Valentine's Day, Our Way

So, the last week was dominated by the illness and ultimate loss of my Darling Dog.

Many thanks to those who have offered words to support, sympathy, and love. It helps. A lot.

But amid the emotional tumult of DDog's passing, Valentine's Day happened last week, too. Now, neither Drummer Boy nor I are romantic people in the sense of grand gestures and lavish gifts. The most precious thing we can spend on each other is time, because we just don't get very much together. We work full-time on different schedules, I've got a Precocious Daughter to wrangle, he's got his music...and when I can manage it, I have my writing. For the most part, we have one weekday lunch and one Sunday afternoon/evening together per week. That's it. The rest of the time it's sending each other goofy emojis on Facebook Chat and waiting for our next window of togetherness.

I'm particularly fond of Snoopy stickers.

And Sinister Oyster.
Because I'm abnormal.

Anyway, I was not expecting to see Drummer Boy on Valentine's Day. It fell on a Tuesday, which is not typically a day he's available for lunch. And since he frequently works evenings, I assumed last Tuesday would be one of them.

But it wasn't.

You guys, I got to see Drummer Boy on Valentine's Day. We spent the evening together, mostly watching TV and helping PDaughter with her homework. Romantic AF, right?

Remember, I find this adorable.

But it was wonderful. He didn't get me candy (which I don't eat) or flowers (which...well, I love flowers but I wasn't expecting them). I didn't get him anything. But we had time, which was the bestest thing of all.

Oh, he didn't come entirely empty-handed. He brought me this.

This is a 1/32 scale die cast model of a New Beetle. Not a New New Beetle, which is available now, but a New Beetle, which is what I drove for almost 10 years.

Is it painted with roses and sunflowers? Why yes, it is.

My Bug, Tic Tac, had a sunroof. But then you couldn't see
the pretty roses on the roof.

And it has something Tic Tic didn't have: Pretty happy eyes.

My Bug had blank starey eyes that cost fifty bucks a pop
to replace when they burned out.

Guys, in addition to being the sweetest gift ever, this little model Bug is remarkably detailed. I'm impressed by the accuracy.

I'm going to go into New Beetle Geek Mode for a bit. First, this is a post-2002 model New Beetle. You can tell by the headrests. My 2002 Bug, a limited-edition model in Luna Green, was the first to feature solid headrests rather than "donut-style" ones. You can also tell because the tail lights are horizontally divided, rather than the "eyeball" style that came in around 2006.

I said geek, I meant geek.

Also, it has a realistic dashboard, true-to-life door panels, and even the ever-annoying cupholders that didn't hold anything larger than a 12 oz. can of soda.

From parking brake to hubcaps, this is an accurate tiny version of the Bug I love and remember.

But this isn't about arcane Bug-geek trivia.

It's about the fact that Drummer Boy didn't get me flowers, candy, or jewelry for Valentine's Day. Instead he got me something he knew I would love and appreciate.

It wasn't expensive. I can't wear it on my wrist or finger or earlobes. And probably a majority of people - men and women - don't consider a model Volkswagen Beetle a particularly romantic gift.

Except it is. It's the most thoughtful, loving gift my Drummer Boy could have given me. Because it shows he knows me and understands me. And that means more than any stupid expensive gift.

I love you, Drummer Boy. 

Shallow Psyche Theater, Starring Vincent Price as My Subconscious

I haven't shared one of my stupid, weird-ass dreams with you in a while.

Like this one.

Or this one.

Or this one.

Not one of mine, but could be. Could be.

Last night, I dreamed that I was with my family, by which I mean not actually my family, but a random assemblage of kids and adults that my subconscious threw together. Will Forte may have been one of them. Or maybe Will Ferrell. Also, Bamm-Bamm.

Don't you feel more normal and well-adjusted
already? You're welcome.

So this ragtag "family" and I made the rounds of several places in my dream-neighborhood in a repeating loop, with each visit slightly different from the last. This is a hallmark of my dreams: Continually revisiting places and trying without success to repeat my experiences each time. Because change is inevitable and you can't recapture the past, blah blah blah.

I'm sure I've mentioned how blindingly obvious my dreams tend to be, right?

Anyway, I was not a particularly good person in this dream. We went into a sort of fancy shop and I knocked over a spinning rack of postcards, which scattered everywhere, and I basically said "Sorry about making you clean that up." We went to someone's house and I demanded to use the private bathroom in the back, then had to be shown how to close the strange, elaborate doors so I could do my business.

Not quite that creepy, but almost.

Then there were the ants.

I noticed that everywhere we went, there were ants. Swarms of the little fuckers, crawling around on everything.

Asleep or awake, I am not a fan of ants.

Don't give me that look. You don't like me, either.

Unsurprisingly, my reaction to the swarming ants in my dream was to try to kill as many of them as possible.

In dream analysis, swarming ants represent internal chaos and turmoil while trying to move toward a goal or resolution. And the method by which you try to kill the ants symbolizes how you are handling said chaos and turmoil in your own life.

So let's just pretend for a moment that I myself have been experiencing turmoil while trying to achieve resolution to a personal problem.

I mean, you've read this blog before, haven't you?

The means I chose to deal with the ants in my dream was poison. And I sprayed that shit willy-nilly: where there were children, where there was food, in other people's homes and businesses, without regard to anybody's well-being or opinion of what I was doing.

In my waking life, I have no idea what kind of "poison" that correlates to.

Vincent Price sort of sums it up, you know?

Could it...could it be that the swarming ants represent the emotional difficulty of moving past a divorce and the poison symbolizes my reckless consumption of vodka to handle the transition, even though it's negatively affecting my child, my boyfriend, and my overall quality of life?

CAN I REALLY BE THAT TRANSPARENT?

Oh hell yes.

There were also flies in my dream, but you don't even want to get into the weird shit people claim flies represent.

Once again, gotta go with Vincent Price.

This has been another episode of Shallow Psyche Theater. May your dreams contain nothing but clumsily literal imagery. Good night.

Ants

The things you find when you clean out your house.

In the course of packing things up and moving things out so the contractors can do their renovation thing, I've found photos I'd forgotten about, letters I'd forgotten I'd received. Just today I found the commemorative highball glass (!) from my senior prom.

Today I also found something completely unexpected.

I was clearing off the shelf above my washer and dryer. Earlier in the day I'd noticed some ants crawling up the wall in the laundry room (OK, it's not a room, it's a closet in the kitchen; I've never had a proper laundry room, so at this point I'm willing to be delusional about it). Typically in the spring and summer, we get ants in the kitchen, some near the big window, some in the laundry, um, room. I always figured they were getting in through some minuscule crack. One of those Texas things.

Howdy.

Well, today I pulled down the box in which we store the pet supplies - brushes, toenail clippers, etc. - so the contractors can paint. And I saw...a goddamn anthill against the wall.

Now, I thought I had taken a picture of the goddamn anthill, but I guess I didn't, so here's a conceptual rendering of what I saw.

Actual size, for all you know.

My reaction was calm and rational, of course: HOLY FREAKING CROW, THERE'S A GODDAMN ANTHILL IN MY HOUSE, RIGHT ABOVE THE WASHING MACHINE.

I pride myself on my emotional detachment, dontcha know.

Gross.

There is another post to be written about how tired I am of living with someone who not only is a slob but who actively thwarts my aspirations to exist in a clean house. But not tonight.

Anyway, here I was, faced with an anthill living on a shelf in my kitchen. What could I do?

Enter the vacuum cleaner.

I'm pleased to report that a Hoover Wind Tunnel Vacuum makes short work of your indoor anthill situations. Use the wand attachment to suck up all the stray ants congregating along the top of the wall after obliterating the hill with bagless suction technology.

This bad mofo right here.

"Die, you bastards, die!" I may or may not have shrieked while hoovering the ants and their conical home into oblivion. Let's say I did, because it's cooler that way.

Then I emptied the convenient dust receptacle into the alley and shook loose the few stubborn insects that insisted on clinging to the wand attachment.

Goddamn ants. Making me look like a bad housekeeper.

I already have a soon-to-be-ex to do that. I don't need your six-legged selves calling me out, too.

Ants in my laundry room. Sheesh.

No match for me, Drunkards. No. Match. For. Me.