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Archive for the ‘The Mister’ Category

If I had the time, the energy, a rhyming dictionary, and a firm grasp of iambic pentameter, I would write a sonnet to my Kindle.

That said, every time I slip the nimble little e-reader out of its case and curl up with it in bed, I feel…well…it’s like I’m cheating on my books. I look up at the shelves and I see them, gathering dust, no new additions for months and I sense…judgement. Through the broken spines and dog-eared pages I hear the voices of my fellow bibliophiles, like Becca, who, upon hearing I had purchased said Kindle refused to IM with me for at least 20 minutes. (Incidentally, she recently confessed that *gasp* now she wishes she had one too.)

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A few weeks back I was scouring Pinterest for, well, not much of anything at all, I was just looking for a distraction as most of us who log into Pinterest at 11 p.m. on a work-night are, and I came across this:

*Cue choirs of angels and a spotlight from heaven*

But then I saw the price tag. Being on a shoestring decorating budget, I was crushed.

*Cue trombone in a Debbie Downer Wah-Waaaahhh*

Thus, after much obsessing, I e-mailed the husband at work on Friday with a cryptic: We must go to the thrift store this weekend.

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There is a point where we must let go. We must say goodbye. We must accept loss.

We must understand that duct taping shoes is not a suitable alternative to replacing them completely. And the odor isn’t fantastic either. About six months into our relationship, I finally convinced Scott that it was time to bid adieu to his tried and true sneakers (which he claimed to have owned for several years more than is culturally acceptable). They weren’t duct-tape ready yet, but they were close.

And so it came to be that, on a cold January’s eve, we found ourselves shoe shopping at Nordstrom Rack.

And it was good. And I knew it would be good for a little while.

Until it wasn’t.

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I’m not a big believer in sports, personally.

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for watching sports, mostly because watching sports involves the extreme consumption of food and beverage, most of it unhealthful and therefore obscenely delicious. I’m just not into doing sports myself. At least, if it involves a ball.

I’ll yoga. I’ll pilates. I’ll elliptical. I’ll run (OK, fine, only if being chased). I’ll ride my bike.

If you throw a ball at me, my gut instinct is not to catch it, but to flail my arms in front of me in an effort to bat away the round object that threatens to invade my personal space.

It probably has to do with the time I broke my finger playing volleyball.

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I like to imagine myself as an explorer. A culture-seeker. A pseudo-jetsetter. A person who people look at and think “I wonder what Susan is going to do next? Where is she going? What is she planning?”

I roll the idea around in my mind over and over, especially on Sunday mornings, as I sit on the couch with my coffee, delighting in the imagery of it all. Then, finally, I rouse myself into a standing position around noon to brush my hair and change from my bathrobe into a sweatshirt.

I call this side of myself Aspirational Susan. I really like her. She’s kind of awesome. She’s who I want to be when I grow up. She inspires me to say things to Scott like: “You know what would be really fun? If we we drove to Atlantic City. Just because!” And then we all hop into the car and go. Scott has to come along because he helps rein Aspirational Susan in (she can get carried away sometimes), and also because he’s funny and has an excellent sense of direction.

For my soon-to-come birthday, Aspirational Susan had everything figured out: a trip to New York, a Broadway Show, a semi-fancy dinner, and cupcakes. Scott, it turned out, had other plans.

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We finally took our Christmas tree down this week. There comes a point when you have come to terms with the fact that the holidays are over, to eradicate the bright lights and glitter from your living room, to accept the fact that for the next 11 months a twinkly living room tree is not socially acceptable.

While it was up, Scott and I got into the habit of sitting with tea or desserts, watching the blinking bulbs, and chatting about any general thing. That tree was inspirational, sparking topics ranging from politics to world travel to literature. Now, we stare at the spot where it once stood and see a blank wall. I think that’s affected our ability to converse intellectually. In fact, I’m almost certain now that rainbow bubble lights were the source of our conversational prowess.

Now that the tree is gone, our evenings are more like this:

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On your wedding day, everything could go smoothly.

Or, you could end up setting up the chairs because the vendor decided to drop them off without actually removing them from the pallet (and your hair is already done and veil placed).

You could change the ceremony location at the last minute.

You could get so many calls to your cell phone regarding how the centerpieces (which you changed two days earlier because the vases you needed for your DIY project were out of stock and you had adjust accordingly) need to be set up on the tables that you just throw up your hands, head to the reception venue, and do it yourself instead of relaxing in your room with a latte, excited about your future. (more…)

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