from petco to pet? no.

I get these strange nudgings every time I'm in/near/fifteen miles away from a pet store. These nudgings could be comparable to a fallen-asleep foot or the tension that comes right before a first kiss.

In my lifetime, I've had (you probably should not hold your breath) in no particular order,

a

snake, turtle, iguana, dwarf hampster, cat, fat-tailed gecko, 2 dogs, at least 1.5 million fish, and... wow, maybe that's it.

See, I have this issue. I want a pet. All the time. The nudgings come and go in spurts, like cravings for chocolate or fruit, but they are there, prodding. Since I've been back to school, the nudging has been for a kitten. I can't help it. When it rains, all I want to do is walk into my apartment and fall asleep on the futon next to a furry meowing face.

So what do I do about these nudgings, you ask? I buy plants.

Maybe it's this inherent need to take care of something/one other than myself. It's weird. I don't particularly like it, but to deny the nudging...well, actually I should probably just ignore it. It may be time to buy another cactus. Or maybe a fish. Or...maybe I should invest in a farm. Hmm.

swooning for robots.

Okay, I'll admit, I used to be a trekkie.

Actually, that's a lie. The truth? I was head over heels for Data. Oh yes, I used to have a poster of the pale, emotionless hunka hunka over my rocking horse, so that after I ate my oatmeal in the morning before school, I could stare into those dead eyes.

I'm so weirded out by the fact that I used to swoon (at the ripe age of 8, I swooned, yes) over a robot. Gross. Sick. Dreamy.

Anyhow, regardless of my childish feelings for a man who was incapable of love, my roommate and I have decided to go all out this weekend. We're having a sci-fi/alien/outerspace movie fest. There is icecream with sprinkles and Shell involved. Some titles we've picked? Star Trek, Apollo 13, Armageddon, Mission to Mars, and if I have my way, we'll throw a little Alien in.

I'm taking this astronomy course (in which I merely show up for class... my test scores reflect, apparently, that I don't understand a thing) and figured that maybe my 4th grade love interest might teach me a thing or two.

Ha. We'll see.

a fine brew: teacups and lizards and tourists and "The Big O"

The entire Bassler family is on a plane right now, headed for Orlando, and I'm pouring milk on my cereal, angry that school must clash with my childhood.

Maybe Space Mountain won't be worth the wait. Maybe the lizards will be in hiding because of a temporary frost that has paralyzed the city...in September. Maybe, just maybe, my car didn't actually get busted up and I have enough money in my account to make a nice little weekend getaway.

But no. I will spend today printing off grad school applications, placing them neatly in folders so as not to confuse each school's terribly confusing app instructions.

I will spend tomorrow at a wine festival in Northeast (which I'm very much looking forward to) and hit up some craft fests down along the way.

I will spend all next week reading and re-working my thesis pieces (not to be confused with Reese's Pieces), and reading some more and failing another astronomy test.

I'd rather invest in Fast Passes and skip the wait. I'd rather sit in the living rooms of my childhood friends, maybe listening to Backstreet Boys, shooting some hoops, because what else do we still have in common?

It's okay, though. My turn will come to go back and re-visit beautiful Disney World (which houses too many smelly tourists and cranky parents). Right now, however, I should probably finish my cereal and make a call to remind my family to send a postcard.

Bodies.

I should probably stop reading for Forensic Psych right before I go to bed. I'm producing unsettling fiction, the kind that's keeping me up into the wee hours of the night because I'm too on edge to close my eyes. Better fiction than dreams, no?

Working for the Devil

I'm going to Cedar Point tomorrow, not Cedar Hell. Tomorrow, I will walk through the front gates as a guest who knows too much about cleaning up vomit, and bleeding feet, and taking fifteen minute toilet breaks just to sit in a stall and contemplate the meaning of my existence because I can't walk any more.

Tomorrow, I won't fall inexplicably head over heels for a ride host. Tomorrow, I won't wear yellow ribbons in my hair, or pay for bottled water, or take dancing breaks in the Jungle.

Tomorrow, I won't wear yellow at all, actually. No more yellow, ever.

Tomorrow, I will scream and pull my hair out because of how excited I am while experiencing the weightlessness of Millenium and Dragster. I will not scream and pull my hair out in frustration from telling smokers to stop smoking in this section because, unfortunately, some people would like to keep their lungs. There is a designated smoking area in section's A, E, and F and kindly, please stamp out your butt while walking there or I am obligated to call security and have your ass kicked out. And yes, I am a little girl in sunflower overralls, but I'm an angry little girl in sunflower overralls that is not in the mood to put up with corrupted lungs because of your laziness.

[I can't believe I'm still bitter about that. Goodness!]

Tomorrow, I will gladly skip through the entire park because I have the choice, at any time, to sit down on the bench of my choice and eat a funnel cake. I will not limp or complain about aching feet (ever again).

I will, tomorrow, admire every good-looking man that walks around the park with his shirt off. I will not, with a roll of my eyes, say, "Excuse me, extremely good-looking sir, but you'll have to put a shirt back on that gorgeous body of yours. I know, I know, I, too, am sorry that those abs have to be covered up, but I'm only trying to follow the rules here, and would you like to get dinner tonight?"

Hahaha. Yeah.

I will drive by Cedar Point's prison and remember those nights that I had to live inside of those barbed wire fences. But, oh, were there some good times under the moonlight in that prison. I'll remember those, too, and smirk.

I will watch employees in yellow jumpers bring in donuts, pizza, and orange juice...these employees will wear sloppy grins attached to their hickey-ridden faces. And I'll be in on the joke.

Oh, Cedar Point, how you have made me a better person for enduring your miserable madness. You have given me material, so much material, to write about, to expand upon. You, Cedar Point, have given me the opportunity to experience more than I ever imagined, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.

Now give me my free water and don't judge me too harshly when I decide to never ride Mantis ever again.

Splat.

It's nice when you realize that people are human. Pedestals aren't for us - they're probably more for yappy show dogs with frilly pink bows clipped to their fur.

It's nice to know that we all are capable of feeling, of feeling the same way.

A delectable Saturday morning:

Instead of reading Mary Austin this morning, like I told myself I would, I found myself driving along West 12th street scanning for Farmer's Markets. I fell head over heels for fresh fruit and veggies over the summer, when I had nothing to do but read, write, and eat. Why not?

It's a careful process, selecting the healthiest, most delicately-garden-picked scrumptiousness. I would probably scour the rows and rows of baskets and cartons and bins forever if excitement over the colors didn't detour me. It's called zig-zagging.

Peppers. Just look at them! I've recently acquired a taste for bell peppers, but those fantastic colors! And, naturally, I smell everything. Peaches. Plums. Fresh-from-the-dirt potatoes.

Since Fall is basically nipping our heels, gourds and pumpkins and utensils to scoop out the goopiest of goop beckoned. I picked up the ugliest of gourds and smoothed my fingers over every bumpy edge. Tactile learning.

I ended up limiting my purchases. I only bought 4 green tomatoes (to fry up and gush over), an apple pie (to serve a la mode, of course), and a quart of raspberries.

My fingers stained purple after an hour. The raspberries never left my van.