Happiness

Jaime and spent a lovely afternoon together on Saturday. We had a great lunch at Sprig and Vine, did some wine tasting and shopping at Peddlar's Village, and capped the day at Bowman's Hill Wildflower Preserve. Basically, we spent a day doing things that I would have not been caught dead doing "for fun" in my youth. Somehow these things have become fun. Go figure.

I've been trying lately to do things that make me happy, even little things, like reading a book outside on my patio in the evening, taking a solo bike ride through the park, or buying myself a pair of shoes (retail therapy totally counts). I've been trying to avoid negativity, misery, and meanness, although it hangs like a miasma over some that I know. You know, "always look on the bright side of life" and "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything."

I don't really have a point today. Gah. Be nice to one another and to yourself, maybe? Don't sweat the small stuff?

Nesting and rearranging

For a while now, I've had this unsettled feeling at home. You know, the sort of feeling where you wander from room to room, with an itch to do "something," but you don't know what that something is? Well, my something turned out to be a slight rearrangement of furniture in the living areas of the house, allowing for not one, but TWO trips to Ikea in a single day. I'm quite proud that on the first trip, I managed to wrangle an entire Expedit shelving unit into my car all by myself, got it home and into the house all by myself (not without falling up my back steps and tearing a brand new pair of shorts open from hip to thigh), and then assembled, placed and loaded the fucker, again, all by myself. (Spouse had banned further Ikea furniture from the house, but I overruled him, because all other options cost roughly four times what this cost.) So, I feel a little more settled. (Am I the only person who walks by new pieces of furniture a million times and admires my own handiwork?)

Squirt Approves of New Furniture


On the second trip, we got a chair for the living room. I had always felt a little barbaric in our living room...we had only a couch and a recliner. The layout was not "conversational." If you visited me, it was like coming to the movie theater...you could sit and look at my TV, which is an arguably awesome 52 inch HDTV, but that's not why you came over, right? You came to chat with me about how cool my pets are, or what an old codger my husband has become (ask me how many times he called the police to report noise violations recently)! Now we can do this face to face, you seated across the room from me. It is, sadly, very exciting. There were other accessories purchased, a drawer knife rack (no more knife block taking up space on my counters!), some pillow covers (matchy matchy!), some throw blankets (more matchy matchy!).

So, here are two Ikea related observations. I got there so early on Saturday, the store wasn't actually opened yet, and I had to kill time in their restaurant. They give out free coffee in the morning. And (here is the observation), it is tasty! In fact, it is so tasty that I will actually make a point to get a cup on future visits. Secondly, you know who I would like to meet? The guy who has the job of "undesigning" the furniture, so that it fits into flat boxes. Because this chair here...



...it was in a flat box. And that just blows my fucking mind.

The Situation

Somehow or another, I found myself in a club in North Wildwood on Saturday night. Trust me, this is not my scene. However, this is a moment that will live forever in my memory, so why not share it with the internet?

Picture this. I am standing against a high top table along the fringes of the room, arms crossed, going on my third hour of waiting for a good song to be played by the DJ (preferably one without the same stupid techno beat that he's been playing over and over and over again), being the responsible designated driver, and having had nothing alcoholic to drink because it's possible that I will be called upon to drive us to another club soon. I'm entertaining myself by watching the drunk people around me perform elaborate courtship rituals which involve lots of fist pumping and dancing while holding their drinks. (I surmise that this is why white people are rumored to have no rhythm, that if they would just put the drinks down, they could let their inner rhythm demons loose.) I am amazed at the number of men who have definitely spent a lot more time fixing their hair tonight than I did. I see evidence of Jersey Shore style blowouts and ample usage of hair product. As the hours have passed, the crowd has gotten younger and drunker. I am convinced that there are at least some boys in possession of fake IDs, because they don't look old enough to shave.

So, me, leaning against table, arms crossed. A gentleman is passing by the table, in possession of the aforementioned blown out hairstyle, a popped collar polo shirt, and a fabulous tan (Gym Tan Laundry, perhaps?). He stops in front of me. He steps closer, reaches down, and uncrosses my arms from my chest. He leans in and says, "This is very negative body language that you have goin' on here. Open these arms up. See, better." Shocked that a stranger would dare put his hands on me, I can only stare. He leans in closer, plants a kiss on my cheek, whispers in my ear, "You're beautiful," and shimmies his way onto the dance floor. I am struck dumb, and turn in shock to my companions, who ask, "Did he just lay one on you?" "Yes. Yes, he did." And then I laugh, because it is just that ridiculous.

I even managed to dance to a few horrible techno songs after that. Apparently, a kiss from a stranger is as good as a few shots.