Just When I Thought I Had Nothing to Blog About

Oh, Jon Bon Jovi, how I feel for you!

I can't tell you how horrible I feel that this is happening to you. Really. It's tragic. I mean, the only thing worse than Mijovi Energy Drink would be Yourjovi Energy Drink or (god forbid) Ourjovi Energy Drink.

And I thought my life had problems. I stand totally corrected.

Goodness of Vacations Can Be Measured in Just How Many Waffle House Stops You Make

For the record, I did 3 in 3 days.

Staycation

So next week, I have a vacation. Babygirl is with my baby daddy and I don't have to go in to work. I don't have to be anywhere except derby practice on Wednesday.

I am utterly lame in that I have nowhere to go and no money to go nowhere with and no one to go nowhere with no money with.

I won't have internet access to update you on my nothingness. My camera is broken, so no pictures of my nothingness.

This is going to be GREATEST. VACATION. EVER.

Actually, I woke up this morning thinking that on Sunday night, I might pile into my car and just take off in any old direction. I might come back. Then again, I might not.

Celebratin'

You know, I never cared too much about the birth of our nation. I mean, don't get me wrong - I'm thrilled to have had the good fortune to be born in America - but I can't say I get all weepy when Kroger starts running commercials that manage to both salute our veterans and announce a special on seedless grapes in the same 20-second spot.

Since being on my own, I've revised my own understanding of what the 4th is to me. Get ready, folks, cause it's wildly frivolous (and you've come to expect that of me, no?).

You see, everyone I know likes to celebrate the 4th of July with outdoorsy things. Picnics, barbeques, parades, swimming pools, state parks. Hell, when I was with my ex, we had an annual tradition of taking a picnic lunch to a local park on the fourth.

But I no longer have to live a lie. I can finally, finally be true to myself.

Because, if I'm being honest with me, I hate:
outdoors
heat
bugs
sweat that doesn't result from illicit encounters
poison ivy
plants that look like poison ivy
rocks
dirt
hiking
picnics
state parks
grass tickling my ankles
worrying about ticks
sun

Oh, yes. I know how bad that list looks.

I will be at a parade briefly tomorrow, but it's only because I'm actually in the damn thing. And my hatred of parades doesn't extend to situations where I get to wear rollerskates and look cute.

But because I'm just me now, I can (after the parade) celebrate the Fourth of July the way Little Baby Jesus intended: inside in my dark, cavelike-apartment in my panties with the A/C cranked, drinking chardonnay from a box, and eating brie without any accompanying crackers.

All The Difference in the World

Having two TVs in my apartment now means that I can watch "Gale Force" in all its Treat-Williams-y glory in my choice of rooms.

My Life is a Table

Every now and then, I get the urge to move. Move myself, move my body, move my life.

And since I know that it's not exactly practical to pick up and start a new life in Wisconsin, I respond to that urge in any number of ways. I buy a new outfit I don't need. I get a tattoo. I clean my office. I exercise. Occasionally, I move my apartment around, though there's barely room for the small amount of crap I have to be reconfigured in new and interesting ways.

Last night was one of those nights.

It started with a TV that I am "TV-sitting" more or less indefinitely from work. It's a huge TV and comes with a DVD player. I have at home already a very tiny TV that everyone I know laughs at, but that I think is helping me to develop keener eyesight as I squint to make out what those crazy kids from "Hell's Kitchen" are doing on a screen half the size of a postage stamp.

So I moved the tiny TV to my bedroom and put the massive one in the living room where I could instantly begin worrying about it falling over and crushing Baby Girl to death in a tragically ironic meeting of materialism and mass media and gravity.

But I digress.

The point is that this new monster in my living room made me feel antsy. Unsettled. The way I've felt in most aspects of my life, lately, now that I think about it.

And having no money for a new tattoo or an idea of what to permanently stamp myself with this time, I decided to move furniture. Not even a lot of furniture - just one piece, in fact. This may not seem like that big of a deal, but it symbolizes a lot, I think.

I pushed my dining room table up against my kitchen wall so that there's only room for 3 seats at it. I set it up as a desk. I put my little book-a-day calendar on it. I put my French workbook and flashcards on it. I put my little "pen pot" on it. I put my iPod dock on it to await a new baby iPod that I'm hoping the iPod stork will bring some day. I put a space on it for the new baby laptop I'm hoping the laptop stork will bring some day. I put my work in progress on it: articles I want to write, articles I want to read, books I need to do my research on. I put my bills to be paid on it.

If you're thinking that this maybe leaves no room to eat on, you're absolutely correct.

This slight change in the Space That Is Dirty Girl says these things:
1. Baby Girl and I are just going to eat at the coffee table from now on, since she loves eating there anyway (and I don't turn on the TV - I think she just likes her little chair that is just her size at the low table, and I like sitting on the floor, and who gives a fuck where we eat, anyway? She still gets her veggies).
2. I never have anyone over for dinner. I love to cook and I love to cook for people, but I just don't currently have the kinds of relationships with other adults that allow me to make dinner for them and use my matchy-matchy placemats, as much as I'd like to.
3. I have designated a space for me to exist in outside of my relationship to my child or to the TV or my bed (though I wouldn't mind fucking on my newly-defined desk).

It already works great, by the way - last night, I balanced my checkbook and drank a martini on it.

It's Not My Birthday, But I'm Dressed Like It Is

Last night, on a whim, I slept au natural.

I don't usually do this - it's too distracting, for one thing - and it just usually never occurs to me.

I have no idea what brought this on, but I was struck by the fact that one's one squishiness is much more readily apparent when one is lying on that squish and every slight movement makes the squishy...well, squish.

I've come to the conclusion that sleeping in the buff is overrated unless there's a second party in my bed. But maybe that's just me...