So I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere at “Pizza School,” learning to make pizzas just like they do in one of the world’s largest fast food chains. Unfortunately, I signed about twelve different confidentiality agreements, so I’m not really going to say anything more about that. Good stories, but not worth getting fired over, you know?
Anyway, this leaves me forced to write about something else. I drove here, four some hours from home, and all the way I listened to Christmas music off my MP3 player. I’m a sucker for Christmas music, I love it, and I’m thrilled that the socially acceptable time for listening is back. (Not that I’m above playing it softly in the privacy of my own home in mid-June, mind you.) I’m thinking I can probably get a blog entry out of this, so here it goes. My all-time Christmas CD, in poorly thought out form. I’m sure you’ll be less than thrilled. Please, by all means, make suggestions. They’re beyond welcome, it’s more of a craving…I know there’s great Christmas music out there that I’ve never heard of (the Remix can attest—saying my taste in music is refined is like saying Britney Spears flashed everyone her uterus by mistake—horseshit.) So tell me what you think, what you like, and if there’s something I just gotta hear that didn’t make my list. And without further ado:
1. Holly Jolly Christmas, Burl Ives – Yes, the one from that stop-motion animated Rudolph special I’ve seen a thousand times. I love the memories I have of this one. Sitting in front of the TV in my pajamas on Christmas Eve, with a bowl of popcorn my pops just made, giddy with anticipation and barely able to sit still for the whole movie.
2. Merry Christmas From the Family, Montgomery Gentry – I know Robert Earl Keane did it first and better, but did you? Didn’t think so. If you’ve heard it, you’ve probably heard the one that actually made the radio. My sense of humor is just juvenile enough that this still makes me laugh.
3. Baby It’s Cold Outside, Dean Martin – This is the first close call on the list. Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald are both among my favorites, but the mental image of Satchmo trying to storm Lady Ella’s castle during a blizzard is just this side of nauseating. Dean had the personality to sell it right…I mean, who can’t picture Dean Martin smooth-talking some poor virtuous neighborhood girl right out of her dress? (Good Christ, do I think about this stuff too much, or what?)
4. Winter Wonderland, Harry Connick Jr. – The instrumental version, I think it was in When Harry Met Sally. This is the kind of rollicking Connick solo that makes me curse the day I quit piano lessons. I’d give my left big toe to be able to play a piano like this.
5. You’re A Mean One, Mr. Grinch, Boris Karloff – It’s Boris Karloff. Singing. What else can I say? I’d sort of like to know how ridiculous I look bellowing along to this in the car. I’m somewhere between a bass and a baritone, and to match Boris on this one I do that goofy face where it looks like you’re fighting back a tremendous belch in an effort to will up the bottom notes from the depths of my chest. It’s gotta be as hilarious as it is off-key.
6. Blue Christmas, Elvis Presley – Only the King can pull off a Christmas song that’s this ostensibly sad and have this much fun hamming it up. Sure, he says he’s going to have a blue Christmas without you, but it sounds more like he’s looking forward to getting rip-roaring drunk and passing out in the mashed potatoes and then blaming it all on you when he wakes up the next day.
7. Christmas Waltz, Frank Sinatra – Connick’s version of this was close, but Frankie does it best. Even in a Christmas song, Sinatra sounds like he’s simultaneously wishing you a happy holiday and dropping his hotel room key in your girlfriend’s purse. He was just that kind of guy.
8. Merry Fucking Christmas, Mr. Garrison on South Park – Ninety percent of the time, I’m above South Park. It’s rude, and gross, and pushes the envelope just for the sake of doing it. And then they go and do something like this…and totally redeem themselves! Seriously, anytime you can combine two of my favorite pastimes (swearing and mocking religious/political extremists) and make it a Christmas song to boot, you’ve got me sold. I’m a sucker like that.
9. Frosty the Snowman, Leon Redbone and Dr. John – Two of the most distinctive voices I know, doing a raucous and nonsensical version of a traditional Christmas classic. The first time I heard this, I thought it was just the greatest Christmas joke since the nativity. Brilliant.
10. O Holy Night, Anyone – When it’s done right, this is simply one of the prettiest songs ever. I’ve yet to find a version that’s totally satisfactory—there’s lots of soaring, beautiful recordings out there, but not one I can sing along with in key. I’ll let you know if I find one, or maybe someone here can help me out.
11. Let It Snow, Bing Crosby – A perfect crooner’s song, for the perfect crooner. Bing may have been a violent maniac in real life, but behind the microphone he’s as smooth as glass. His voice is low enough to rumble the windows, but it’s silk the whole time. Plus, there’s a groovy clarinet part. Don’t get to say that often enough.
12. Dominic the Donkey, Lou Monte – The Italian Christmas donkey? Seriously? Did they cut this track with me in mind, or are there other people in the world who take a ridiculous amount of pleasure in that phrase. I’m going to say it again…Italian Christmas donkey…look at those endorphins go.
13. Feliz Navidad, Jose Feliciano – I know how bad this is. Really, I do. There’s more good memories here, though…two years ago, roadtripping with a couple of good friends to see another get married the weekend before Christmas, the only time my buddy in the back seat woke up was when this came on the radio, and we’d scream it out until we had no voices left, at which point he’d lay back down on the seat and go back to bed.
14. Merry Muthafuckin’ Xmas, Eazy E – Again, uncontrollable swearing and a Christmas song? Count me in. This one doesn’t even make any sense, it’s just a jumble of poorly conceived innuendos and drug references, with no real point….it’s wonderful.
15. White Christmas, Bing Crosby – It’s too good not to put Bing on here twice. This song is sort of a catch-all for Christmas memories for me, December 25th is just another day until this comes on.
So there you have it. Again, please feel free to hit me up with suggestions. I’m going to exhaust my stash before we’re even halfway to the holiday. There may be another entry forthcoming with all the Christmas music that I can’t stand…
11.30.2006
11.25.2006
Go Speedracer, Go!
I don't run much. By much, I mean ever. My pop used to joke (when comparing me to my slimmer and more fleet-footed brother) that I wasn't built to run far, just ten yards and through a brick wall. He's right, too. I'm pudgy at best, but with broad bulky shoulders, a huge squarish head, and tiny little legs. Exactly the wrong size and shape to run anywhere at all. Add to this the fact that my football playing days are a good eight years behind me now, and I'm up to a pack a day of Marlboro Blend No. 27s, and you've got a textbook example of someone who shouldn't be anywhere near an 8k "race" at 9 in the morning on Thanksgiving day.
Obviously I wouldn't be telling you this story if that wasn't exactly where I found myself on Thursday, in a huddled mass of people under the morning sun preparing to run around the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago. The Remix was with me, of course, since she instigated this whole thing, bright eyed and flush with the prospect of pounding 4.9 miles of pavement before lunchtime.
We somehow managed to park a solid mile away from the registration area, which meant I was already tired and ready for a cigarette by the time I got to the table. I went to the huge bulletin boards to find our numbers, and was surprised to find my name unironically placed amongst the others, as if I belonged. We stood in line for a good ten minutes, listening to people younger and spryer than I compare past times and issue challenges. This is something I never liked about the runners I've known in the past--with the exception of the Remix, and a couple other friends who managed to both run and not talk about running at every break in the conversation, most people I know who own a pair of running shoes feel the need to discuss it with you at every interval. One of my college buddies married a "runner," who will still tell you about the absolute rush of hitting the street at 5am on a December morning as she pops twinkies in her mouth like tic tacs. Ok, we get it. You ran a marathon once. You're the size of a Volkswagen now, isn't it time to let it go already?
I was dismayed to discover that the entry fee for this event included the cost of renting a tiny piece of plastic which through some sort of advanced ESP technology will enable the organizers to publish online exactly how out of shape I am for all the world to see. Apparently the humiliation of trying to run is not enough, they have to time me, too. I tied my little plastic tattle-tale to my shoe and stood cracking my knuckles while I watched the people around me contort themselves into all sorts of positions in the interests of stretching.
The people watching was great, though. Middle-aged men with expensive Nike and adidas track jackets and spandex pants; soccer moms in ear-warmers, faces set in their best imitation of grim determination; parents with strollers, trying desperately to explain to their kids why it will be fun to get pushed over a bumpy trail for an hour when they could be on a swingset somewhere. Directly in front of us was a man dressed like a giant turkey. Directly behind, a teenaged girl wearing what could only be a spandex tent. In the middle of all of this, here I am in an ISU t-shirt and ancient blue basketball shorts with paint stains, trying to look like I have some idea what the hell I'm doing.
The Remix is an angel. Once the starter's horn sounded, she trotted patiently along beside me at a much slower pace than she'd have set for herself. At first, I did my best to be funny and self-deprecating, making the people around me chuckle as I'm inclined to do anytime there's more than three people around to potentially form an audience. That was while I was still able to talk. By the first hill, I was breathing like a wounded water buffalo. By the end of the first mile, I had to take my first walking break. As my lungs pounded against my ribs, I tried to urge the Remix on without me, if only to spare myself some embarassment. She wouldn't go, at least not until I'd walked half of the second mile and did not look to be gaining any steam. I made one last push with her coaching, another 3 or 4 tenths of a mile, and finally gave up. She took off, bobbing and weaving through the racewalkers as she struggled to catch up with the pack.
I took my time the rest of the course, jogging and walking intermittently, determined to finish but not quite enough to find some untapped reservoir of athletic ability. An old man with a limp gritted his teeth as he worked his way by me on the left. A gay man and a tiny terrier pranced by me on the other side. I'm convinced that the kids in strollers were laughing as they blew by. Even the racewalkers looked sympathetic as their ferocious pacing outstripped my unique run-stumble-walk-run-pray for death strategy.
I might have finished even worse, but for the added motivation of my new training partner. Around the turn of the fourth mile as I plodded on in a sort of shuffling half-jog, a tiny blue haired old lady overtook me and then left me in her dust. That was too much. I ran the last 8 tenths of a mile as fast as I could manage, determined not to be run into the ground by anyone's grandma. When I crossed the finish line, unable to breathe, talk, or think, the Remix greeted me with a banana and a glass of water, beaming at me in the sun while a curmudgeonly race volunteer cut the timer off my shoe. I'm proud I finished, and according to my plastic friend, in about an hour and fifteen minutes. Could be worse. Could be much worse, actually. The remix and I started our trek back to the car. I'm glad you came, she said. It's fun doing this stuff with you. Limping to the car, feeling smug just for finishing the damn race, my beautiful girlfriend on my arm and oblivious to the array of musclebound gym boys, I couldn't agree more. I'm glad I came too. I love you. And I meant it.
Obviously I wouldn't be telling you this story if that wasn't exactly where I found myself on Thursday, in a huddled mass of people under the morning sun preparing to run around the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago. The Remix was with me, of course, since she instigated this whole thing, bright eyed and flush with the prospect of pounding 4.9 miles of pavement before lunchtime.
We somehow managed to park a solid mile away from the registration area, which meant I was already tired and ready for a cigarette by the time I got to the table. I went to the huge bulletin boards to find our numbers, and was surprised to find my name unironically placed amongst the others, as if I belonged. We stood in line for a good ten minutes, listening to people younger and spryer than I compare past times and issue challenges. This is something I never liked about the runners I've known in the past--with the exception of the Remix, and a couple other friends who managed to both run and not talk about running at every break in the conversation, most people I know who own a pair of running shoes feel the need to discuss it with you at every interval. One of my college buddies married a "runner," who will still tell you about the absolute rush of hitting the street at 5am on a December morning as she pops twinkies in her mouth like tic tacs. Ok, we get it. You ran a marathon once. You're the size of a Volkswagen now, isn't it time to let it go already?
I was dismayed to discover that the entry fee for this event included the cost of renting a tiny piece of plastic which through some sort of advanced ESP technology will enable the organizers to publish online exactly how out of shape I am for all the world to see. Apparently the humiliation of trying to run is not enough, they have to time me, too. I tied my little plastic tattle-tale to my shoe and stood cracking my knuckles while I watched the people around me contort themselves into all sorts of positions in the interests of stretching.
The people watching was great, though. Middle-aged men with expensive Nike and adidas track jackets and spandex pants; soccer moms in ear-warmers, faces set in their best imitation of grim determination; parents with strollers, trying desperately to explain to their kids why it will be fun to get pushed over a bumpy trail for an hour when they could be on a swingset somewhere. Directly in front of us was a man dressed like a giant turkey. Directly behind, a teenaged girl wearing what could only be a spandex tent. In the middle of all of this, here I am in an ISU t-shirt and ancient blue basketball shorts with paint stains, trying to look like I have some idea what the hell I'm doing.
The Remix is an angel. Once the starter's horn sounded, she trotted patiently along beside me at a much slower pace than she'd have set for herself. At first, I did my best to be funny and self-deprecating, making the people around me chuckle as I'm inclined to do anytime there's more than three people around to potentially form an audience. That was while I was still able to talk. By the first hill, I was breathing like a wounded water buffalo. By the end of the first mile, I had to take my first walking break. As my lungs pounded against my ribs, I tried to urge the Remix on without me, if only to spare myself some embarassment. She wouldn't go, at least not until I'd walked half of the second mile and did not look to be gaining any steam. I made one last push with her coaching, another 3 or 4 tenths of a mile, and finally gave up. She took off, bobbing and weaving through the racewalkers as she struggled to catch up with the pack.
I took my time the rest of the course, jogging and walking intermittently, determined to finish but not quite enough to find some untapped reservoir of athletic ability. An old man with a limp gritted his teeth as he worked his way by me on the left. A gay man and a tiny terrier pranced by me on the other side. I'm convinced that the kids in strollers were laughing as they blew by. Even the racewalkers looked sympathetic as their ferocious pacing outstripped my unique run-stumble-walk-run-pray for death strategy.
I might have finished even worse, but for the added motivation of my new training partner. Around the turn of the fourth mile as I plodded on in a sort of shuffling half-jog, a tiny blue haired old lady overtook me and then left me in her dust. That was too much. I ran the last 8 tenths of a mile as fast as I could manage, determined not to be run into the ground by anyone's grandma. When I crossed the finish line, unable to breathe, talk, or think, the Remix greeted me with a banana and a glass of water, beaming at me in the sun while a curmudgeonly race volunteer cut the timer off my shoe. I'm proud I finished, and according to my plastic friend, in about an hour and fifteen minutes. Could be worse. Could be much worse, actually. The remix and I started our trek back to the car. I'm glad you came, she said. It's fun doing this stuff with you. Limping to the car, feeling smug just for finishing the damn race, my beautiful girlfriend on my arm and oblivious to the array of musclebound gym boys, I couldn't agree more. I'm glad I came too. I love you. And I meant it.
11.10.2006
Never met a metaphor I didn't like
I am taking a day off on Monday. This is odd. I have, since I began my current job two years ago, taken only two days off. I am adjusting to the idea slowly, and finding it not entirely unpleasant.
The Remix and I are spending the day together; doing nothing in particular. We may go shopping for a suit (I don't own one, or at least not a whole one, and this seems like a situation I should remedy.) We may spend all day drinking wine and making out like high schoolers playing hooky. We may go see a movie. We may even just curl up at opposite ends of the couch, legs entwined, reading books and chasing away cats. It doesn't matter to me. Her presence is relaxing, a whole uninterrupted weekday is tantamount to a two week vacation for me.
Four days from now will be the one year anniversary of my divorce. It's been a surprising year. I fell in love, which I hadn't anticipated. I didn't get depressed, which I had both anticipated and dreaded. Being prone to depression is hard to explain to anyone who's not had the experience. It's a little like walking on an icy sidewalk--you know there's a good chance you're falling on your ass, but until you feel the cold seeping through your pants you don't even realize you've slipped. For a while, I drank too much, flirted with the wrong girls, made just a few too many jokes with that uncomfortable edge that everyone can see right through. I could have slipped, but I didn't. I pulled myself up, tiptoed carefully for a while, and eventually the danger passed.
The Remix was waiting at the other end of the sidewalk. Tall and beautiful, aching to be loved, and generous with her second chance. The timing was perfect--any sooner, I'd have been too fragile for this to work; any later and I might have been too calloused to give it a real chance. To say that she's everything my ex-wife was not would be unfair, to both of them and myself. There is no comparison, and to attempt to qualify her as juxtaposition to someone else is both senseless and cruel. The things my ex-wife did wrong were not entirely her fault. We didn't fit together, period, and for all our good intentions our attempts to mesh were doomed to end in grinding gears and a cloud of noxious smoke.
The Remix fits. Her intelligence, her beauty, her grace, her varied and impressive talents--all the things that make her an incredible and unique individual--make sense to me. They fit my idea of a life, and of a person to share it with. She makes me better, without ever making me feel bad about who I am. It's not a sense of completion, exactly. It's more like infinite potential. We're not good because of who we were before we met. We're good because of who we can be because we're together.
The Remix and I are spending the day together; doing nothing in particular. We may go shopping for a suit (I don't own one, or at least not a whole one, and this seems like a situation I should remedy.) We may spend all day drinking wine and making out like high schoolers playing hooky. We may go see a movie. We may even just curl up at opposite ends of the couch, legs entwined, reading books and chasing away cats. It doesn't matter to me. Her presence is relaxing, a whole uninterrupted weekday is tantamount to a two week vacation for me.
Four days from now will be the one year anniversary of my divorce. It's been a surprising year. I fell in love, which I hadn't anticipated. I didn't get depressed, which I had both anticipated and dreaded. Being prone to depression is hard to explain to anyone who's not had the experience. It's a little like walking on an icy sidewalk--you know there's a good chance you're falling on your ass, but until you feel the cold seeping through your pants you don't even realize you've slipped. For a while, I drank too much, flirted with the wrong girls, made just a few too many jokes with that uncomfortable edge that everyone can see right through. I could have slipped, but I didn't. I pulled myself up, tiptoed carefully for a while, and eventually the danger passed.
The Remix was waiting at the other end of the sidewalk. Tall and beautiful, aching to be loved, and generous with her second chance. The timing was perfect--any sooner, I'd have been too fragile for this to work; any later and I might have been too calloused to give it a real chance. To say that she's everything my ex-wife was not would be unfair, to both of them and myself. There is no comparison, and to attempt to qualify her as juxtaposition to someone else is both senseless and cruel. The things my ex-wife did wrong were not entirely her fault. We didn't fit together, period, and for all our good intentions our attempts to mesh were doomed to end in grinding gears and a cloud of noxious smoke.
The Remix fits. Her intelligence, her beauty, her grace, her varied and impressive talents--all the things that make her an incredible and unique individual--make sense to me. They fit my idea of a life, and of a person to share it with. She makes me better, without ever making me feel bad about who I am. It's not a sense of completion, exactly. It's more like infinite potential. We're not good because of who we were before we met. We're good because of who we can be because we're together.
Oddities
There is a cat in my pantry. This is neither unusual or particularly disturbing (after all, there's no food in the pantry, so hygiene is a non-issue) but it occurs to me that I have no idea when the cats learned to open doors. Maybe I need security cameras in here...strange things may go on when I'm at work.
11.09.2006
That's the way it crumbles...Cookie-wise.
It has been a very strange week, thus far. A coworker put me in an awkward situation on Tuesday, one that I'll refrain from writing about, since I read this at work from time to time and would really hate for it to become an issue. (Praticing some decorum, new for me.)
The Remix wrote today about how frustrating her life can be, lugging a duffel bag full of wrinkle-proof clothes around because she's always coming here. I can sympathize, I've even been there before, been the one who has to travel, who's never home, who has to choose between waking up in a strange bed and waking up alone. I didn't mean to put her in this position, and as far as I'm concerned, it's easily remedied. I've always been willing to go to her, to be where she lives, to make it easier. I'm willing to do more, if necessary. I'd like her to move in, sooner than later, if that's what she wants. I'd like there to be no travel, no conditions, no concessions involved in our spending time together.
I told her tonight as we were talking about this that this may just be the phase of the relationship where boundaries take center stage again. We've gotten comfortable together--not complacent, just familiar. There's still passion and laughter and cuddling and love, with plenty to spare. I think every relationship has this point, though, the point where precedents have begun to be set, consciously or not, and you have to scramble to make sure the ones that you don't like don't make that deadly switch from precedent to expectation. It's a good thing, honestly. Her frustration is apparent, but at least we're talking about it in the pre 800lb gorilla stage. It's more a capuchin monkey, or possibly a small chimp, and that's pretty manageable.
I say all of the above rationally, and without doubt. I say all of the below fearfully. Because it's also scary. She assures me that it's not me, that it's not too much time together that's the problem, and I trust her. The fear is there, though. A tiny seed of doubt, way back in the nervous part of my brain, just enough to make my stomach clench and heartbeat race for a moment, and it's gone. What if, what if, what if...what if we do start spending more time in her place, on her terms, but the problem doesn't go away? What if it is me, or the sudden intimacy, or simply that trapped feeling that occasionally clouds a relationship? What if she's not as sure as she's been?
What ifs are dangerous territory. Spend too much time there, and all sorts of nasty things can crawl out of the dark, each one bigger and more terrifying than the next. I know she loves me. I know I love her. She said she was feeling neglected the other day, attention-wise, and my heart sank. Not because I don't have it to give, or because I wouldn't gladly give it. No, my heart sank because nothing had changed on my end. That's the scariest part of a relationship--those moments when something has changed, but you feel the same. "I love you, but I'm not in love with you" wouldn't hurt if everyone agreed. "I just want to be friends" is harmless, unless you desperately want more. It's not the idea that I'm not doing something right that scares me. It's the idea that maybe, somewhere, there's a microscopic chance that somehow what I'm doing right is just not good enough.
I'm hesitant to post this now, after writing it, because I don't want her to feel bad--I know this isn't how she feels. The shadow of a doubt, that lingering fear, is a little thing. I feel it acutely, I think, because I don't want it to become true, and because I've seen it become true before. I broke her heart, the last time. If she's afraid to get too close, it's partly my fault. If she's defensive of her turf, and her time, it's partly because I so callously disregarded those things before, when I could pretend not to know better.
I don't want to lose her. I don't want to be scared. I don't want her to be unhappy. If it means packing an overnight bag every other weekend, sign me up. If it means going back to weekends alone, wondering how it went wrong, I'm RSVPing unable to attend. I'll do what I can, and I'll hope like hell that what I can is what she needs.
The Remix wrote today about how frustrating her life can be, lugging a duffel bag full of wrinkle-proof clothes around because she's always coming here. I can sympathize, I've even been there before, been the one who has to travel, who's never home, who has to choose between waking up in a strange bed and waking up alone. I didn't mean to put her in this position, and as far as I'm concerned, it's easily remedied. I've always been willing to go to her, to be where she lives, to make it easier. I'm willing to do more, if necessary. I'd like her to move in, sooner than later, if that's what she wants. I'd like there to be no travel, no conditions, no concessions involved in our spending time together.
I told her tonight as we were talking about this that this may just be the phase of the relationship where boundaries take center stage again. We've gotten comfortable together--not complacent, just familiar. There's still passion and laughter and cuddling and love, with plenty to spare. I think every relationship has this point, though, the point where precedents have begun to be set, consciously or not, and you have to scramble to make sure the ones that you don't like don't make that deadly switch from precedent to expectation. It's a good thing, honestly. Her frustration is apparent, but at least we're talking about it in the pre 800lb gorilla stage. It's more a capuchin monkey, or possibly a small chimp, and that's pretty manageable.
I say all of the above rationally, and without doubt. I say all of the below fearfully. Because it's also scary. She assures me that it's not me, that it's not too much time together that's the problem, and I trust her. The fear is there, though. A tiny seed of doubt, way back in the nervous part of my brain, just enough to make my stomach clench and heartbeat race for a moment, and it's gone. What if, what if, what if...what if we do start spending more time in her place, on her terms, but the problem doesn't go away? What if it is me, or the sudden intimacy, or simply that trapped feeling that occasionally clouds a relationship? What if she's not as sure as she's been?
What ifs are dangerous territory. Spend too much time there, and all sorts of nasty things can crawl out of the dark, each one bigger and more terrifying than the next. I know she loves me. I know I love her. She said she was feeling neglected the other day, attention-wise, and my heart sank. Not because I don't have it to give, or because I wouldn't gladly give it. No, my heart sank because nothing had changed on my end. That's the scariest part of a relationship--those moments when something has changed, but you feel the same. "I love you, but I'm not in love with you" wouldn't hurt if everyone agreed. "I just want to be friends" is harmless, unless you desperately want more. It's not the idea that I'm not doing something right that scares me. It's the idea that maybe, somewhere, there's a microscopic chance that somehow what I'm doing right is just not good enough.
I'm hesitant to post this now, after writing it, because I don't want her to feel bad--I know this isn't how she feels. The shadow of a doubt, that lingering fear, is a little thing. I feel it acutely, I think, because I don't want it to become true, and because I've seen it become true before. I broke her heart, the last time. If she's afraid to get too close, it's partly my fault. If she's defensive of her turf, and her time, it's partly because I so callously disregarded those things before, when I could pretend not to know better.
I don't want to lose her. I don't want to be scared. I don't want her to be unhappy. If it means packing an overnight bag every other weekend, sign me up. If it means going back to weekends alone, wondering how it went wrong, I'm RSVPing unable to attend. I'll do what I can, and I'll hope like hell that what I can is what she needs.
11.04.2006
There goes my hero....
Awesome moment of the week number four: I hired my first ever employee at work. I've had people working under me for over a year now, but this kid is the first one where I've done all the interviewing myself, put together the job offer myself, and actually made all the decisions without my boss being directly involved. Now let's all cross our fingers and hope he doesn't turn out to be a colossal fuck up, shall we?
Awesome moment of the week number three: I get to go to pizza school! Woo hoo! My company works closely as a produce and logistics supplier for one of the major pizza chains, right? I have absolutely nothing to do with this, ever, in any way, but somehow my boss elected me to go with the account manager to a three day school where they teach you to make pizzas, deal with lunch rushes, properly attire your employees, etc., etc., etc. Apparently it's something they have in place for new franchisees to learn the ropes before opening their doors, but much cooler to learn just exactly how much cheese constitutes "extra" when you know you don't ever actually have to do it again.
Awesome moment of the week number two: This would totally be number one, but as you'll see, nothing could beat the top of this list. I'm bursting with pride, regardless. The Remix is going all Rodney Dangerfield and heading back to school. She's been selected (as one of two--TWO!--people from her company to go back for a master's degree, on the house. Great deal for her--job security, free education, and obviously she's the apple of the boss's eye. I had no doubt when she told me that this was a possibility, as long as I've known her she has excelled in everything she's ever wanted to do, and probably lots of things she didn't want to do at all. She's brilliant, beautiful, and (bewilderingly enough) batshit over me. I'm a lucky boy, folks. Anyway, like I said, this would totally have been the coolest thing about my week, but...
Awesome moment of the week number one: Ok, so my apartment is at the far end of a looooong hallway (we're talking The Shining all over the place) from the laundry room on my floor. I'm walking back from the dryer and as soon as I open the door at the end of the corridor, I hear the yelling. Reggie! I am not in the mood! Get off me, now! How can you do this to me? Get the fuck away from me! Uh oh. This woman is sobbing and practically screaming, and here I am standing in the hallway in my flip flops and gym shorts with a basket full of whites. I freeze momentarily, wondering if I should intervene or just mind my own business, panicky images of rape, a beating, or worse running through my head. Just as decide that maybe I ought to ring the bell, hopefully break things up and give the screaming woman a chance to escape or ask for help, the door opens. A black cat shoots out the door, and I've got goosebumps waiting to see what's going to follow. (A battered wife with a black eye and a seething Reggie--who is undoubtedly 6'5", 300 pounds, and fresh out of prison--is nothing for me to try to deal with before I've had my coffee.) Sure enough, there's the woman. No black eye, thank god, but definitely having herself a good cry. As she opens her mouth to yell again (oh please God don't ask for help! What am I getting into?) I cringe. And then. And then. Reggie! I told you I can't fucking deal with this today! Get back in here, now! Back in here? Huh? Oh jesuscocksuckingchrist, the cat? Seriously? I can't help but laugh, out loud and uncontrollably as I walk by, listening to her sob quietly into Reggie's fur as I pass. You're so mean to me. So mean. How can you do this to me, you bastard?!?
See, school (grad or pizza) and new hires are great, but nothing compared to being the knight in shining armor who rescues a poor, desperate woman from her abusive cat. I'm a hero, I know. No need to thank me. Any of you would have done the same.
Awesome moment of the week number three: I get to go to pizza school! Woo hoo! My company works closely as a produce and logistics supplier for one of the major pizza chains, right? I have absolutely nothing to do with this, ever, in any way, but somehow my boss elected me to go with the account manager to a three day school where they teach you to make pizzas, deal with lunch rushes, properly attire your employees, etc., etc., etc. Apparently it's something they have in place for new franchisees to learn the ropes before opening their doors, but much cooler to learn just exactly how much cheese constitutes "extra" when you know you don't ever actually have to do it again.
Awesome moment of the week number two: This would totally be number one, but as you'll see, nothing could beat the top of this list. I'm bursting with pride, regardless. The Remix is going all Rodney Dangerfield and heading back to school. She's been selected (as one of two--TWO!--people from her company to go back for a master's degree, on the house. Great deal for her--job security, free education, and obviously she's the apple of the boss's eye. I had no doubt when she told me that this was a possibility, as long as I've known her she has excelled in everything she's ever wanted to do, and probably lots of things she didn't want to do at all. She's brilliant, beautiful, and (bewilderingly enough) batshit over me. I'm a lucky boy, folks. Anyway, like I said, this would totally have been the coolest thing about my week, but...
Awesome moment of the week number one: Ok, so my apartment is at the far end of a looooong hallway (we're talking The Shining all over the place) from the laundry room on my floor. I'm walking back from the dryer and as soon as I open the door at the end of the corridor, I hear the yelling. Reggie! I am not in the mood! Get off me, now! How can you do this to me? Get the fuck away from me! Uh oh. This woman is sobbing and practically screaming, and here I am standing in the hallway in my flip flops and gym shorts with a basket full of whites. I freeze momentarily, wondering if I should intervene or just mind my own business, panicky images of rape, a beating, or worse running through my head. Just as decide that maybe I ought to ring the bell, hopefully break things up and give the screaming woman a chance to escape or ask for help, the door opens. A black cat shoots out the door, and I've got goosebumps waiting to see what's going to follow. (A battered wife with a black eye and a seething Reggie--who is undoubtedly 6'5", 300 pounds, and fresh out of prison--is nothing for me to try to deal with before I've had my coffee.) Sure enough, there's the woman. No black eye, thank god, but definitely having herself a good cry. As she opens her mouth to yell again (oh please God don't ask for help! What am I getting into?) I cringe. And then. And then. Reggie! I told you I can't fucking deal with this today! Get back in here, now! Back in here? Huh? Oh jesuscocksuckingchrist, the cat? Seriously? I can't help but laugh, out loud and uncontrollably as I walk by, listening to her sob quietly into Reggie's fur as I pass. You're so mean to me. So mean. How can you do this to me, you bastard?!?
See, school (grad or pizza) and new hires are great, but nothing compared to being the knight in shining armor who rescues a poor, desperate woman from her abusive cat. I'm a hero, I know. No need to thank me. Any of you would have done the same.
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