A Girl...

Licensious

The license plates for my new(ish)! car! came in the mail yesterday, and when Simon arrived home from his taxing 11a-3p job* to find on the porch an oversized envelope that clanked when he shook it, he could barely contain his excitement. All flailing arms and flying paper, he ripped into the package with reckless abandon until, two seconds later, he remembered that one of my most adorable quirks is damning to the fiery fifth ring of hell all those who dare to open mail addressed to other people, especially to me.

Simon had only made a two-inch tear in the envelope before he stopped himself, but apparently so great was his fear of my postal wrath that he called me at work to explain what had happened. It had been his plan to surprise me--to spare me the labor of affixing the registration stickers and screwing the plates in place--so that when I came home I could just stand back and admire his handiwork without having to lift a finger. For him, it was yet another opportunity to show his love by doing me a small, umprompted favor. What he didn't consider, though, was that, to me, opening the plates and stickering the plates and attaching the plates was not a chore but a milestone, a rite of passage, a Precious Moment. It was my first new car, my first plates-by-mail delivery, my oversized, clanking envelope to tear into. Me and my damn sentimentality, always getting in the way of a good deed...(Seriously, I took a moment to ponder what kind of tattoos may have been on the arms of the inmate who made my plates, and I hoped he'd gone about his craft with tender loving care. I make a big deal out of the dumbest things.)

[One of the reasons I was looking forward to getting my license plates was to see if they would inspire a name for the car. I called my old Corolla Zeke after the ZEK in the original Utah license number, and when I moved to California and got new plates, the random letters and numbers ended up representing how old I was in a particular year and also spelled out the name of highschoolboyfriendDavid's car. Freaky. Anyhoo, I've held off giving my new car a name because I thought the plates might do it for me, but alas, they did not, unless they mean to say that my car is from the planet Zorkon and would like to be taken to my leader.

Thus, my car's temporary name will have to stick. (Sorry, Simon.) I've been calling it Blinky, which is short for Inky Blinky Stinky Clyde--Inky because it's black, Blinky because the parking lights flash when I activate the remote door locks, Stinky because it's only a matter of time, and Clyde because Simon needs to be able to call it something more "manly" and less "gay" than the other three options, which is odd considering that (1) the car is named after classic video game villains and (2) calling a car by any name is pretty lame, even if that name is as cool as Clyde. It's like if he refused to carry around his bichon frise named Princess in something other than a camoflage surplus knapsack because anything less would be an insult to his masculinity. It all comes out the same in the end.]

So, anyway, tell me, how bizarre is it that I sometimes ask my boyfriend to tone it down with the nice surprises and generous favors and overall selfless thoughtfulness? Remember last year when he threw me a surprise birthday party and I almost threw him out the window because the suspense of knowing he was up to something was making my eyes twitch? Well, this year he'll be in England for my birthday while I sit home alone and count my age spots, so I guess that evens out too. Boo hoo, etc., but then, I kind of asked for it, didn't I? Fickleness, thy name is Leah and, girl, you are sometimes a handful. Good thing your boyfriend has big palms, long fingers, and as much patience as Kaiser Permanente.

*His job is actually quite taxing a lot of the time (especially in April, har har), so I only jokingly give him crap about his luxurious schedule and the fact that he sometimes works from home sans pants, a cocktail in each hand and a bikini model fanning him with a palm frond. I mock because I envy.