I tell you what.
Planning this trip may very well get the best of me. I have stressed over money; that part is out of the way. But apparently planning is something that even I didn't realize that I have such an affinity for.
It's eating me alive.
I have a massive envelope containing all of our confirmations and e-tickets thus far. This envelope gets bigger by the day. I have them saved in email too. I have lists, links, maps, routes, prices, and every other thing you can imagine. I have made an itinerary. I add to it. Frequently. And now, I have been given permission to totally abandon BF in the planning process. This is now my project, my fixation, my madness.
I've been making lists.
I don't know when I did this, but I made- are you ready for this? a List of Lists to Make. Yep, I did. Every other list now becomes a sub-list to the List of Lists. Is this a sign of a problem. I fear it is so. The List of Lists is really a peek into my insanity at this point:
Things to Get
Things to Make (yay)
Things to Do
Things to Pack
Things to Plan (wtf?)
Things to Pack to Make
Things to Pack to Make. What? What is that? The best I can figure is that it's a list of knitting to bring along. But really. Why didn't I type Knitting to Pack? or just Knitting? Things to Pack to Make. Huh.
The dorkiness, it's reached Epic Proportions. I feel bad for BF. I think he's resenting this trip, and the fact that it's taken over my life.
Showing posts with label Rantings of a Crazy Person. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rantings of a Crazy Person. Show all posts
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Time Spent Pondering
How's about today I skip the "my my, where DOES the time go?!? How long has it been since I posted again?" stuff. I believe I will.
The past two weeks have been both good and bad, with ups and downs, and all that. You know, life stuff. We are still adjusting to life together. Some days it's all eyelash batting and frosting- the days when I come home to a clean house, and we go to the swimming pool and I do Sweet Jumps off his shoulders or knees- those are the best days. Other days it's gnashing of teeth, slamming of doors, and seeing who can yell, "NOOOOOOOOOOO! FUCK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!" the loudest. (Hint: it's usually me. However, I laugh when I say it. What I possess in sheer volume, I lack in conviction.). But that's everyone's life, isn't it? Please say yes.
Anyway, more job stuff, and more dog stuff ( I do believe some of that is share worthy, perhaps tomorrow) and more knitting stuff, and then there's the travel stuff. More on that later, too.
So anyway. I have been thinking. About blogging. And my blog. And all the blogs I read. And why I like them. And the purpose of mine. And what it's about. And what my story is. I can be crafty, but I don't even find my own crafty posts interesting. I can follow directions, but rarely am I clever in my application of said crafts. And oy, the knitting. I don't knit quickly enough to post anything much knitting related, and I have just been too lazy to post the awesome photos I have been taking. But, I plan to fix that. Yes sir. But really, what is my story?
Do you ever wonder that about yourself? Maybe not in the bloggy sense, but in the big picture sense? What is your story? I think my story is of a girl who knits, travels, has weird neurotic animals, loves a rescued foxhound probably too much, loves a boy who makes her crazy, and often fails miserably at keeping it all together, much less packaging it nicely to show to others. Is that a good story, though?
Ya know, I gotta work on eliminating self-indulgent musings from this blog. They bore even me.
The past two weeks have been both good and bad, with ups and downs, and all that. You know, life stuff. We are still adjusting to life together. Some days it's all eyelash batting and frosting- the days when I come home to a clean house, and we go to the swimming pool and I do Sweet Jumps off his shoulders or knees- those are the best days. Other days it's gnashing of teeth, slamming of doors, and seeing who can yell, "NOOOOOOOOOOO! FUCK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!" the loudest. (Hint: it's usually me. However, I laugh when I say it. What I possess in sheer volume, I lack in conviction.). But that's everyone's life, isn't it? Please say yes.
Anyway, more job stuff, and more dog stuff ( I do believe some of that is share worthy, perhaps tomorrow) and more knitting stuff, and then there's the travel stuff. More on that later, too.
So anyway. I have been thinking. About blogging. And my blog. And all the blogs I read. And why I like them. And the purpose of mine. And what it's about. And what my story is. I can be crafty, but I don't even find my own crafty posts interesting. I can follow directions, but rarely am I clever in my application of said crafts. And oy, the knitting. I don't knit quickly enough to post anything much knitting related, and I have just been too lazy to post the awesome photos I have been taking. But, I plan to fix that. Yes sir. But really, what is my story?
Do you ever wonder that about yourself? Maybe not in the bloggy sense, but in the big picture sense? What is your story? I think my story is of a girl who knits, travels, has weird neurotic animals, loves a rescued foxhound probably too much, loves a boy who makes her crazy, and often fails miserably at keeping it all together, much less packaging it nicely to show to others. Is that a good story, though?
Ya know, I gotta work on eliminating self-indulgent musings from this blog. They bore even me.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Older and Busier Than Ever Before
Hello there!
I am back from my trip to Atlanta for the Birthday Extravaganza. Maya and I had a wonderful long weekend filled with shopping, spa treatments and way too much food. The weather was beautiful, and I love being a spring baby. It's such a great time to celebrate getting older- flowers everywhere, the days are getting longer, and the temperature is just perfect. So yeah, now I am older, but after my facial I could pass for a Girl of Twenty-Five again.
I am also busier than ever because, well, I never truly thought this week would get here. BF is moving here. On Saturday. This Saturday. That's just a few short days away. He's coming here and he is not leaving. Time has simultaneously stood still and moved at warp speed these past two months. When I think about how long it's been since we've seen each other, it feels like time is absolutely standing still and he will NEVER get here. When I think of this as the last time that's truly mine and mine alone, it flies by.
I'm working diligently at making a space for him here. Well, spaces- plural. I want for him to feel like this Slightly-Too-Small-Apartment is his too. Because it is. But at the same time there is a part of me that mourns the other side of the closet, the second shelf in the bathroom, and the way I was able to do here as I pleased without concession or apology. I've always enjoyed my solitude, and for the majority of my Adult Life, I've lived alone. I have called all the shots, left dishes in the sink when I wanted, projects in various stages of completion...everywhere, and occupied every inch of space in my home because it was mine, and no one else's.
Don't get me wrong. I look forward to having BF here. I like saying things like "our house," and I like knowing that I will share the bed (as best as I can), and having someone here who can talk is also sort of enticing. I don't regret the choice to have him move here- it feels very very right. I guess this is just one of those times where leaving something behind is surprisingly hard, given how very badly you want what's in front of you.
I don't know. This is all so very hard to articulate. I haven't had this happen to me before. I was going to say maybe right before high school graduation, but I remember climbing the walls of my high school for the last oh, say, 6 months before graduation so that's not it. College, maybe? Not really- I was a bit sad to leave behind the right to be poor and sleep till 2pm on a Tuesday, but still it's not quite the same.
In just four days, it all changes. Is there such a thing as being ready?
I am back from my trip to Atlanta for the Birthday Extravaganza. Maya and I had a wonderful long weekend filled with shopping, spa treatments and way too much food. The weather was beautiful, and I love being a spring baby. It's such a great time to celebrate getting older- flowers everywhere, the days are getting longer, and the temperature is just perfect. So yeah, now I am older, but after my facial I could pass for a Girl of Twenty-Five again.
I am also busier than ever because, well, I never truly thought this week would get here. BF is moving here. On Saturday. This Saturday. That's just a few short days away. He's coming here and he is not leaving. Time has simultaneously stood still and moved at warp speed these past two months. When I think about how long it's been since we've seen each other, it feels like time is absolutely standing still and he will NEVER get here. When I think of this as the last time that's truly mine and mine alone, it flies by.
I'm working diligently at making a space for him here. Well, spaces- plural. I want for him to feel like this Slightly-Too-Small-Apartment is his too. Because it is. But at the same time there is a part of me that mourns the other side of the closet, the second shelf in the bathroom, and the way I was able to do here as I pleased without concession or apology. I've always enjoyed my solitude, and for the majority of my Adult Life, I've lived alone. I have called all the shots, left dishes in the sink when I wanted, projects in various stages of completion...everywhere, and occupied every inch of space in my home because it was mine, and no one else's.
Don't get me wrong. I look forward to having BF here. I like saying things like "our house," and I like knowing that I will share the bed (as best as I can), and having someone here who can talk is also sort of enticing. I don't regret the choice to have him move here- it feels very very right. I guess this is just one of those times where leaving something behind is surprisingly hard, given how very badly you want what's in front of you.
I don't know. This is all so very hard to articulate. I haven't had this happen to me before. I was going to say maybe right before high school graduation, but I remember climbing the walls of my high school for the last oh, say, 6 months before graduation so that's not it. College, maybe? Not really- I was a bit sad to leave behind the right to be poor and sleep till 2pm on a Tuesday, but still it's not quite the same.
In just four days, it all changes. Is there such a thing as being ready?
Friday, April 10, 2009
PSA: the Importance of Urban Dictionary in Political Movements
Heehee.
Doesn't the title of this post sound so scholarly? Academic? Not About Teabagging? Hold on, please allow me a moment to roll around on the floor.
All better.
Anyway, I don't really like for this blog to be about political things, or really have too much weight to it. I mean, in what universe would discussions on socialism and the like find a place in this blog? By the posts about my dog? Nestled in a post about a botched project? Yeah, that's what I thought. I know what I am good at, and it most certainly isn't sussing out the right and wrong of complex matters. Or matters more complex than say, ice cream flavors or knitting related injuries. But I have to say something.
To all the news people (except Jon Stewart and Rachel Maddow, they know what's up), the angered citizens, and nice old ladies out there, hear my cries:
TEA BAGGING DOES NOT MEAN WHAT YOU THINK IT MEANS. SERIOUSLY, IT DOESN'T.
As a point of clarification, I think that protesting is wonderful. If you don't like something, shout it from the mountaintops! From the mountains! To the oceans! To the...other things! Prairies? Those too! Get pissed, start bitching, and get all your friends who are pissed also to bitch with you. Things can change if you want them to. But there's one thing: you can shout all you like, but until the name of your little movement is not something that 13 year old boys whisper behind their hands- you don't stand a fucking chance, guys. Sorry.
As another point of clarification- the Big Bad They In Washington has really only done what you and I would do given the chance. It's called Oversight, and we Americans want it. But we don't wanna do it. We want someone else, the penultimate in trustworthiness, to watch our backs so we don't have to. What? I don't wanna do it. I'm too busy watching TV. The thing is that ultimately- We The People have ultimately reaped just what we've sown. We don't give a fuck until we can't afford to buy Cheap Plastic Crap at Wal-Mart. After that, it's time to put everyone under the microscope and proclaim politicians to be thieves and crooks. Can someone steal what you blindly hand over to them? The weren't born into their Senate and House seats, a king did not appoint them either. We did. We cast our ballots for them because the name sounded familiar, or worse- we couldn't be bothered to cast our ballot at all and trusted That Guy to do it for us. You know, the guy who blows his nose at the table in the restaurant, the lady driving the massive SUV while on her cell phone, yeah all those assholes got to write our tickets for so very long now and it's only really come to pass and now we want to teabag.
Well, if it were anatomically possible, I'd teabag the American People. But since I can't, I will laugh hysterically at the people on TV who have failed to consult with their teenage-or-older children, or UrbanDictionary.com to make sure they aren't naming themselves something so utterly and completely ridiculous that it is actually the distilled essence of the Problem With The Way Things Are Today.
Reality is too strange for me. I am going back to the Land of Domesticity, where things make sense.
Doesn't the title of this post sound so scholarly? Academic? Not About Teabagging? Hold on, please allow me a moment to roll around on the floor.
All better.
Anyway, I don't really like for this blog to be about political things, or really have too much weight to it. I mean, in what universe would discussions on socialism and the like find a place in this blog? By the posts about my dog? Nestled in a post about a botched project? Yeah, that's what I thought. I know what I am good at, and it most certainly isn't sussing out the right and wrong of complex matters. Or matters more complex than say, ice cream flavors or knitting related injuries. But I have to say something.
To all the news people (except Jon Stewart and Rachel Maddow, they know what's up), the angered citizens, and nice old ladies out there, hear my cries:
TEA BAGGING DOES NOT MEAN WHAT YOU THINK IT MEANS. SERIOUSLY, IT DOESN'T.
As a point of clarification, I think that protesting is wonderful. If you don't like something, shout it from the mountaintops! From the mountains! To the oceans! To the...other things! Prairies? Those too! Get pissed, start bitching, and get all your friends who are pissed also to bitch with you. Things can change if you want them to. But there's one thing: you can shout all you like, but until the name of your little movement is not something that 13 year old boys whisper behind their hands- you don't stand a fucking chance, guys. Sorry.
As another point of clarification- the Big Bad They In Washington has really only done what you and I would do given the chance. It's called Oversight, and we Americans want it. But we don't wanna do it. We want someone else, the penultimate in trustworthiness, to watch our backs so we don't have to. What? I don't wanna do it. I'm too busy watching TV. The thing is that ultimately- We The People have ultimately reaped just what we've sown. We don't give a fuck until we can't afford to buy Cheap Plastic Crap at Wal-Mart. After that, it's time to put everyone under the microscope and proclaim politicians to be thieves and crooks. Can someone steal what you blindly hand over to them? The weren't born into their Senate and House seats, a king did not appoint them either. We did. We cast our ballots for them because the name sounded familiar, or worse- we couldn't be bothered to cast our ballot at all and trusted That Guy to do it for us. You know, the guy who blows his nose at the table in the restaurant, the lady driving the massive SUV while on her cell phone, yeah all those assholes got to write our tickets for so very long now and it's only really come to pass and now we want to teabag.
Well, if it were anatomically possible, I'd teabag the American People. But since I can't, I will laugh hysterically at the people on TV who have failed to consult with their teenage-or-older children, or UrbanDictionary.com to make sure they aren't naming themselves something so utterly and completely ridiculous that it is actually the distilled essence of the Problem With The Way Things Are Today.
Reality is too strange for me. I am going back to the Land of Domesticity, where things make sense.
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