Exhausted Recap: GWTW

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I tell myself stories. And sometimes, when I’m feeling completely uncreative, I’ll retell books or movies.

I come by this coping mechanism honestly, as I have a long history of hanging out in bed, awake. This might have something to do with me being a night owl and, well, like normal humans, my parents wanted their daughter to go to bed before midnight. So, I’d lie there and make up complex games, or my own plot twists for “General Hospital.”

Anyway, I woke up last night in a dachshund sandwich. I couldn’t move, lest I disturb the delicate ecosystem of two sleeping doxies, a sleeping husband, and a labradoodle snoring on the floor. So, story time it was.

How long has it been since you’ve seen “Gone With the Wind?” For me, it’s been approximately 900 years. Obviously. The bedtime story I told myself last night went like this:

OK, so there’s this little princess named Scarlett, and she’s all, “la-dee-da.” And she’s in love with this guy named Ashley, even though he’s a ginger and has no soul. And Ashley decides to marry his freakin’ cousin instead of Scarlett. So, Scarlett’s all, “Fuck Ashley and his goody-two-shoes ho. I’m gonna marry this other dude.” And then the war starts, and there’s news of a horrible battle, and Scarlett’s like, “OMG, is Ashley OK?” And the people are all, “Yes, ma’am, but your no-name husband is dead.” And then she’s all, “I’m so sick of wearing black. Mourning is bullshit!” But then she starts to really like this Rhett guy, and there is just sexual tension all around them. But the war’s gone on, and Scarlett’s all hungry and poor, and she has to look after Ashley’s wife, who is all knocked up and in labor in the back of a wagon while Atlanta is burning. And then she dies or something. But Scarlett’s all, “Fuck being poor. Rhett, let’s get married.” And so they do. And they have a kid. And then they watch the kid break her neck and die and it’s horrible. And then Rhett is all, “Eff off, hooker” and he leaves. And then Scarlett’s all, “Well, I’ll figure out what I’m gonna do tomorrow.” And that’s the end of the movie.

I may be glossing over some of the nuances.

How do you entertain yourself when you can’t sleep?

An open letter to my new Facebook friend.

Oh, hey, pal! We went to elementary school together. You got in huge trouble for stealing your mom’s jewelry and giving it to your second-grade girlfriend. Are you still grounded?

You moved away, and we always wondered what happened with you. That’s why it was nice to get your friend request on Facebook. It looks like you’ve only had a Facebook account for 4 days, but you’re certainly making up for lost time. 119 friends already? Nice.

Listen, I know you’re new to the ways of The Facebook, so I feel the need to cut you some slack. However, you’re making me feel marginally homicidal.

It is just not cool to post song lyrics as your status update every 2 hours. It’s just not.

I keep waiting for you to settle into your new account, and maybe watch and learn as you see how others are using Facebook. If you do, you’ll notice that folks generally don’t post 10 times a day. They also don’t post cryptic song lyrics repeatedly.

It’s this hope that has so far prevented me from hiding you from my feed. But now, I’m kind of waiting for someone to call you out. I’m now kind of excited every time I see a new post from you. Maybe this will be the post to which someone comments to SHUT THE FUCK UP. Maybe this time you’ll learn the error of your ways and, oh, I don’t know, post something relevant instead of obscure lyrics from German thrash metal.

Maybe. But probably not.

Glad you’re not dead. Hope you are well. Shut up.

Love,
Cha Cha

P.S. Clearly, I'm just as dreadful as you remember.

Gird your loins: V-Day is coming!

Valentine’s Day is coming up faster than you’d like to believe. Although I have a general distaste for Hallmark holidays, I’m gonna tell it to you straight: if you’re in any kind of relationship, you need to know what the explicit expectations are for this holiday of lurve.

I have known deep, deep disappointment on Valentine's Day ... probably because I've dated some seriously disappointing boys. Check out the whole sordid tale at Aiming Low.

Also? Never tell a lady that you've never seen any girl eat as much as she just did.

Jesus was cold in the manger, but He was chill.

Our furnace died on Christmas Eve Eve.

I didn't write about it at the time because I was having a full-blown mental breakdown: 1 half Zoloft withdrawal, 1 half "It's a year-old furnace, you furnace people have already been at my house 47 hours this month and if you don't get the temp in my house above 55 degrees right this damned minute, I will rip off your heads and 8-pound, 6-ounce Baby Jesus in his golden fleece diaper would approve!"

Ahem. I was really feeling the Christmas spirit.

See, I still had PTSD from the furnace dying and it taking a few days and several visits from the admittedly very nice furnace dudes to get it back up and running. So, when My Guy and I discovered a mere 12 hours before our scheduled departure for holiday fun that the furnace had died again?

Well, I kind of lost my mind. I couldn't go to bed because I was pacing and yelling. I would make a great basketball coach - turns out, I'm really good at pacing and yelling. I wasn't mad at the furnace guys. I was just ... cold. I was cold, and exhausted, and depressed, and the possibility of us being late for Christmas with my family or missing it all together just pushed me over the edge.

I left a rather strangled voicemail for the furnace company at 10 p.m. They called me back at 6:45 a.m. Christmas Eve and said they'd be by in a few hours.

Fine. The temperature in the house was a balmy 56. I refused to get out of bed.

Finally, the furnace guys came, literally 3 wise men bearing gifts. They felt so bad about our run of bad HVAC luck that they brought us a Hickory Farms gift box. I'm pretty sure it was regifted and meat in casings generally heebs me out, but it was awesome. It made something shift within my angry little heart.

The wise men did a temporary fix that enabled us to leave without fear of our pipes freezing. I didn't have to rip off anybody's head. And while we were standing around the basement, waiting for the furnace to kick in again, 1 of the 3 wise men turned to the newbie of the group. "Look at that duct work," he said, pointing to the basement ceiling. "Look at how they (something technical) and (something else technical). It's a work of art. I love these old homes. They did it right."

Dammit. That was when all the wrath drained out of my cold little body.

The wise men viewed our misbehaving furnace as their personal challenge, and they were kind even in the face of my fake-nice crankiness. And they were clearly passionate about what they do. I am such a sucker for people who are passionate. Being nerdy isn't bad - it's awesome. I can't think of anything sadder than not having at least 1 thing that gets you excited, whether it's computer code or duct work.

So, the furnace worked, and I got a much-needed attitude adjustment, and we celebrated Jesus' birthday by sledding in my parents' front yard and I bruised up both my knees so badly that they are still tender 4 weeks later.

And it's all good. Merry belated Christmas, my friends.

And to the freakin' spammers who comment any time I post about my furnace? Please, give it a rest. I'm not gonna click through your link, and, clearly, I'm very happy with my HVAC servicepeople. I mean, c'mon - they even have their own Christmas carol.

Git yo music on.

My Celebrity Boyfriend Dave Grohl and his band Foo Fighters have a new album coming out this year. This means they will tour, which means that I will stalk them, hopefully across multiple cities.

Since I quit working at Corporate Behemoth, I no longer have free parking and occasional free tickets to all the concerts in town. It's slowed my concert going for sure. However, I have a long and storied history of ye old musical performances. Out of curiosity, I made a list of all the concerts I've attended in my life.

Dude. I came up with a list of 64 different performers that I've seen. They range from epic to somewhat embarrassing to absolutely awesome.

Some highlights:

First concert ever: Jerry Reed, of "Smokey & The Bandit" fame. He played a free show at an amusement park. I was 6. It. Was. Awesome. I love "East Bound and Down" to this day.

Concert that almost got me arrested: Long-time readers might recall me almost beating up a girl in line for a Billy Joel / Elton John concert. Her crime? The comment, "Wow, this line is insane. We're gonna hafta get here really, really early to see Daughtry! That line's gonna be even worse. I mean, their lead singer is Chris Daughtry. He was on AMERICAN IDOL!"

Side note: My husband refers to Billy Joel and Elton John as "Billy John." He truly can't tell them or their music apart. However, if you call them "Elton Joel," he gets really mad.

Concert where my mom kept handing me the binoculars and saying, "Look at his butt! Look at his butt:" Michael Bolton. Vet's Auditorium, Des Moines, Iowa, August 1992. Yeah, baby. I still love him.

Performers I've seen 3 or more times: Neil Diamond, Barry Manilow, James Taylor, Foo Fighters, REO Speedwagon, and Foreigner. I love them all.

Biggest disappointments: That would be a tie between Sting's solo show and the long-awaited Police reunion tour. Hmm ... see any common threads here? Any performers that might just be phoning it in?

Concert that made me realize that famous people are tiny and TV cameras must make normal people look like heifers: Sheryl Crow. I met her backstage at our shared alma mater, the University of Missouri. Her thigh was roughly the size of my wrist. I felt like a hulking ogre, and I'm only 5'3" on a good day.

Show that My Guy and I vowed not to tell anyone we attended but it was actually really, really good: Nickelback. Those guys work hard.

Concert where the audience was me and 10,000 male computer programmers: Rush

Band that went on tour after a long hiatus, effectively making my dreams come true: Crowded House.

Concert I attended because my parents ruined my life with their reel-to-reel tapes: The Kingston Trio. Guess who knew all the songs and all the words? Me. Guess who loved it and even got teary-eyed? Yep.

Band that still makes me happy because I saw them 10 days before college graduation and a girl from my sorority came up to me in the crowd and said I was the coolest girl in our entire house, and it totally made my day even though her hug made me slosh my pitcher (yes, my pitcher) of beer all over some random innocent bystander because OMG college is the best: Big Head Todd & The Monsters

Best investment: Springsteen. His tickets don't come cheap, but the man plays for a solid 3 hours - sometimes more. Your cost per minute of music is a fool-proof investment - nevermind the fact that he's amazing.

Grown-up concert in which I fell deeper in love with the performer: Mandy freakin' Patinkin. Hubba hubba. Oh, yeah, Patti LuPone was there, too, and she's great. But Mandy. Oh.

So. What was your first concert? Most memorable concert? Concert that I need to run out and purchase tickets to now?

Ceramic squirrels are a girl's best friend.

Did you stab anybody over Christmas?

A few women did. One lady stabbed her fiancé during an argument over the color scheme for their wedding. Another woman was so upset when her boyfriend came home without beer on Christmas that she beat and stabbed him with a ceramic squirrel.

A ceramic squirrel.

Honey, you know I've got an opinion on this. Check out my take on ceramic-squirrel-on-human violence at Aiming Low.

Marriage + Cake = Awesome.

I had a horrible headache last night. It was the kind of headache where you collapse on the bed without taking off your boots.

I laid there. I considered what it would be like spending the rest of my life curled up on the bed, wearing boots. I thought about all the good times I would miss, and the fun trips my husband would take without me. My head throbbed so that I wasn't even that sad - I was just numb, and accepting of the fact that my life was basically over. These things just happen.

Then, My Guy showed up. He sighed, and pulled my boots off. Then, he instructed me to get under the covers.

"I'm wearing clothes. I can't get in bed," I said.

"Sure you can," he replied. And he got under the covers in his street clothes. So I did, too.

He read. I let the ibuprofen kick in. Pretty soon, he whispered, "It was really smart of you to bring the chocolate cake upstairs. Because, you know, I really want some cake now, and the kitchen is so very far away."

"I didn't bring the cake. But you could go get it."

He left.

And then he came back with the cake pan and a fork.

He got back in bed, rested the cake pan on my back, and chowed down.

Despite my headache, that cake smelled so, so good. It smelled like the cure for all that ailed me. It was the answer to my headache prayers.

I propped myself up, and we took turns with the fork. We got cake crumbs in the bed. At one point, My Guy looked at me and said, "Hey, fellow adult."

We laughed. I felt 100 times better.

And that is why it's important to a) have a good cake recipe; and b) marry someone who isn't afraid to break the rules.