I just remembered that I stuck a bottle of wine in the freezer last night, to chill while I made dinner. I didn’t end up drinking it with dinner, which means, uh, it’s still in the freezer. I hope.
Some days I long for my previous inside-the-Beltway existence. Usually this happens while watching Meet the Press or seeing footage of DC in a movie or TV show, but today it’s because of The Hill’s time-honored tradition of showcasing the 50 Most Beautiful People.
(Apparently this time-honored tradition has only existed for the last few years, which that means I’m familiar with, um, all of the lists ever published. *hangs head in shame* And yet, I don’t read People magazine. Hmm.)
So, while I’m busy figuring out how to tell you about the excitement that has been my life for the last week, go pick me out a boyfriend. And, see if you can figure out who my top choice is. Age, race and party affiliation make no difference. Nor does “dating status” for that matter; I’m prettier than their current girlfriend/wife anyway. I’ll even throw in a prize for the first person to correctly identify my chosen suitor. (Sorry, Lori, you’re not eligible.)
Have fun!
Well, that was fun, wasn’t it? Sorry, people, I did NOT intend to leave that up for three whole days, but I spent last night’s blogging time at kick-boxing class (more on that later) and on the phone with my brother. So, you lose.
Anyway. Idiots. Idiots at every turn.
Idiot #1: Stupid Thieving Thief
The Adele follow-up. Let’s talk about that, shall we? So, my friend(s) the thief(ves) (and of course I have no way of knowing whether it should be singular or plural. so we’ll just go with singular for simplicity) is … something. Something very special. First, he (again, not sure about sex, but just go with it), in an attempt to access the car, totally jacked up the lock on the passenger front door. Being unsuccessful at picking the lock, THEN he decided to break the window. Thanks for that.
I’ve already detailed the things he took, but let’s focus on what he didn’t take:
Idiot #2: Yours Truly
Sigh. I have spent the last week mourning the loss of my stereo. In particular, that mourning period occurs during the hour I spend driving to and from work each day. I miss my friends at NPR! My commute is just not the same! And, painfully, I recognize that this is entirely my fault because I still have the stereo and all I really need is the damn faceplate but my stereo is so old that nobody is selling said faceplate on eBay anymore and if only I’d gotten into the habit of keeping the faceplate with ME instead of in the car… Yeah. I take the faceplate with me when I hand over Adele for valet parking, or when I park the car in San Francisco for the weekend, but for routine errands or parking in my neighborhood overnight? Nope. Commence the public flogging.
Idiot #3: Best Buy
What with my completely inoperable stereo (flog flog), I set off to replace it right away. It seems a little frivolous, but really, I cannot live without my car stereo. My sanity would suffer. Without the stereo I spend all that time in the car thinking. We do not want that.
I found what I wanted, on (slight) sale if you purchase it on the Best Buy website. There are two components to purchase — the stereo and the iPod connector wire. (Yes, I’m totally upgrading from my 1-CD player stereo to a fancy dancy stereo featuring not one but two technologies that didn’t even exist in 2001.) I attempted to buy both items online for in-store pickup. Of course, with five stores in the greater Sacramento area, I couldn’t manage to get both the connector wire and the stereo at the same store, so I opted for in-store pickup of the stereo and had the connector shipped from online. And then the only store that listed the stereo in stock e-mailed to say, no, actually, they don’t have it, would I like to have it shipped from online? So now I await two packages sent via two different methods from two different distribution centers. We’ll see how much of a headache it is to get the Best Buy store here to install the online-purchased equipment.
Definitely Not Idiots: GEICO
Oh my gosh. I cannot say enough good things about my GEICO experiences, both here and when I had a little somebody-bumped-into-my-parked-car-and-didn’t-
leave-a-note-and-now-I-need-a-new-quarterpanel incident in DC. Seriously, I wouldn’t be too put out by the suggestion that perhaps I owe them a sexual favor or two. The customer service rep was great and got me an appointment right away on Thursday (not in the most convenient location, but the service was good so I won’t complain) and then the claims guy went through everything, waived my deductible and cut me a check for the dashboard component that they were able to pop back into place, rather than having to replace entirely. The check, coincidentally, will cover the cost of the new stereo. Later, I uploaded my police report right to the claim section of the website. Anything I can do, myself, electronically, without having to call or fax or mail a form to someone makes the Efficiency Queen in me absolutely jump with joy.
Idiot #4: Moi
Um, did you know my gym has a Turbo Kick-Boxing class on Tuesday nights? Because I did not. I was aware of (and have occasionally attended) the Monday afternoon class, but it doesn’t fit well in my schedule. Tuesday nights, though? I am so there. I am also so sore, holy jeez. Apparently I do not jab, hook or uppercut enough in my daily life — my upper back muscles are rather stiff and hurty today. Perhaps I should start hitting people more often … uh, it’s part of my training.
Idiot #5: The Wisconsin Alumni Association
And I quote:
Welcome to UW-Madison!
You’re about to begin a new chapter of your life — your fist year at the University of Wisconsin. We’re here to help make the transition to college (and to Wisconsin) a little easier.
You and your parents are invited to meet other first-year students from the New York City area. Get the inside scoop about campus life from recent Badger grads. And learn some red-and-white traditions before school starts.
Oh, where to start? How about with the fact that I already have a degree from this esteemed institution? Or maybe the fact that I do not currently, nor did I as a high-schooler, live in the tri-state area. Why did you send this to me??? At any rate, I hope those who do attend the NYC send-off have as much fun as I did sending off students from the DC area, and, more importantly, that the incoming freshman have as fabulous of a UW-Madison experience as I did. If I could make one suggestion, it would be this: less library time, more hockey games.
I didn’t set out to write this. But here we are — it’s written and I’m about to hit “Publish.” I suspect that the timing is all wrong, but that’s been a hallmark of our relationship, hasn’t it? Why should today be any different?
I didn’t go looking for it. The box, that is. Steve made mention of cashing in his savings bonds, gathered at various childhood functions — spelling bees, science fairs, Christmas gifts — and I wondered where my stash of similarly-procured savings bonds was. Initially I thought maybe they were still at home, in the stack of stuff on Dad’s desk, at the back of the slotted organizer where the bills go, next to the electric calculator and the sheet of return address labels. I should ask him about that, I thought. But then I remembered looking at them in DC, in the dining room of last house I lived in, so that means they must be here, somewhere, in California.
Curious as to the whereabouts of those darn savings bonds, and coupled with the fact that I’m meeting my financial planner this week and need to dig out some financial documents for her, I went through my Drawer of Important Documents. Stuff in there doesn’t go back very far, most of it was from the first month I lived here — utility hook-ups, new cell phone plan, and a healthy collection of receipts, warranties, and related service plans — but there was plenty in there that could be tossed.
I went merrily along, opening envelopes with old bank statements, various bills that I’ve long since paid online, insurance policies that have expired or been updated. Into the trash went all the envelopes and return envelopes and envelope-stuffer advertising printed in color on slick, shiny paper. Into a pile for shredding went everything with my name, address and account number on it. What a waste, all those trees.
I yanked open the bottom drawer — old, sticky, built-in cabinetry that’s wood-on-wood, without the benefit of modern wheel-and-tray drawer slides — to retrieve the shredder, and that’s when I saw the box. Most days I forget all about it. Occasionally I’ll remember it’s there before I open the drawer, and I’ll flip it off or stick my tongue out at it or pointedly ignore it. Even more rarely, it doesn’t register and I can ignore it quite absent-mindedly. The box, however, always punches me in the gut.
The box. The Box of Us. The things you sent me. Rough drafts of some things I sent you. Ramblings, musings, questions for you written on the back of the lead pages of my print jobs at work. The symphony program — an exact match to the one that contributed to one of your countless breakups months later. The picture.
You kept the Box of You and Her. You packed the stuff up and put it on shelf, sure, but you kept it. Convenient for when you got back together, huh?
(And, oh, if this were not a public forum I would use her name right here, you know I would, because it makes you uncomfortable, I see you squirm at the sound of her name coming out of my mouth, how it forces you, for a split second, to not compartmentalize the two of us. Oh yes, that is not an accident. Very few of my word choices are an accident.)
You threw away everything I wrote, everything I sent, everything I didn’t think I could or should say but pushed myself to say anyway. It didn’t occur to you that I’d want me back. I didn’t need you to keep any of it, but I sure as hell thought I would get it all back.
I keep the Box of Us, despite the fact that it always punches me in the gut. No, I keep the Box of Us because it always punches me in the gut. I keep it not because I want to remember Us, but because I want to remember that I kept Us, while you did not. You threw Us away, literally and figuratively.
You kept the Box of You and Her, anticipating, perhaps, that she would remain in your life. You pitched the things of Us, assuming that I would cease to be part of your life. Well, I think, gathering up the shredder and slamming the drawer shut,
I can certainly make that happen.
I never did find those savings bonds.
Awesome. Just what I wanted to deal with on my way to work this morning. Three years in DC without a problem and I have to put up with this shit from you no-good, worthless-piece-of-shit, Sacramento motherfuckers???
Ahhh, the old triangular window trick. I hate you.
Couldn’t get the stereo, but, please, have the faceplate instead. I don’t actually like listening to the stereo anyway — it’s just for show.
Thanks for leaving me the cell phone charger, though, that was nice of you. Too bad I upgraded my phone three months ago and have absolutely no use for it.
What? You don’t like my collection of Dave Matthews and Pearl Jam CDs? No need for a yoga mat? Or a canvas tote bag? Or my shower stuff for the gym? Really, I would’ve thought you valued personal health and well-being more than that.
My cursory investigation shows not a single missing CD. I’m a little bit offended. Hopefully I’ll find my favorite sunglasses under the pile of maps in the front seat, but if not, I totally understand. I’d steal them, too. Hmm, I should check the contents of the trunk…
And yes, I felt it necessary to post this on my blog before filing a police report or calling my insurance company. (In my defense, I called the police, but the automated lady told me to go online to fill out the police report. Apparently this is so mundane and routine that they won’t dispatch an actual human being to participate in this transaction.)
FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCKERS indeed.
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