The Dirt Field

I suppose I owe the people who are kind enough to stop by here some kind of apology for disappearing and not bothering to write for a month. The last time I wrote, it was all, “I hate life! I hate me!” and then I stopped writing entirely and I’m certain more than one person has checked the obituaries for my name since that post. But I’m not dead; just fatally lazy, and now I’m trying to get back on track. In order to do so, I’m going to do another Bringing You Up To Speed On My Exciting Life post, so that when I reference my new pet jellyfish in a subsequent post, you’re not completely lost. That was a lie, as I do not own a jellyfish, but the part about the post was not, so sit back, relax, and turn off your computer, because my life is really rather dry material.

Did I Mention That I Bought A Condo?
Because I did, in scenic Reston, Virginia. When I was a kid, I hated old and grungy Reston and I thought condos were pointless and stupid. But I also wore glittery tee shirts tucked into my neon spandex, so clearly my judgment was a bit off. This particular condo is small and located in a building that was erected amidst roaming dinosaurs, but the interior is completely renovated and brand new. And of course it is, because did you really think I was going to buy a place where somebody else had ever pooped in my toilet? GROSS.

But The One Thing That Sucks About Owning This Condo
Is that I am going to have to move out of my parents’ house, where I have been comfortably living since the end of November. You would think that I would have gone absolutely crazy by this point (and you would be right), but I will actually miss living with them. I think they’re going to miss me, too. After all, who is going to use all of the toilet paper and red wine when I’m gone? Who is going to keep my dad company while he picks dead skin off his pet lizard? Who is going to feed the angry rabbit when my mom goes out of town?

Nobody, Because He’s Going To The Animal Shelter Tomorrow
I know it sounds horrible to give up the family pet, but you haven’t met this animal. He was so cute when he was a little bunny, and then he grew up and fell deeply in love with my mother. Whenever he was out of his cage, he would make persistent, lustful advances towards her appendages, and lunge at anyone who came near her. It got so bad that my parents had him neutered, but I think the vet accidentally removed his mind along with his testicles, because the rabbit is deranged. Nobody except my mother can get near him, and she can only do so very quietly and slowly. If anyone else approaches his cage, the rabbit goes wild and lunges at the bars while sprinting back and forth. It probably doesn’t help that Kobe likes to stick his tongue through the bars of the cage to lick the rabbit.

This rabbit has been a blight on the family for several years now and my mother has tried both selling him and giving him away, but with little success. The last woman my mom tried to con into taking the rabbit was discouraged when she explained, “He’s a bit forward.” It was the understatement of the century and was still enough for the woman to ignore subsequent phone calls. So last night at dinner, the How Do We Get Rid Of The Bunny talk came up again, and I made some comment like, “It’s not like you could try doping–” and then I stopped because there was really no good reason as to why not. It would totally work. We could drug the rabbit with sedatives, meet a potential buyer from Craiglist in a neutral location, let them play with the docile rabbit and send them home with him. Then we would just not answer the phone when they called to return Bunnicula. As an alternative, I also suggested the animal shelter, and in light of my plan of drugs and deception and my mom’s idea to sedate the rabbit into the Great Beyond, that ended up being the winning plan.

Speaking Of Winning Plans
In my efforts to be a champion mountain biker, I have completely changed my diet to reflect my new, healthier lifestyle. This was not my idea; my cycling coach had me keep a nutrition journal of every single thing I ate for a week and then made several suggestions for improvement. The things she recommended were obvious things, such as cutting out my excessive consumption of sweets and eliminating my addiction to Diet Mountain Dew, but it was still a painful conversation. Especially when the coach, a former Olympic cyclist and my personal hero, remarked, “You’re CERTAINLY getting enough calories,” and, “Did you really need TWENTY-FIVE meringue cookies?!?” I poured my one pound bag of conversation hearts down the garbage disposal right after that talk and swore off sodas as well. Which worked out really well for me, especially when the caffeine deprivation gave me terrible nightmares about roaches that had me shrieking myself awake in the middle of the night.

Which Is Fine, Because I No Longer Sleep Anyway
Instead, I stay up for half of the night doing workouts on a bicycle in the basement. I never plan to put my workouts off until the middle of the night, but it always happens. Each day, I plan to get the scheduled workout done early, but then life and work and procrastination and laziness intervene, and I end up starting at about the same time as everyone else goes to bed. This is especially inconvenient on week days, when I refuse to shower or take off my pajamas until after my workout is done, resulting in my pajamas being worn almost 100% of the time, with the exception of while I am riding. Most people would just skip the workout by the time eleven o’clock rolls around, but most people do not have to call their coach, The Olympian, and explain that they did not do their workouts. I live in fear of failing myself, of failing The Olympian, of failing you and the other six billion people I have never met, and so I ride late into the night and do not sleep.

But At Least I’m Taking My Medication
About a month ago, I visited my general practitioner to discuss my depression medication and she recommended that we double my dosage. She also recommended therapy, and I went so far as to call the psychologist to set up a time to talk to the receptionist about insurance and making an appointment, at which point I became exhausted from the effort of it all and canceled everything. Baby steps. At least I am taking the pills on a regular basis. Since doing that, I have been feeling progressively better and better, which is how I have managed to remain completely THRILLED about riding my damn bike ALL NIGHT LONG.

The End
So that’s it, you’re all caught up. Now when I write a post later this week about how the employees at the animal shelter cowered in fear and refused to take the rejected rabbit, you’ll completely understand. And then when I tell you that my family went to Plan E: Eat The Rabbit, you won’t be scandalized when I explain that it was the most deliciously satisfying revenge meal I’ve ever had. You’ll be okay with all of this, because I’m heavily medicated and no longer caffeinated, and the rabbit is a much healthier alternative then, say, a pound of gummi bears. And we’ll all live happily ever after. Except the rabbit.