Oh, Crap

As I play on Facebook and get into more silly groups, something occurred to me.

I joined a group which revels in the glory of the bump at the intersection of Airport and Whitesburg. Anyone familiar with the south end of town knows this bump. I'm amazed it's still there, actually, because it's almost a rite of passage to drive your first car over it so quickly that you catch air. My little Mazda did it many times. And even though I've been going over that bump since I was 17, it's still fun.

So I decided to look at some of the members of the group. That's when it hit me. I might have actually joined a group where my friends' kids are members. That reminds me that I am getting old. How embarrassing to be in a group with kids I can remember swinging around when they were toddlers. How did this happen? How did I get to be 35?

Work Husband, Part Deux

Writing about W.H. is apparently the most popular page I have. I'm guessing this is because a lot of us have work spouses. I don't have to feel guilty about it, however, because I'm single and therefore have no accountability.

I miss him. He's gone until Wednesday, and the office is quiet, and my boss is busy and doesn't have a lot of time for idle chit chat. W.H. doesn't either, really, but he gets no choice in the matter. Plus, he's closer to my age and we have more in common.

So I made it through today - it was quiet there and (thankfully) I got some studying done. Have I mentioned that CrimLaw and Property are my least faves? There are so many lists to learn. And knowing that I'll be sitting for this bastard in 3 weeks is not helping. Stupid malice crimes. 10? Really? Actually, there's 11, but for some reason robbery and larceny are listed together. I hope the MBE takes pity and hammers me with more ConLaw questions. I'm a freaking rock star on it now.

So, back to the original post. I'm looking forward to W.H.'s vacation stories, and telling him all about the silly stuff that happened while he was out. And I'm not too proud to make up stories.

How many of you have work spouses?

My Little Heart Is Broken

So, I didn't get to see the ending of the epic battle between Federer and Nadal. But as I look at the news, I see that Rafa won. Congratulations, Rafa!

But I wanted Federer to win. I prefer his style of playing.

I bet he was classy at the end.

Damn it.

Relationships

This is post #199. I've got to come up with something really good for post #200. Any suggestions are welcomed. I also just realized that I didn't write yesterday. That's the first day in goodness knows how long. I guess even manic bloggers are allowed an Independence Day.

So, to the topic title listed. It seems, lately, that as I worry less about the status of mine, the more I'm enjoying the boy. Why do the labels matter so much? And the fact that I even care makes me feel like Justin Bobby and Audrina wrapped into one. (Remember those glorious episodes from The Hills? Yes, I watch The Hills. Shut up.)

And maybe what I thought I wanted, initially, is not what I want. I think I might be coming to the age where I'm putting more pressure on myself to fit into societal norms. Why? Do I get a cookie or manna from Heaven if I follow arbitrary rules? I don't want kids, so there's really no point in marriage, if I follow the conventions I'm placing on myself. So, relax, girl!

I'm going to blame the Bar. I'm going to blame it for everything, including stubbing my toe this morning and having to clean out the cat box. And then I'm going to consciously tell myself to relax and enjoy the good, fun relationship I do have. Let the rest work itself out.

Today's Random Thoughts

1. People in Huntsville apparently bought their (collective) driver's licenses from the Internet. That's the only way to explain the random weaving and their amazing ability to have a left turn signal on, be in the left turn lane, and then turn right, over 3 lanes of traffic.

2. I got my ticket for the bar today. It made me shake. All over. For like 2 hours. I guess it's real now. Plus, I wish I were really rich so I could stay in a good hotel for a change.

3. After talking to B., I'm guessing that everyone who's sitting for the bar (what a dumb expression) has the same "it's on" moment.

4. It's getting harder to hide the fact that I do minimal work when I am at work.

5. Wimbledon freaking rocks! (As a reminder, it ends Sunday, so I can let you have a break and I can move on to other, more pressing, topics.)

6. The day ended better than it started. I wish I weren't a walking emoticon.

7. I am chair-dancing to Machines of Loving Grace.

8. I have gorgeous, mauve-y purple toes. Thank you Momma!

Wimbledon, con't

Things I've learned from watching the tournament:

1. As the grass goes away, aim there. It will generally mess with your opponent.

2. Rafa Nadal either touches his butt for luck, or it's a habit. Either way, that's OK with me.

3. Roger Federer might have had Botox in his hairline. Seriously, does that man sweat?

4. The videographers must love the sexy part, for there are many shots that might be considered inappropriate.

5. The commenters are annoying. Really, random stories are not necessary. Especially as we're headed into the finals. Shut up and let them play!

6. Trust your instincts a little more. You're in a better position than you think.

And it's fortunate that this isn't on all year. I'd never get anything done.

If it helps, the tournament ends on Sunday (weather permitting) so you'll all be free for another year.

Disintegration

In order to complete destroy myself for the bar, I've been exploring the sadness that I often feel and try very hard to hide.

Last night (and, yes, right now), it got the best of me. The random of Winamp bit me. The song Disintegration came on. And yes, I listened to it about 8 times. I looked all over the not-yet-completely unpacked apartment to find the CD. Of course I couldn't find it, and of course I took it as a sign.

It's not. I know, logically, that it's not. But still, the part of me that never believes in myself took it that way. And I still have a desire to rip this apartment apart to find it. And when I do, I will play it endlessly again. I might even find a way to be more annoying than the last time I devoured it. Last time, it was the end of a college relationship, and I (actually) listened to it in the dark and wrote bad poetry while listening.

I hope no-one ever has a copy of my bad, manic poetry.