on their fancy bikes, and wonder how I could justify the expense, but no justification ever seemed sound. Besides, I traded in my Asturn for a Subaru Outback, and that was all the Xtremattude I could afford.

This Christmas, while I was fully expecting a ring, Mr. Bump instead surprised me with the most beautiful silver bicycle this girl has ever seen. I arrived at his house after returning from a trip to my parents’ home, and after unloading the car, he told me we had to go pick up my present, that we had to take my car, and that we were going into the city. I was confused. Why do we have to take my car? Is it big? Rings aren’t big, and we can fit Christmas trees in your car. Why do we have to go into the city? But no answers presented themselves. And so we drove. And drove. And ended up in front of a Staples. By now, confusion was no longer adequate, and I was forced to resort to mystification. What’s in Staples?? Is he buying me a shredder? A bookshelf? A binder display? Why’d we have to come all the way to this Staples, when there’s one right by his house? And then I saw it: the bike shop. I almost soiled myself.

We walked in, and there it was: shiny, tiny and waiting for ME! I admit, I cried a tiny bit. There were modest, but public displays of affection. The clerk had to walk away and give me a few minutes while I blubbered about and smiled like a fool. It’s a road bike, just like I’ve wanted for so long. The kind you can’t help but look like a badass on. The kind with the pedals that attach to your shoes. And in a year, when I am able to attach myself to my bike and detach myself from my bike without slowly, helplessly tipping over and falling onto the curb (this sucks for two reasons: it really kind of hurts, and more importantly, it makes you look a knob), I’ll let you know. And then you can look at cyclists zooming along and wonder to yourself “Is that Clabber Girl on her Silver Bullet?” Yow-Wow.

Absent Minded Professor: tragedy behind the moniker

My what a day I have had! At least, I think it was today… and I’m pretty sure it was me…

This morning, I ran across the street to buy some milk for my coffee. The total was $1.17, so I handed the cashier a five, three nickels and two pennies. Then, somehow thinking that since the pennies were exact, I would receive no change, I thanked her and started to walk away. The lovely woman said, “Hey! Lady! You gave me a five!” I replied by looking back at her while continuing to walk and said “huh?” My mouth was hanging open at this point, and I imagine I resembled a dairy cow: curious, brainless and drooly. She looked at me and did one of those sassy little head jiggles from side to side, as if to say “oh no you di-uhnt!” Instead, she said “You. Gave. Me. A. Five.” Having worked counter positions in the past, I knew she was thinking “How come I’m sitting here earning $5.70 an hour, and they pay wombats like her to educate our best and brightest? our hope for a better future?” I closed my mouth and sheepishly collected my change.

But wait! The brain damage is worse than you think.

This afternoon, I hastily packed today for an overnight trip to a research station. Here are the items I included:

1 toothbrush and floss
1 tube of toothpaste
1 comb and assorted shower things
the latest Harry Potter book
1 iPod, plus charger
Law & Order Season 4 DVDs
laptop
Papers to grade
gloves
socks
clean underpants


That’s it folks. You may ask yourself where are her pajamas? Where is her change of clothes for the next day? Where is her pillow (my glorious destination supplies no linens, and thank goodness I forgot to take the sheets home last time I was there!)?

What does it say about me that I remember 3 kinds of entertainment, and forget my clothes? No, don’t tell me… I’ll probably forget.

How I broke my New Year's Resolution...

You may have gathered from previous postage that Mr. Bump and I are rather close, in an exclusive, long-term, sig-O sort of way. You may also have the impression that we are not engaged. If you have this impression, I'd like to personally congratulate you on being sentient.

I'll spare you the gory details of how long this has been going on (trust me, your jaws collectively hitting the ground would cause a tsunami in micronesia), sufficed to say, dag gum it, I'm ready to get me hitched! Unfortunately for all involved, Mr. Bump is a bit late in arriving at this conclusion. And given the fact that everyone we know (including strangers we meet and have known for all of 10 minutes), looks at him bug-eyed and asks the obvious question "why aren't you married, yet?", I suspect that he is aware of his retardation (this word means "the act proceeding slowly." I am not calling mr. Bump names).

For some time now, I've been a little suggestive, perhaps mildly insistent, that he get his bump in gear. This has had very (VERY) little effect. And like any rational human being, upon realizing that Mr. Bump is unlikely to be swayed by pressure (what's that you're shouting? Thumbscrews?!), I decided that I would back off for a bit. As New Year's was drawing near, I thought I'd get all proactive and make an early resolution not to nag the Bump-Man about marriage.

Yeah. Right. I became the only human being to break their resolution in negative 14 days. I checked, and Guiness has no record of awesomely short-lived new year's resolutions. I'm a champion, people. Did I mention that I crumbled in front of The Internet? Yes, well, I might add that Mr. Bump is the only confirmed reader of this blog.

I'm sure most men, and some women who stumble upon this will no doubt think to themselves "That chick's down right bonkers, I wouldn't marry her. Hell, I'd dump her ass right now." Fair enough, I know that the ol' rolling-pin-wielding-bride-to-be isn't exactly romantic. But trust me, when his little brother sweetly intones that "dude, you're not getting any younger"... you'd snap too.

mmmm... Hi!

Hello!

Did you miss me? Wait... lemme guess. You missed me like...

...like the desert missed the rain!

no?

...like a junkie misses a fix!

no??

...like lost luggage!

still no??!

wait, I think I've got it: like you missed that slightly surly cashier who didn't look at you once during the entire trasaction?

I rule.

Vacation was very nice, thank you for asking.

Mr. Bump out-did himself with a very touching present (not a ring) that I will tell you about soon.

I also overheard the A-number-1 best excuse ever for farting in front of relatives, courtesy of my mom (remember: mom = awesome). It went down like this:

Us: blah blahbitty blah blah (talking about stupid stuff)
Mom: Pfffbbbtttt...bttt.
Us: suddenly silent, staring at mom.
Mom: (turns bright red) I couldn't help it, I-I have a cold.

That! ladies and gentlemen, is why I love my mother.



And now for something completely different.

So rude!

Here I introduce myself, and in my very next post (on the same bloody day, no less), I am kissing you off, and STILL! harboring fantasies of how I will lure you back in time with sweet nothings and sultry looks. Ha! right. Of all the things The Internet should know about me, this is number 3: I am physically challenged when it comes to giving sexy looks. Usually, I end up looking like a uncomfortable insect. So seductive.

Where, you ask, did I learn my manners?? (here's a hint: it rhymes with "melevision")

The truth is, I'm off for a bit. (off on VACATION, thank you very much.)

'Tis the season and all that, and I'm headed up to a quaint town in that state that looks like a part of your body. And no, I don't live in Florida. Cut it out.

Sadly, Mr. Bump will be working, working, working, and then heading to a different state to spend the holidays with a family that is not mine. Why, you ask (seriously, if we're talking about manners here, what's with asking all the questions all the time? Gosh!)? The short answer is because he is a retardapotamus. Now I'm no expert, but as I understand it, humans have previously contrived mechanisms which allow two people to spend holidays in a state of proximity to one and other, while honoring the demands of their respective families. I believe that these contrivances generally involve a token of affection and committment, some sort of legal gobblety-gook, and a ceremony of some sort (I believe that costumes are appropriate here, yes?). However, the execution of this process is still in an awkward adolescence, and so Mr. Bump and I are off in separate directions yet again.

Upon my return to the Magical Land of Wi-Fi, I will do my very best to cajole and entice you with stories of thumb twiddledge from the Little House in the Suburbs. You might even get a sultry look, but please, put. down. the. swatter.

By way of introduction...

Once upon a time, when the ignomious Mr. Bump and I were buying us some food making supplies, Mr. Bump picked up a can of "Clabber Girl" baking soda, chuckled, and said "hey, this chick* looks like you! ha ha!" and lo, my nickname was born.

On quite a different note, the following nugget of wisdom was mined this morning in my apartment:

Me: well, you know what they say about the mind. [pause] Either you l--use it or you lose it.
Mr. Bump: yes, luse-ing it, or losing it. That sums it up.

This is what happens when you comment on mental alacrity before breakfast.