U Pick Peas

Today was my first pick-up from my CSA. It officially started last week, but I was in transit from Minneapolis.

Today's distribution included a "U Pick Peas" share. I got to walk through the farm, walk along the rows of planted vegetables, with all all their bugs, mud, flowers, and vines.

The clouds were heavy and low. The wind (not a breeze) was blowing. The ground was muddy and my feet were still hurting.

Still, I was happy.

I honestly believe that the Earth could heal herself of all her ills if only we'd go away. But, since we're here, I think we should use every chance we've got to revel in the infinite beauty that is snap peas hanging on the vine, waiting to be plucked.

Handing In My Feminist ID Card

Sunday night, to celebrate the Tony Awards, I painted my toenails green. If you don't understand the reference, well, you just haven't seen enough Cabaret.

My toenails made me happy. Big smiles ensued.

And yesterday, anticipating a rough day, I wore cute little strappy shoes which showed off my happy feet to full advantage.

The only problem is, cute little strappy shoes are not so good for the walking.

I forgot I had a lunch date about 15 blocks away. When I realized that I did, I basically attempted to run the entire distance. In cute little strappy shoes.

I have blisters on both sides of both feet - big toes, and little toes. I have cuts around the back side of my ankles. I even have a blood blister on the bottom of one big toe.

It took me almost 30 minutes to hobble back to the office. I was one building away when I ran into my friend, Braba. Braba is the antithesis of the girly girl. Not that she doesn't appreciate a fine woman in a fine dress. But catch her in one? Never!

She took one look at me and asked, "What the **** is wrong with you?" I'm sure I looked like QuasiMoto. I explained the cute little strappy shoe issue.

"Then why the **** did you wear them, if you can't walk in them?"

"But... look how good my toenails look."

Do I even need to tell you the look I got?

Dostoevsky

I had a lot of head clearing to do this weekend. Not only was there the fun and games with Mr. Zips which, after a two-hour, very late night phone call still needs to be worked through but at least we've determined that we want to work it through. But Thursday night the wonderful Peeps decided to play catch with my mobile phone, knocking it into a useless oblivion. And then, Friday, Napolean (shocking!) pulled a passive-aggressive move on me and in my fabulous state of mind, I flew off the handle and wound up swearing and slamming doors. (I'm sure that will come back to haunt me in my annual review...)

So, yeah, it was a rough week. To rejuvinate from it, I went on a lot of long walks this weekend. It was definitely nice to see my neighborhoods leisurely, all of the kids out playing basketball in their driveways, moms & dads weeding or washing cars, older folks hanging out on their porches drinking coffee and tea. Sometimes, it's really nice to live in a quiet, bedroom community.

On one of my rambles, I noticed a bunch of white spraypaint graffiti on mailboxes and walls. One word, repeated over and over. "Dostoevsky."

What?

Why would someone tag "Dostoevsky" in the middle of Watertown, MA? What is the state of mind of the late-night, drunken teenager that s/he wants to invoke the name of the Russian existentialist novelist? Why "Dostoevsky" and not, say, "Green Day?"

Every time I feel like I'm standing on the ledge of sanity, have had a rough week and I'm ready to pull my hair out, I see something that reminds me I'm probably not as bad off as I thought.

Five Stages

How quickly can one go through the five stages of grief? Because I'm pretty sure I'm hitting a new record.

I think Mr. Zips and I have broken up. I'm not sure. I might be sure, except he left tonight in order to avoid confrontation and then had to hang up before we resolved things because his phone was dying in a technological mirror of passive aggressiveness. (See - this is anger.)

He said we had to talk. Work some things out/through. This is something I've known for awhile. But why on Earth he would bring this up the day I flew back from a really long trip away is beyond me.

I've spent the evening sobbing hysterically, getting sick, making bargains with myself and The Universe, obsessively calling him, and basically falling apart. Oh yeah, and drinking bourbon. Tomorrow's gonna be fun at work.

I'm not sure whether the ignition for this particular discussion was the talk he had w/ his friend Dentist Boy the other night (funny how every time they see each other, Mr. Zips and I have to have a "discussion"...) or the fact that I texted him from the airport. I was killing time and thought it might be nice to send him a postcard. Unfortunately, his address was written down in my planner, which was in my suitcase, which was somewhere between NWA check-in and cargo hold. So, I texted. "19 Street Name, Holyoke?" I was off by 7 digits. This makes me a bad girlfriend. Never mind that I am still sending birthday gifts to my BESTEST friend in the world somewhere around Halloween b/c I can't remember her exact birthday and I'm too ashamed to ask or the fact that I can't for the life of me remember the last name of my Aunt Susan and Uncle Bob w/ whom I had a fabulous dinner on Saturday. But not knowing the exact street number of my boyfriend - that's breakup fodder.

OK - so maybe I haven't progressed through the stages yet. Maybe I'm stuck on anger.

All this said - all night long all I've been able to think about is how funny Mr. Zips is, and how caring. And how he'll bend over backwards to be nice to you. And how much I really, truly, and honestly, love him. And how much it sucks that, in the grand scheme of things, that might not always amount to much.

I have no idea what I'm going to do or how I'm going to sleep tonight in the same bed that he's slept in the last four nights.

For fuck's sake - being in love really REALLy fucking sucks.

Irony

For the past three days, I have been bitching about the "hospitality" service here at the Hyatt Regency. Now, usually, I love the staff at Hyatt hotels - they've always gone above and beyond. But not so much at the Twin Cities variation. There's no concierge, the bellstand has been constantly vacant, and my room has been less than cleaned. Used glasses are left on tables, no fresh soaps, yesterday the bolster pillows weren't even put back on the bed.

But today, I am very glad the cleaning crew sucks.

Background: I have been wearing the same pair of earrings for about three years without change. They're Celtic trefoils my brother bought me for Christmas and I adore them. I know it's boring to wear the same pair of earrings day in and out, but we all know about my fashion sensabilities.... Besides, they make me happy.

Two days ago - somewhere between waking up, schlepping two big FedEx boxes to the convention center, putting up our booth, working out, showering, and taxi'ing to St. Paul, I lost the right earring. I pretty much gave it up for dead.

Today, while I was doing crunches in front of the TV, I noticed something shiny over in the corner near the bed. No way, right? Housekeeping vaccuums, right? Wrong.

This kind of luck never happens to me. I'm going to bask in it.