And it was glorious. Each subsequent day I woke up about 8 a.m., played for an hour or so, then went downstairs and made myself a strawberry-banana smoothie in the blender, and then went back upstairs to resume the game. I paused again around 1 p.m. and got something to eat while watching trashy TV (usually America’s Next Top Model, because there isn’t shit on TV during a weekday) for about an hour, and then I was back to the game.

I ended up beating it after about 30 hours of gameplay, I think. But I made sure to explore everything; I didn’t rush through the game just to finish it. I’m glad I took the time off, too… no matter how many people gave me sideways looks when I told them I was taking a vacation to play a video game. Hey, you have your hobbies and I have mine.

Oh, and for those who are wondering, I did make sure to shower every day before Ian got home (except Friday, but it was my birthday so cut me some slack for showering at 7 p.m.).

I guess it means you’re old when you’d rather spend your birthday at home reading, surrounded by cats and your husband on the couch, rather than out partying. But that’s what I wanted to do, so I did it.

And now I’m 33.

I haven’t blogged here in a while because I’ve been extremely busy—mainly at work, but that means I’m a lazy pile of bones in the evenings when I get home, and the weekends have been filled with cleaning, errands and, of course, video games.

Which brings me to what I’m so excited about this week. After beta-testing it for months, Diablo 3 is finally out! Today! The servers went live at midnight PDT (which was 2 a.m. here on CDT), and despite setting an alarm to wake up and play right at 2, I slept until 3. But I did get up and level my Demon Hunter to level five, about halfway through what I’d played through in the beta. Currently I’m at level 13, I believe, which was the highest level you could take your character in the beta.

I’ve been so, so excited about this game, and since I’d been waiting on it for what, 12 years? I decided to take some vacation time to play it. (Yes, I realize how incredibly nerdy that sounds, but shut it. Who says vacations always have to mean traveling somewhere? This is cheap and relaxing. And fun.)

So I went into work yesterday to wrap up some deadlines I had, and then I’m taking today through Friday off to play Diablo! Friday also happens to be my birthday, and I figured the timing was too good to ignore.

I’ve played a few quests past where the beta ended (The Skeleton King, for those who know what I’m talking about), and I’m really glad I took this vacation. The game is epic, and so far has it has not disappointed. I’m glad I’ve got some time to really explore it without feeling the need to rush to get through as much as I can before the weekend’s up. I’m sure I’ll be doing a lot of that in the coming weeks, but for now, I’m just having fun with it.

I was shopping at Target the other day (for, like, the third time in a week—don’t judge) and stopped by their soft t-shirt section (Ian and I are obsessed with soft t-shirts and will wear no others) and saw the one pictured above. (Also: how many sets of parentheses are allowed in one sentence?)

I knew it was related to a comic book character because the tag screamed MARVEL COMICS, but I had to Google to make sure that it was, indeed, Captain America. And here’s where I got weird. Despite the fact that it was the softest soft t-shirt I’d felt, and despite the fact that the star reminded me of the stars on Tennessee’s state flag, I considered not buying it because I was afraid it would look “too patriotic.”

Because lately it seems that the only people who wear “‘merica, fuck yeah!” shirts are assholes who think gays shouldn’t be able to marry, women shouldn’t be able to receive reproductive health benefits with their insurance (despite the fact that Viagra and other boner pills continue to be covered with no qualms) or have any kind of control over their bodies, and we should punish poor people and make life increasingly difficult for immigrants.

So I sat there in Target for a good five minutes trying to decide if I should buy this $10 t-shirt that I really liked, design- and material-wise, because I was afraid that people who wouldn’t recognize the emblem as that of a comic book character would think I was one of “them.” Either with them or against them—I didn’t want to be mistaken for that kind of person. That kind of patriot.

And then, it struck me: I am more worried about being mistaken for a proud American, because of what that means now, than as a comic book nerd.

In the end, I bought the shirt for three reasons:

1. It was really, really soft. And as a nerd, I generally like to support other means of nerdery, even if I’m not into comics.
2. I don’t give a shit what people think about me. Well, I try like it’s my job to not care, but I’m human so I fail at this occasionally. But really, none of us should care how perfect strangers perceive us, especially those who would judge someone based on a t-shirt.
3. I don’t want “patriot” to mean “person who wears American flag paraphernalia to show that he/she hates everyone who is not a middle-aged, white, straight Christian.” So I am going to wear this shirt and love gays, abortion rights and birth control pills. And while we’re at it, I’ll also wear this shirt in support of immigrants, welfare and atheists. Because what’s more American than challenging the opinions of the loud-mouthed majority around you, right?

Ha, but you know what’s really going to happen? Nobody is going to notice or give a god damn about the shirt, because in the end it’s just a t-shirt. And it doesn’t matter.

BK is a beautiful cat. I mean, she’s basically the most gorgeous cat you will ever see. Look at this and tell me that you’ve seen a better-looking cat:

That’s what I thought. You haven’t. And you never will.

Unfortunately, she looks dumb as shit with no fur. The groomer did a great job, but she is a cat meant for long hair. I had them do a modified lion cut—her body is shaved but she still has fur on her head and a full tail, as well as her “boots” (the fluffy part of her feed up to about her knees).

We knew that she was skinny, but with no fur she just looks gaunt. And despite never having been anywhere near overweight, she has belly skin that just hangs off her. Near her back legs she has this paunch that hangs down to about her knees and resembles—as best as I can describe it—scrotum. I got so freaked out about it that I messaged a friend on Facebook who’s a vet to ask if this was normal. I hate being “that guy” who tries to get free advice from friends, but it was late Saturday night and I was afraid it was an indication of a medical condition. My friend assured me that it’s normal and is called an “apron.”

But worse than how she looks is how she feels. She’s obviously uncomfortable. She spent Saturday and last night stomping around on our pillows in the bed, finally laying down only to immediately get up, frustrated, and try to find a better position. Last year King Boo did the same thing for a few days, and this year it only took him a day to get used to his new fur.

She’s eating, drinking and behaving normally otherwise, though, so I guess it will just take her a few days to acclimate to the change of her coat. She alternates between looking sad and looking like she is going to murder me as soon as I fall asleep, so I hope she finds some relief soon. Poor kitty.

On the bright side, she’s being incredibly nice to King Boo. I guess she figures they’re in this stupid haircut club together.

Bonus picture of BK as a kitten:

What you don’t know is how glorious his fur is, though. Like a rabbit’s, except that it’s attached to the friendliest and silliest cat I’ve ever known. I wasn’t aware that a personality could attach itself to fur, but apparently it can. And did. And so I procrastinated shaving it off him.

But we’re in this weird, belated spring period now, which means I want the windows open at all times. Which means cat hair that had fled beneath the couch has been unearthing itself for the past week. Which means it was time to shave King Boo.

So we did. Well, the groomer did. And now, my beautiful, sweet, silly, kind cat who’s never in a bad mood and usually looks like this:

Now looks like this:

He’s gotten over it quicker this year than he did last year, but I think he can tell we’re laughing at him. Poor guy.

So in the interest of helping my fellow Bonnaroo-goers out, let me tell you about day-parking: It is awesome.

More to the point, if you aren’t big on camping in the middle of a giant field with no tree cover for three to four days and live relatively close (or are thinking of getting a hotel reservation nearby), the day-parking situation is fucking great.

I live about 20-30 minutes from Bonnaroo (depending on traffic—driving in from Murfreesboro is generally busier than leaving), and day-parking last year was the best decision I made besides choosing to eat the gourmet pizza every day. I love camping, but I do not love camping in the blazing heat for several days with no shower or refuge from the sun. My sister and I drove in and out every day, and it was great.

Depending on how early you get in, you will have about a mile to a mile-and-a-half walk from day-parking to the entrance of Bonnaroo. It’s really not bad at all, but be prepared to not be able to just run out to your car quickly in case you forget something you wanted to bring in with you. I carried a Camelbak backpack with water, snacks and other supplies, and only once did I have to come back to the car (Emily and I got cold and went back for our hoodies later one night).

When you drive in the first day, tell the people who are checking your car for contraband (they will do this every day but it gets, ahem, more lax as the days go by) that you’re day-parking. They will tell you which way to go, and you’ll end up in a very large field where the parking volunteers will wave you into your parking spot. It’s probably a good idea to tie a helium-filled balloon to your car so that you can find it easily when you’re leaving later that night, because the field fills up with cars and you will be disoriented.

The walk to Bonnaroo from day parking is lined with food and drink vendors, and you’ll pass by the car-campers, port-a-crappers and some first aid tents, too. The walk back to day-parking is well-lit at night, and I never felt concerned for my or my sister’s safety last year. I mean, be alert, of course, but you’re not going to be walking down a pitch-black gravel road for a mile.

Bottom line: If you’re considering day-parking because you live or will be staying close by and value cleanliness and air-conditioning, go for it.

After hearing Lesley sing their praises for a while, I finally ordered some heirloom beans from Rancho Gordo.

They require 4-6 hours of soaking plus another 1-3 hours of cooking time, so they will probably be something I make on the weekends. Or on a rare night I get home before 7 or 7:30 p.m.

Oh, and then I was asked to provide sound clips of this guy yelling “BOB SAGET!” and “BALLS!” so that they could play throughout the office when certain events happen on our servers.

And yeah, all those people who made fun of me for being a nerd in school can kiss my ass.

Years ago, before Ian and I started dating, we took a trip to Atlanta together to see the Braves play. We had been friends for years, but it was the first out-of-town trip we’d taken together. When we got to the hotel, I fretted a bit over the single bed they assigned us, as I had a boyfriend at the time. I didn’t fret too much, though. It was the first of several trips Ian and I would take as friends, all of which I look back on fondly. Trips that eventually bled the lines between friendship and more. That led me to see who we really were to each other.

This Atlanta trip was not my first to the city, but it was my first Braves game. His dad had gotten us pretty good seats, I recall, and afterward we took the MARTA to Underground Atlanta and hung out in this dirty, dingy Irish bar called Irish Bred. There was nothing Irish about it, but it was filled with other 20-somethings pouring cheap beer down their gullets. We found a table on their patio and made friends with some people from the University of Florida. Or maybe it was Florida State.

Eventually we paid our tab and headed to the MARTA station—on the way to which we were accompanied by a homeless man who professed to know where the best party in town was, and would we follow him there? Ian had a bit too much to drink and thought this was a great idea, but luckily he took my advice and followed me to the train station instead (where he proceeded to inform me that the way to avoid potentially dangerous situations was to “make everyone aware that you are crazier than they are,” and then he began singing L.A. Woman, specifically that he was Chief Mojo Risin’).

We visited Atlanta again in 2003, and went back several times while we were dating, but we haven’t been there since we got married in 2008. But with the news of Chipper Jones retiring, this is going to change—this summer.

I don’t think our Irish bar exists anymore, and I’m not sure Underground Atlanta has fared well over the years, but it will be fun to go back and spend some time in one of our favorite southern cities, seeing what kind of mischief we can get into. That’s the thing about being married to someone you’ve known for 15 years—you have plenty of memories to call on, but it’s effortless to make new ones, too.

I don’t even want to think about what summer will bring.