Historic

Ok, so I'm currently watching CSPAN, and I don't plan on voicing my particular opinion about health care reform at this time. But I do want to share with you something that happened tonight as I was discussing it with a Facebook friend.

You see, this friend and I disagreed. And about halfway through the discussion, I made a comment about economics. And then one of this guy's friends commented on my comment. He told me that I was right, but that I must have gotten a C in econ, unless I blew my professor. He then went on to describe other areas in which I was a dumb woman, and in which I must have blown people to get by.

My friend didn't speak up for me. In fact, he joined in, saying that people like me should be hung for treason. And when I defriended him for his personal attacks? He made comments about how my friends and I were all racists, because he's a person of color, and how we could all go f&*k ourselves.

Can we all agree that this is wildly inappropriate, regardless of anyone's political persuasion?

The Tale of the Incredible Car-Eating Pothole

Basically, this week has been a big comedy of errors, some of which I can laugh about now, and some of which ... well, we just won't talk about those.

But, I will tell you the one that perhaps takes the cake. It's definitely funny, but in the "Oh dear god this is really my life" kind of way. Mmmk? Mmmk.

So, I live in a city that may or may not have hosted the G-20 last year. While it was freaking annoying to have our city overtaken for about a week (but cancelled classes, yay!) the one truly great thing about hosting was that the city finally fixed all the damn potholes in the already narrow, curvy, and hilly roads. It was a glorious time to live in the city.

That is, until the Snowpocalypse. Because, you see, the city evidently blew its wad on the G-20, or on strippers and candy (or strippers named Candy) and almost unilaterally refused to plow the freaking roads. And we all know what that means -- potholes the size of Texas. Generally we've been very careful about driving around them, but occasionally one opens up almost before our eyes and you get that unpleasant jolt that only a pothole can provide.

Unfortunately, it's not just inconvenient anymore. The potholes have started devouring cars. The Boy and I were out driving to get dinner after our evening class this past Wednesday. It was around 7:30, so quite dark, and we were headed down a busy street, when all of a sudden there was a very large jolt, followed by much of the Boy's swearing. Initially, we thought we were fine, but about 10 seconds later, we realized the tire was completely flat.

To our credit, we were one of four cars pulled over for the same purpose, and one of those other three had two flat tires (and another whose occupants were a college-aged couple who had no jack, no tire iron, and, as it turned out after we helped them, a flat spare). We (and by we, I mean the Boy) went about changing the tire with the crappy jack that came with the car, while I stood there holding the lug nuts and occasionally cranking the jack while the Boy figured out which way the tire was supposed to go on, and traffic sped past, honking and flipping us off. After we got the tire off, we discovered that the rim had a very serious crease in it, and we have yet to find a shop that is in the business of replacing rims.

So, we're driving my Cobalt exclusively for the next few days, until the Boy gets his situation figured out. And on that note, if any of you out there on the interwebz know a guy in my town who will replace the rim in a Ford Focus, please leave me a comment.

Aftershocks of SnoMG, or Why Crazy Pedestrians Will be the Death of Me

About two weeks ago now, we got about two feet of snow dropped on us in one weekend. The city shut down, trees fell from the weight of the snow, and snow plows didn't get everything dug out for about a week. In that time, we walked to the grocery store, missed three days of school in a row due to cancellations (a school record), and generally took a break. I still had work, but largely worked from home because the buses were unreliable.

During that time, we never once lost power. We had heat and gas and cable (and more importantly, internet)  throughout the snow storm and its aftermath. We were very, very fortunate. But today, as I was lying in bed sick as a dog with the heating pad and a huge glass of water, the power went out in the entire complex, and the nearby buildings. The Boy was in the shower, and got to finish his bathing by very romantic candlelight (and luckily had enough hot water left).

In our frustration, we decided to drive to our evening class, in case we needed to find a place to grab some free wireless, heat, and buy food after class in the event that our power was still out.

Here is where I will mention that, despite the roads being completely clear, some people still have not shoveled their walks, leaving a nice slushy combination of snow and ice on the sidewalks in some places. It can be a bear to get through if you're in a hurry, so some people choose to walk on the street in those areas, provided traffic allows.

So, it's nearly rush hour, and the Boy and I were headed to class on a very busy major thoroughfare. There was a city bus in front of us, and it was approaching its next stop. And out of nowhere, a woman in tall black heels RAN out into the street right in front of our car to avoid the snowy sidewalk without even so much as LOOKING at traffic. The Boy slammed on the brakes, honked, and we both yelled profanities warnings at the idiot frantic pedestrian. She never so much as turned around and acknowledged that she almost killed herself with our car. I was sorely tempted to roll down my window and yell not-nice things at her, but refrained.

My blood pressure had almost returned to normal when, at the stop after the incident, she GOT OFF THE BUS. She had run into traffic, nearly caused an accident and her own disfigurement to ride the bus literally 2 blocks. My blood pressure shot right back up, and I spent the rest of the car ride muttering offensive things under my breath.

This is why one day my head will explode. And why we can never have a "swear jar" in my house.

Neigbhorly

The Boy and I have a neighbor. Well, to be fair, we have lots of neighbors in our min-complex. Some are friends, some are acquaintances, and some ....

Some are the woman I'm going to write about today. We'll call her Melissa, to protect her identity.

Melissa is a problem neighbor. For one, she gets a ridiculous number of packages. The Boy and I are convinced that she never buys anything in a store, but instead has it shipped to our complex. This wouldn't be a problem, per se, if she didn't leave them sitting in the common entry area, blocking everyone else's ability to get safely into and out of our building. I know she comes home at night (we can hear her ... this is next up), so there's really no excuse for not picking up your packages from ebags and taking them upstairs. To add insult to injury, if your'e coming in or out at the same time as Melissa, she doesn't acknowledge that you're there, even if you hold the door for her.

Additionally, Melissa is LOUD. Our apartment building does not have thin walls. We lived in the same building last year on the second floor, not the third, and never heard anything from our neighbors unless they were vaccuuming. But Melissa?

I can tell you that Melissa likes to watch Alton Brown and the Office on DVD. She also likes to fight with her boyfriend late at night. And, most importantly, Melissa likes to have sea lion sex.

Yes, I said sea lion sex. And yes, I may have needed a glass of wine or three to even TYPE that phrase. It is exactly what it sounds like. It is emotionally damaging to listen to. This is especially true when you're a couple of tired grad students who want nothing more than to sleep, and all you can hear is ... sea lion. Suffice it to say we really, really wish we didn't have to live with Melissa next door anymore.

I could handle any one of these infractions on its own. But rude + loud + leaves boxes everywhere for days upon days in the common area + makes loud sea lion noises at night? I'm hoping she didn't renew her lease.

Unromantic

I'm not what you would call a "romantic" person, despite being in a relationship. I don't expect flowers, I dont really celebrate Valentine's Day. As a couple, we don't really do "date night." We DEFINITELY don't do Valentine's day.

We each have different reasons we're not traditionally romantic. Mine's easy: I come from a very German family. We didn't express emotions growing up. There weren't hugs. My parents didn't say "I love you." We expressed love through more practical endeavors, like the fact that I never wanted for anything. Now, there were exceptions. My Dad was better about being demonstrative in his way than my mother - he came to things I did, even in college. I had a concert? Dad was there. I was in a play? Dad was there. It wasn't always this way, but after he missed a very key event in my life, thinking it didn't matter, I told him about it. And for everything else, he's always been there. It's very sweet, really. But we still don't say, "I love you."

So to recap: Momma Insomniac shows love by buying things (that you may or may not need, but she's a worrier). Papa Insomniac shows love by being physically present (or calling).

Now, Boyfriend is romantic. He's just everyday romantic, and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible. When we first started dating he weirded me out, frankly, because he always wanted to be hugging or kissing me. ALWAYS. He was always saying things like, "I like you. A lot." And I was thinking, Uh, yeah. I know that because we haven't broken up, duh.

It was a big change. But my big blond Irishman doesn't do flowers or candy. Know why? Because he prefers to do little things. All the time. Like dark chocolate when I'm having a bad day. Taking the first shower because I do not like mornings. Packing my lunch in the mornings (did I mention I don't do well with mornings?).

So, we're not celebrating Valentine's Day, but I'm fine with it. Instead, I'm taking him suit shopping (he has an interview for a REALLY awesome job in about a week and a half). We may eat lunch out. And then we'll come home and cook dinner together. We'll do some law reading, and we'll go to bed.

maybe it's unromantic. Or, maybe we both know we love each other, so the flowers and candy are unnecessary. We'd rather just be us.

I'm not much for introductions ...

... so let's just jump right in, shall we? And where better to start than with a tale from the depths of crazy encountered on public transportation?

I'm standing at my typical downtown bus shelter when a skinny (read: crack-addled) woman walks up, stands behind me, and starts touching my shoulders and hair. I'm now in a precarious position: I don't like it when the crazies touch me, but ... well, she's crazy. I figure it's better to engage and hope she stops than to ignore her or try to get her to stop by voicing displeasure. So we engage in polite small talk, and Crazy McCrazypants stops touching me. She tells me she has two pairs of long underwear on. I'm not sure I needed to know that, but it's a typical encounter. 

And then a bus pulls up. Crazy hitches up her jeans and tries to get on, but the bus driver, a very large man, yells, "NO. NOT YOU. GET BACK." 

And it's on.

Profanities are exchanged, and McCrazypants decides that the door closing in her face means she's not getting on the bus, and shuffles back to the bus shelter. Her face gets hard as she tells me that she once assaulted that bus driver.  

"I got an aggravated assault on my record, babygirl. I needed mort-gage money, babygirl. And I just wanted some money, and he got up in my face. So I pulled out my .38. He said he won't let me ride no more."

The best part? She sounded surprised.