I was pleased to discover that the Democratic debate was a lot more civil this time around. It must have been because I was feeling a little emotionally, uh, fragile when I watched the last one two weeks ago, but it was all I could do back then not to curl up in a ball on the end of the sofa, stick my fingers in my ears, and beg them to PLEASE JUST STOP SHOUTING AT EACH OTHER!
1980: I am born in Epsom, a town in the south of England known predominantly for its horseracing tracks. (My mother never much thought she wanted children, she says, until she walked past a pram on the way to the post office one day, looked inside, and realized that actually, she really rather did.) My parents bring me back from the hospital in February, England gray and frozen, and my dad carries me---his first daughter, his first child---from room to room.
All day, I've been wondering why they call it Super Tuesday. I mean, super: who decided on that? I even Googled it---the 21st century's version of taking down the dusty encyclopedia, except with more accidental porn---to find out. Why did they go with Super Tuesday is what I want to know. Why not, say, Fantastic Tuesday? Or Big Tuesday? Or Terrific Tuesday?
--We're picking you up in ten minutes.
--Are you wearing jeans?
--No, I'm wearing a black skirt. What are you going to wear?
--I don't know. Everything I try on looks awful. It's my birthday! I'm supposed to look smoking hot!
--Well...I can change into my jeans, if you like. They'll add a good five pounds to me. I'll look a lot worse.
--You'd do that for me?
--Oh sure, it's your birthday, I don't mind.
The last straw came when I picked up a Valentine's card I thought Sean might like---it said "You're my triple letter word score" in scrabble tiles on the front---and turned it over to discover that it cost ten bucks. Yes, TEN bucks, the kind of ten that comes right after nine bucks, which, by the way, is still about six more bucks than I'm prepared to pay for a card, and we're talking tax included.
(This follows on from Zero Through Six, which is here.)
(This follows on from Seven Through Ten and, before that, Zero Through Six)
I don't know how you go about celebrating something, but here in the Nothing But Bonfires house, our celebrations look a little something like this:
Awwwww yeah, champagne and pizza, baby! Keeping it real!
(This follows on from Eleven, and before that, Seven Through Ten and, before that, Zero Through Six)
Do you know what I have been enjoying lately?
I have this really weird injury. I'm not sure how I got it, although I can only assume it was a by-product of the bicep curls I was doing at the gym yesterday afternoon---remembered pants! Remembered a shirt! Should get a medal!---but it's really, really painful. No, really painful. It feels like carpal tunnel syndrome, but in my…hmm, I'm not even sure how to describe this part of my anatomy, come to think of it. Picture your elbow. Then picture the other side of your elbow, you know, on the inside of your arm. The opposite of your elbow, if you like. The anti-elbow!
