whiskey in a teacup . com

If you want to hear me giggle like a doofus and see how ka-raaaazy we got on our three-day weekend, click here.

Fuck it. Trying to write wedding vows is too difficult. I’m going to suggest that we just recite the lyrics to the Pet Shop Boys’ “Opportunities” to each other, and call it a day.

On Saturday night, Jared and I were having dinner at our second-favorite haunt. I had been feeling contemplative for some days prior, and was describing some complicated thoughts I’d been having. Specifically, how I know intellectually that my tendency towards anxiety doesn’t truly protect me from the things I dread, and that I should work hard to be less anxious and more present. That I can still be cautious and responsible without preventing myself from enjoying experiences. That accidents happen with no greater frequency to people who don’t damn themselves to lives of poorly (though constantly) articulated fears. That maybe I could free myself of my intrusive worries, if only I tried.

I was just in the middle of saying these things when I glanced up to see a large elderly women stumble, drop her drink, and fall to the ground in the typical slow-motion. As the shards from her broken glass scattered around her, she crumpled into a heap directly next to our booth, lying awkwardly on her now dislocated hip.

This incident (and its ridiculously ironic timing) did very little to support the rose-colored bullshit I was spewing.

“Look, I don’t want to talk about this anymore, but you would definitely need a visa to teleport to foreign countries.”

The scene: I’m in my pj’s, which typically means “Jared’s boxer briefs and wifebeater”. I’m sitting around listening to my Ubiquitous Insufferably Hip Mp3 Player, and I decide to get up and go into the kitchen. So I tuck the player into the waistband of my boxer briefs to free my hands for whatever bidding I plan to do in the kitchen.

Fast-forward an hour or so, and I’m sitting around again. I decide to stand up. The mp3 player, which I have completely forgotten about, falls through the leg-hole of my shorts. It does not crash to the ground, however, because the earbuds get stuck in the waistband, leaving the player dangling between my legs by its tiny white cord.

Life can be pretty exciting sometimes.

Thursday: Much to my surprise, Julia takes me to the ballet. I have never been to the ballet before and find much of it lovely and ethereal, and find myself full of wonderment. For instance, here are some of the things I wondered: I wonder how many of these chicks still get their periods. I wonder who did that dude’s makeup, cause let me tell you, it wasn’t me. I wonder if they’ll kick me out if I start laughing hysterically at the dancer doing what appears to be the Zoidberg scuttle across the stage. I wonder if this chick next to me is forcing herself to weep so her date will romantically console her, or if she’s weeping for real, in which case she should chill the fuck out. I wonder if anyone else is noticing for the first time that guys can get camel toe too.

Friday: Sushi and good times with Jared and TJIC, followed by what was supposed to be bowling but instead turned into a viewing of The Big Lebowski. During the movie, someone starts snoring, and I’m not sure if it’s one of the two human males who have lapsed into sushi comas, or one of the two dogs. Thus I am not sure who to throw a pillow at. It turns out to be TJIC. I will get him next time.

Saturday: Jared and I negotiate an offer on a condo, which is accepted by the seller. Becca and Will are in town and we all go to the Sunset. I find a parking spot dead across from the restaurant, which is a truly close second in the “most exciting and awesome thing that happened today” contest.

Sunday: Lunch with my sister and brother-in-law, followed by a walk around the reservoir.

“We don’t go straight in this car…we go forward.”

Spring has sprung, and apparently that means it’s time for ants to come crawling into my kitchen, and thus into my life.

One of my favorite nursing instructors once told us how much she hated reaching inside a chicken carcass to remove the guts before cooking it. “I will stick my hand into any orifice of the human body,” she said, “but when it comes to that chicken…”

This is exactly how I feel about ants. Today, for instance, I found myself wiping human waste off of a colostomy appliance. That didn’t bother me at all. Then I came home and saw an ant in my kitchen, and I immediately wanted to vomit.

I find ants to be some of the most hideous members of the already disgusting bug kingdom. My hated for ants burns like a thousand suns. I can deal with finding one crawling on my leg when I’m outdoors, because after all, I’m on their turf. But my kitchen is my turf, and when I find those fuckers hanging out on my countertop and walking around on my floor and GETTING INTO MY FRIDGE like it’s no big deal, I am filled with rage. I shake my fist towards the heavens and declare, “Death to all ants!” and begin my daily massacre.

I blame this apartment and its doors that don’t come all the way down to the doorjams. I blame the cat for sitting there staring at the ants instead of murdering them. I blame Jared for not taking out the recycling which probably attracts them even more. I blame myself for initially being squeamish about whacking them with the Swiffer, which clearly lead them to think I’m some kind of sucker whose kitchen they can get all up into. I hate them and I hope they all die.

“But ants are part of the ecosystem”, you say. Fuck that. Any ecosystem that involves ants is an ecosystem worth destroying. Thus I blame the earth, and all of its sentient beings, for constructing a civilization where ants can get into your kitchen.

In closing: death to all ants.

Jared and I work somewhat close to each other, but on different schedules, which generally makes carpooling impractical. Today we both left for work around the same time, taking different routes for the initial portion of the commute. Somewhere along the way, our paths intertwined and I spotted Jared on his motorcycle. I made it a point to stay near him, hoping I could wave hello before our paths diverged. I observed as he blatantly ran a red light, which I will be sure to bring up the next time he gives me shit for my driving.

At another point, when I was directly behind Jared, I watched as an SUV swerved precariously into his lane, causing Jared to blast the airhorn and gesture meaningfully at the driver. The SUV tried to pull a similar stunt with me as I passed by, at which point I honked and flailed my arms on Jared’s behalf, and blocked it from pulling in behind the motorcycle.

Witnessing this near-accident gave me the kind of shaky, immediate fury that makes small women think they could probably rip grown men out of their vehicles and beat them mercilessly about the face and scrotum until they promise to never, ever drive like fuckwitted morons again. I imagine that females of various species feel the same way when they see predators attacking their young. Jared may not be my offspring, but I do have certain protective instincts toward him, especially when he is perched vulnerably on the bike while I watch safely from my sedan.

The moral of this story is, don’t be a fuckwitted moron, don’t let your red-light-running boyfriend buy a motorcycle, and more importantly, don’t nobody be messing with my chimp.