What the hell? Where has everyone been? I've been sitting here, with all sorts of clever things to say, but no one was here to listen so they've all disappeared into the ether that is the interwebs.
Ok, ok, you caught me...my lazy ass has been notably absent from the blog world for quite some time. (57 days or so, actually, and probably not as notably as I'd like to think.) Anyway, if you're still with me enough to be reading this, you've probably one of the people who's simultaneously reading the Remix, in which case you know most of what's gone on with me in the past two months...but I'll recap anyway.
Remix moved in, and she's wonderful. The new condo is coming along nicely, though improvements have momentarily been suspended on account of funding issues. The cats like the new place, as much as cats have opinions about this sort of thing. Work is busy, but still fun and interesting. We're eating well here, both the Remix and I enjoy cooking, so there's something delicious to be eaten on almost a nightly basis, plus more than occasional cakes. (Both the Remix and I also enjoy cake.) I quit smoking, hoping to take advantage of the climate change to break the habit.
I'm enjoying the hell out of living with this girl. She makes me laugh, she's great company, and she seems to enjoy the hell out of it right back. She's full of ideas for decorating this place, but still interested in making it our place, not just hers, and she's making it fun for me. She's watching movies from my eclectic Netflix list, and I'm picking up new music from her list. My Tivo is recording reality TV right along with Heroes and UFC fights. Our books live on the same shelves, reenergizing our individual libraries by adding a whole new list of someone else's favorites. Most importantly, though, it feels like home. For both of us, I think. Hell, I know.
Yeah, you're happy for us, I get it. If I were you, I'd be sick of reading this already too. I don't know what else to say, though. We're living together, we're happy, and damn it, it works. We've both seen enough bad relationships lately to know how lucky we are--we could be trying to sell the place less than three months after we bought it. It happens, you know. I know a guy.
Showing posts with label the good stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the good stuff. Show all posts
5.11.2007
3.15.2007
I'm on my way, I'm on my waaaaay...Home Sweet Home!
Come on...all you people who read the Remix's blog, did anyone ever suspect she'd end up moving in with a guy who quotes Motley Crue lyrics as blog titles?
Today is closing day. Approximately two hours from now, The Remix and I will own a home. (Technically, I'll have my name on the paperwork, but who's being technical? Besides, she's paying half the mortgage AND picking out the bedskirt, which I think more than qualifies.) We're both really excited, I think, even in the face of hours and hours of packing left to finish before moving on Saturday.
I have nothing enlightening to say...I've been running back and forth to the dumpster all morning throwing away my excess stuff, and my brain is tired. I'm going to go sign a mountain of paperwork now, then come home to my blood-spattered cats* and half-boxed apartment and finish off the packing. Wish me luck, and the next time you hear from me will be from the new joint, tentatively entitled Pant's Labyrinth. (Yet another long story.)
*The cats went to get declawed this week. The fat one is white, and also stubborn, so the day after surgery he busted open all his wounds and now his paws look like he just massacred the Incas. After not seeing the cats for all of three fucking days, I got misty eyed picking them up (the blood didn't help)--I'm a world class loser, you heard it here first.
Today is closing day. Approximately two hours from now, The Remix and I will own a home. (Technically, I'll have my name on the paperwork, but who's being technical? Besides, she's paying half the mortgage AND picking out the bedskirt, which I think more than qualifies.) We're both really excited, I think, even in the face of hours and hours of packing left to finish before moving on Saturday.
I have nothing enlightening to say...I've been running back and forth to the dumpster all morning throwing away my excess stuff, and my brain is tired. I'm going to go sign a mountain of paperwork now, then come home to my blood-spattered cats* and half-boxed apartment and finish off the packing. Wish me luck, and the next time you hear from me will be from the new joint, tentatively entitled Pant's Labyrinth. (Yet another long story.)
*The cats went to get declawed this week. The fat one is white, and also stubborn, so the day after surgery he busted open all his wounds and now his paws look like he just massacred the Incas. After not seeing the cats for all of three fucking days, I got misty eyed picking them up (the blood didn't help)--I'm a world class loser, you heard it here first.
2.18.2007
Moving On Up
So I'm sitting here having my first cigarette of the day at 6:30 in the morning on a Sunday, wondering what the hell I'm doing awake in the first place. The Remix went out to play wingman for a single friend last night, and I was going to take the opportunity to go get a little tipsy and sing karaoke with some of my friends, but somehow instead I wound up laying down to take a twenty minute nap at 9pm and didn't wake up until this morning. That's ok, I probably needed it, but now I'm up early with nothing to do, so I feel like I ought to be productive.
I signed my mortgage application this week, and did the home inspection, and everything seems to be going along swimmingly. Since it's yet to debut, why don't y'all take a look:
I signed my mortgage application this week, and did the home inspection, and everything seems to be going along swimmingly. Since it's yet to debut, why don't y'all take a look:
That's the living room, it's a good size, with maybe another 10-12 feet behind the camera in the connected dining room. What really got me on this one, though, was the kitchen:
I've got an island. I'm so excited about this place, I've gone a little goofy. I close in less than a month, move that weekend, and the Remix will move in the weekend after that. I can't wait. We're already mentally redecorating rooms and placing mannequins (you'd have to see her place to understand), and it should be a lot of fun.
I think we're doing this the right way. One, I'm the only one on the mortgage. Neither of us expect anything to go horribly wrong between us, but if it does, there's no complications caused by the living arrangements. Two, I can afford this place all by myself--it'd be a little bit tighter on the budget than it should be now, but totally doable. Instead of taking our combined rents and adding a couple hundred bucks so we could get a palatial condo we can barely afford, we've set it up so that we'll each save some money every month over what we've been paying. Even better, in a year when I get my next raise, we'll have all kinds of extra money to play with, because we're not living paycheck to paycheck now. I feel all grown up, and it's a little scary to see how naturally I'm taking to the responsibility. Who'd have thought?
Now, I'm going to go do some laundry, maybe even run the dishwasher, and then settle in and watch a movie or something off the Tivo before the Remix gets here. She said she wasn't going to be hungover...
1.05.2007
27 spins around the sun
As of tomorrow, the earth will have circled the sun twenty-seven times since the day I was born. Since January 6th, 1980, the U.S. has fought two wars in Iraq. The best president of my lifetime saw his approval ratings climb because of an ill-advised blowjob. The worst president of my lifetime recently decided it was ok for the government to read your mail.
Since I was born, my hometown of Chicago has seen eight sports championships. The single greatest basketball player of all time once signed a scrap of notebook paper for me in a restaurant parking lot. The worst team in all of baseball has lost over 2000 games. The Bears haven't had one Pro Bowl quarterback.
Since I was born, Pauly Shore has made fourteen movies. So has Martin Scorcese. This is not ok.
Since I was born, The Stones have gone on tour eight times. The New Kids played over 750 shows in a four year span.
Since I was born, I've gained over 260 pounds. I've grown over five feet. My hair has been brown at times, and occasionally auburn, and most recently awfully gray. My glasses have gotten progressively stronger every year for the past twenty.
Since I was born, I've been engaged twice, married once, and divorced once. I've spent five years in college, without getting a degree. My combined earnings for the entire time I've been working are about a year of my father's salary. I've learned a lot, forgotten more, and looking forward to many more years of the same.
More importantly than all the above, though: Since last year, this time, I've fallen in love, again, with a beautiful woman that I never deserved a second chance with. Since last year, this time, I've broken down the old walls I'd put up to survive my marriage, and reopened passages that I never thought I'd be allowed to use. I write again, even if it's just this tripe. I cook again. I look forward to spending time with the Remix, rather than dreading spending time with the ex. I'm able to look myself in the mirror every morning with respect and a touch of amazement, unable to believe I've come this far but proud as hell to have made it.
I don't remember exactly what I did last year on my birthday. The way things were going then, probably nothing to be proud of. This year was perfect. Gifts from the Remix, then dinner. Curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and homemade kolaczki, watching Nip/Tuck...Happy Birthday to me. Life is good, again, and this next spin around is looking like it may be the best one yet.
Since I was born, my hometown of Chicago has seen eight sports championships. The single greatest basketball player of all time once signed a scrap of notebook paper for me in a restaurant parking lot. The worst team in all of baseball has lost over 2000 games. The Bears haven't had one Pro Bowl quarterback.
Since I was born, Pauly Shore has made fourteen movies. So has Martin Scorcese. This is not ok.
Since I was born, The Stones have gone on tour eight times. The New Kids played over 750 shows in a four year span.
Since I was born, I've gained over 260 pounds. I've grown over five feet. My hair has been brown at times, and occasionally auburn, and most recently awfully gray. My glasses have gotten progressively stronger every year for the past twenty.
Since I was born, I've been engaged twice, married once, and divorced once. I've spent five years in college, without getting a degree. My combined earnings for the entire time I've been working are about a year of my father's salary. I've learned a lot, forgotten more, and looking forward to many more years of the same.
More importantly than all the above, though: Since last year, this time, I've fallen in love, again, with a beautiful woman that I never deserved a second chance with. Since last year, this time, I've broken down the old walls I'd put up to survive my marriage, and reopened passages that I never thought I'd be allowed to use. I write again, even if it's just this tripe. I cook again. I look forward to spending time with the Remix, rather than dreading spending time with the ex. I'm able to look myself in the mirror every morning with respect and a touch of amazement, unable to believe I've come this far but proud as hell to have made it.
I don't remember exactly what I did last year on my birthday. The way things were going then, probably nothing to be proud of. This year was perfect. Gifts from the Remix, then dinner. Curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and homemade kolaczki, watching Nip/Tuck...Happy Birthday to me. Life is good, again, and this next spin around is looking like it may be the best one yet.
1.02.2007
Ain't Too Proud To Beg
When she asks me to do things, I listen. I don't jump, necessarily, but I always hear her out. I need reading material. So here we are. Reading material.
I wrote once about my innate resistance to change, even if for the better. This, thankfully, has not changed. My wallet overstuffed with old gift cards and student IDs, my high school football jersey buried in a drawer somewhere, the three earrings I wore a lifetime ago packed neatly somewhere in my parents basement--my inability to give up bits of my past. It has little to do with nostalgia, that green and gold #77 jersey doesn't hold any special sentimental value. My recollections of my sleeker and stronger days don't need any physical reminders; I've integrated both good and bad memories of who and what I am and have been pretty firmly into my sense of self without needing any souvenirs. I just like to keep stuff.
I have a pair of shoes. I got them sometime after the Remix and I ended it for good (or so we thought), and before I met the future ex-wife. They're simple brown Rockports, one of the only brand names to carry the extra-extra-wide sizes I need to accomodate my freakish feet. (There's probably a whole other blog entry there, but no one would ever want to read it.) They started out nice, heavy leather and thick soles, rock 'n' roll enough to wear with jeans at a bar but serious enough to settle down nicely with a pair of khakis and a button down.
Dozens of rainstorms, errant drops of beer and Jack Daniels, tripping over curbs, and a steady diet of road salt all took their toll over time. The supple leather grew stiff, and then surrendered completely to a texture more like well worn cotton. The heel of the right shoe is wedge-shaped, worn smooth on one side from thousands of miles of working the gas pedal. The soles are a distant memory, in some places worn thin enough to see the leather bottom of the shoe. The heels are crushed, from day after day of jamming my monstrous feet in without bothering to untie them. The laces are so frayed that the brown covering is all gone, exposing the densely intertwined bits of string that just barely hold the tongue down.
I love my shoes. I don't have any memories with them, there's no pictures of me with the shoes at the Grand Canyon or cuddling up on the ferris wheel at Navy Pier. For the last year or so, everyone I know has mentioned at one time or another that I really needed new ones, but I never quite made it out to buy any. And then.
Monday, the Remix and I went out to see Harriet and Mr. Spy for a new year's party. The Remix wasn't appalled enough to forbid my wearing the shoes in public. Just barely. She laughed when she said it, there were no hard feelings, I don't feel like she's running my life--but when she asks, I listen. You have got to get new shoes. Today. She was right, too.
So here I sit, a brand new pair of shoes resting comfortably by the door on my left. Simple brown Rockports. Similar enough to my other pair that they could be twins. Yes, the kind of twins where one has grown up to be a eminent heart surgeon and the other just came off yet another three day crystal meth binge, but twins nonetheless. The new shoes are great, just as comfortable, easier to walk in (you try to balance in shoes with a third of the sole missing), and snappy enough to hang with the khaki pants crowd. There was no reason not to get new ones, I just needed a prod in the right direction. Well, more like a horse kick in the right direction, but you get the point.
She couldn't have made me do it. She wouldn't have, either. She knows I hang on to things. The leopard print pillow she made me all those years ago. The songs she downloaded to my computer in college. The story that I wrote for her the day she needed one worst. It's not sentimental. Really. I just like to keep stuff.
I wrote once about my innate resistance to change, even if for the better. This, thankfully, has not changed. My wallet overstuffed with old gift cards and student IDs, my high school football jersey buried in a drawer somewhere, the three earrings I wore a lifetime ago packed neatly somewhere in my parents basement--my inability to give up bits of my past. It has little to do with nostalgia, that green and gold #77 jersey doesn't hold any special sentimental value. My recollections of my sleeker and stronger days don't need any physical reminders; I've integrated both good and bad memories of who and what I am and have been pretty firmly into my sense of self without needing any souvenirs. I just like to keep stuff.
I have a pair of shoes. I got them sometime after the Remix and I ended it for good (or so we thought), and before I met the future ex-wife. They're simple brown Rockports, one of the only brand names to carry the extra-extra-wide sizes I need to accomodate my freakish feet. (There's probably a whole other blog entry there, but no one would ever want to read it.) They started out nice, heavy leather and thick soles, rock 'n' roll enough to wear with jeans at a bar but serious enough to settle down nicely with a pair of khakis and a button down.
Dozens of rainstorms, errant drops of beer and Jack Daniels, tripping over curbs, and a steady diet of road salt all took their toll over time. The supple leather grew stiff, and then surrendered completely to a texture more like well worn cotton. The heel of the right shoe is wedge-shaped, worn smooth on one side from thousands of miles of working the gas pedal. The soles are a distant memory, in some places worn thin enough to see the leather bottom of the shoe. The heels are crushed, from day after day of jamming my monstrous feet in without bothering to untie them. The laces are so frayed that the brown covering is all gone, exposing the densely intertwined bits of string that just barely hold the tongue down.
I love my shoes. I don't have any memories with them, there's no pictures of me with the shoes at the Grand Canyon or cuddling up on the ferris wheel at Navy Pier. For the last year or so, everyone I know has mentioned at one time or another that I really needed new ones, but I never quite made it out to buy any. And then.
Monday, the Remix and I went out to see Harriet and Mr. Spy for a new year's party. The Remix wasn't appalled enough to forbid my wearing the shoes in public. Just barely. She laughed when she said it, there were no hard feelings, I don't feel like she's running my life--but when she asks, I listen. You have got to get new shoes. Today. She was right, too.
So here I sit, a brand new pair of shoes resting comfortably by the door on my left. Simple brown Rockports. Similar enough to my other pair that they could be twins. Yes, the kind of twins where one has grown up to be a eminent heart surgeon and the other just came off yet another three day crystal meth binge, but twins nonetheless. The new shoes are great, just as comfortable, easier to walk in (you try to balance in shoes with a third of the sole missing), and snappy enough to hang with the khaki pants crowd. There was no reason not to get new ones, I just needed a prod in the right direction. Well, more like a horse kick in the right direction, but you get the point.
She couldn't have made me do it. She wouldn't have, either. She knows I hang on to things. The leopard print pillow she made me all those years ago. The songs she downloaded to my computer in college. The story that I wrote for her the day she needed one worst. It's not sentimental. Really. I just like to keep stuff.
12.28.2006
My kind of town
There's probably two potential posts in here. Hell, there's probably five, but I'm going to try to do it in one. Why? Because I'm lazy. Deal with it.
I spent Christmas in sunny Las Vegas, Nevada. No, I'm not a gambling freak degenerate who disregards family and sentimentality to while away my holidays at a blackjack table. I'm a regular old degenerate who happens to have family in Vegas. My mom's whole family packed up and moved west when she was eighteen, and she stayed here to marry my dad. Everyone stayed out there, so every couple of years we spend the holidays under the neon lights.
My mom's family is white trash. There's no other way to put it, really. It's a fantastically dysfunctional family, full of emotional train wrecks--and I love every one of them. My uncle Fred (the gay one who doesn't pay taxes and gambles away all of his money, not the one who used to be married to my Aunt Liz but got divorced when he knocked up his daughter's teenage friend during a coke binge shortly before he went to prison but now hangs out with the family on holidays because he doesn't have anyone of his own) and I have a running joke where he tells me I've got more Vegas genes than Chicago--I drink, I smoke, I dropped out of college, I've been divorced, I like to gamble, I have bad credit, and I don't go to church. He's right, I think, and I'm not ashamed, either.
Here's the thing. My dad's family is great--I love them, and they love me. But they're all polished and ready for display, older kids getting doctorate degrees in history and kindergarteners who spout off Jesus-isms like junior Pat Robertsons. They're the easy kind of religious Republicans--they've never needed actual help from God or their government, so it's not hard to believe in either. Christmas in Chicago means Christmas carols, and the younger kids reading the nativity story from the bible, and egg nog, and board games. No alcohol, no drama, just your standard by-the-book Christmas.
My mom's side of the family is awful. At Christmas dinner, my cousin Laura (the one who just got divorced, then almost killed herself and totaled her car driving drunk, and then spent the insurance money on a boob job) got in a drunken screaming match with her mom (the one who just remarried her second husband because she had no place to live). My aunt Vicky (the one who just got married for a third time to someone she's been dating for about three months) and her new husband were not speaking. My uncle Ed (the one who got off of heroin and married his rehab counselor) and his wife (the ex-rehab counselor who got them both hooked on painkillers after she got a liver transplant) cornered my grandma and told her that they were sad it was going to be her last Christmas. (They were both high.) My aunt Sue (the one who's been in not one, but two, crystal meth comas in the past year and moved back in with her ex-husband so that she could afford her drugs, all of which seems to have aged her forty years) continued her lifelong habit of ignoring her teenage kids' obvious cries for help (my cousin Steph is pretending to be a lesbian at 15, and her brother Daniel is clearly actually gay and confused at 13) so she could attempt to flirt with my dad...
I could go on, forever, but here' s the thing--Christmas was a disaster by Chicago standards. Fighting, drunkeness, a poker tournament, more fighting. And at the end of the night, a bunch of us packed into a couple of cars and hung out at the casino until dawn. I loved it. No pretending to care about some fictional baby in a barn 2000 years ago. No forced politeness. No gushy sentimentality. We're a real family, not a Norman Rockwell painting. Sometimes we drink too much to have a good time. Sometimes we don't like each other. Hell, some of us don't ever like each other. We get together for the holidays because that's what people do. Most importantly, though, by cutting out the bullshit, the posturing, the overcompensation, we happen to have a blast, too. It's not normal. It's far from ideal. But it's a real family, a living thing with unsightly blemishes and bad breath. We love each other fiercely, in spite of the substance abuse and deviant sexual behaviors, in spite of the fact that my brother and I are the only ones who've even seen a university classroom, in spite of the fact that everyone is broke, in spite of the fact that we have to.
It's easy to love your family when they look like my dad's. Sure, I'd be embarassed to take my mom's family to church on Christmas day. But you know what? I'd be embarassed to take my dad's family to a casino on Christmas night--and y'all know where I'd rather be.
I spent Christmas in sunny Las Vegas, Nevada. No, I'm not a gambling freak degenerate who disregards family and sentimentality to while away my holidays at a blackjack table. I'm a regular old degenerate who happens to have family in Vegas. My mom's whole family packed up and moved west when she was eighteen, and she stayed here to marry my dad. Everyone stayed out there, so every couple of years we spend the holidays under the neon lights.
My mom's family is white trash. There's no other way to put it, really. It's a fantastically dysfunctional family, full of emotional train wrecks--and I love every one of them. My uncle Fred (the gay one who doesn't pay taxes and gambles away all of his money, not the one who used to be married to my Aunt Liz but got divorced when he knocked up his daughter's teenage friend during a coke binge shortly before he went to prison but now hangs out with the family on holidays because he doesn't have anyone of his own) and I have a running joke where he tells me I've got more Vegas genes than Chicago--I drink, I smoke, I dropped out of college, I've been divorced, I like to gamble, I have bad credit, and I don't go to church. He's right, I think, and I'm not ashamed, either.
Here's the thing. My dad's family is great--I love them, and they love me. But they're all polished and ready for display, older kids getting doctorate degrees in history and kindergarteners who spout off Jesus-isms like junior Pat Robertsons. They're the easy kind of religious Republicans--they've never needed actual help from God or their government, so it's not hard to believe in either. Christmas in Chicago means Christmas carols, and the younger kids reading the nativity story from the bible, and egg nog, and board games. No alcohol, no drama, just your standard by-the-book Christmas.
My mom's side of the family is awful. At Christmas dinner, my cousin Laura (the one who just got divorced, then almost killed herself and totaled her car driving drunk, and then spent the insurance money on a boob job) got in a drunken screaming match with her mom (the one who just remarried her second husband because she had no place to live). My aunt Vicky (the one who just got married for a third time to someone she's been dating for about three months) and her new husband were not speaking. My uncle Ed (the one who got off of heroin and married his rehab counselor) and his wife (the ex-rehab counselor who got them both hooked on painkillers after she got a liver transplant) cornered my grandma and told her that they were sad it was going to be her last Christmas. (They were both high.) My aunt Sue (the one who's been in not one, but two, crystal meth comas in the past year and moved back in with her ex-husband so that she could afford her drugs, all of which seems to have aged her forty years) continued her lifelong habit of ignoring her teenage kids' obvious cries for help (my cousin Steph is pretending to be a lesbian at 15, and her brother Daniel is clearly actually gay and confused at 13) so she could attempt to flirt with my dad...
I could go on, forever, but here' s the thing--Christmas was a disaster by Chicago standards. Fighting, drunkeness, a poker tournament, more fighting. And at the end of the night, a bunch of us packed into a couple of cars and hung out at the casino until dawn. I loved it. No pretending to care about some fictional baby in a barn 2000 years ago. No forced politeness. No gushy sentimentality. We're a real family, not a Norman Rockwell painting. Sometimes we drink too much to have a good time. Sometimes we don't like each other. Hell, some of us don't ever like each other. We get together for the holidays because that's what people do. Most importantly, though, by cutting out the bullshit, the posturing, the overcompensation, we happen to have a blast, too. It's not normal. It's far from ideal. But it's a real family, a living thing with unsightly blemishes and bad breath. We love each other fiercely, in spite of the substance abuse and deviant sexual behaviors, in spite of the fact that my brother and I are the only ones who've even seen a university classroom, in spite of the fact that everyone is broke, in spite of the fact that we have to.
It's easy to love your family when they look like my dad's. Sure, I'd be embarassed to take my mom's family to church on Christmas day. But you know what? I'd be embarassed to take my dad's family to a casino on Christmas night--and y'all know where I'd rather be.
12.02.2006
Home - Heat + 8" of Snow = Sappiness
What a week...after hustling my ass off trying to prove that I still have what it takes to be a damn fine fast food employee, they turned us loose at 6pm last night to head for home. Of course, Chicago was under eighty-seven feet of snow, so my mom called four times to beg me not to try to drive home, but the air outside was clear, and the ground was dry, so I said the hell with it and hit the road.
It was a smooth roll home, for the most part. Besides the parking lot of my building, I didn't really have much trouble with snow. Of course, when I rolled into my apartment at 10 last night, I discovered that my heat was off. I was too tired to look up the maintenance number, so I grabbed an extra blanket and a sweatshirt and bundled off to bed.
I couldn't stomach another day in Michigan. I couldn't do it. I missed home, sure, my own bed and my own cats (any cats, really, it's not like the Holiday Inn has rental cats you get with the room), but most of all I missed my Remix. It's kind of funny, actually--we've gone five days without seeing each other before (five years, but that's a different matter entirely), but almost as soon as I'd left I was wishing I was home with her.
I didn't just kind of miss her, either. It was an acute sensation, a literal ache. It wasn't the absence, exactly. It was the unavailability. Even when we're busy at home, when we can't get together during the week because of this thing or that, there's always some comfort knowing that we could drop everything and be together if the need was there. Four hours from home, not so much. We talked on the phone every night, but after a while those conversations become a little disjointed and tense, the layers of nicety peeling back to reveal the raw frustration underneath, the chafing at not being able to wrap our arms around each other and fall asleep.
I missed home while I was gone, sure. I knew I would. I just never realized that home wasn't my icy apartment in the suburbs. Home has warm arms and sexy eyes, fabulous legs and an easy smile, thick brown hair and a perfect laugh. And I think home missed me, too.
P.S. -- Don't forget to leave me some music suggestions, kids.
It was a smooth roll home, for the most part. Besides the parking lot of my building, I didn't really have much trouble with snow. Of course, when I rolled into my apartment at 10 last night, I discovered that my heat was off. I was too tired to look up the maintenance number, so I grabbed an extra blanket and a sweatshirt and bundled off to bed.
I couldn't stomach another day in Michigan. I couldn't do it. I missed home, sure, my own bed and my own cats (any cats, really, it's not like the Holiday Inn has rental cats you get with the room), but most of all I missed my Remix. It's kind of funny, actually--we've gone five days without seeing each other before (five years, but that's a different matter entirely), but almost as soon as I'd left I was wishing I was home with her.
I didn't just kind of miss her, either. It was an acute sensation, a literal ache. It wasn't the absence, exactly. It was the unavailability. Even when we're busy at home, when we can't get together during the week because of this thing or that, there's always some comfort knowing that we could drop everything and be together if the need was there. Four hours from home, not so much. We talked on the phone every night, but after a while those conversations become a little disjointed and tense, the layers of nicety peeling back to reveal the raw frustration underneath, the chafing at not being able to wrap our arms around each other and fall asleep.
I missed home while I was gone, sure. I knew I would. I just never realized that home wasn't my icy apartment in the suburbs. Home has warm arms and sexy eyes, fabulous legs and an easy smile, thick brown hair and a perfect laugh. And I think home missed me, too.
P.S. -- Don't forget to leave me some music suggestions, kids.
11.30.2006
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
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…
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…
11.25.2006
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.
11.04.2006
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.
10.26.2006
Coda
Read the post under this one first, or this won't make any sense.
After all this family feuding was done, the Remix was reeling. This was mostly my fault, I exacerbated the situation by a wanton misreading of her tone in some early e-mails, leading to the always disastrous "I-thought-we-were-joking-around-and-you-were-near-tears" effect. (E-mails should come with coded fonts for tone...you know, the text turns yellow automatically if you're scared, or blue if you're sad, or stays a harmless shade of teal when you're just chatting. This would be both helpful and aesthetically pleasing...the sarcastic purple being my personal favorite.)
Anyway, my mom essentially managed to nail down both the Remix and my own worst fears about the situation--that someone would feel slighted, no one would be happy with what they had, and the whole day would be an overly tense high wire act trying not to further hurt anyone's feelings. I think I defused that possibility, but the potential was slightly terrifying.
One good thing, though. Even at it's worst, while I was yelling at my mom (bold red letters, possibly in all caps or underlined, under my new color/tone system), I never made it about the Remix. Eons ago, the first time around, she was always in the middle. It was unfair, and an impossible position for her to navigate.
Oh yeah. Also may have mentioned that I love her in the e-mail to the parents. Not that it's a secret, obviously, or even a surprise, but certainly different. We've gone public, baby! Woo hoo!
After all this family feuding was done, the Remix was reeling. This was mostly my fault, I exacerbated the situation by a wanton misreading of her tone in some early e-mails, leading to the always disastrous "I-thought-we-were-joking-around-and-you-were-near-tears" effect. (E-mails should come with coded fonts for tone...you know, the text turns yellow automatically if you're scared, or blue if you're sad, or stays a harmless shade of teal when you're just chatting. This would be both helpful and aesthetically pleasing...the sarcastic purple being my personal favorite.)
Anyway, my mom essentially managed to nail down both the Remix and my own worst fears about the situation--that someone would feel slighted, no one would be happy with what they had, and the whole day would be an overly tense high wire act trying not to further hurt anyone's feelings. I think I defused that possibility, but the potential was slightly terrifying.
One good thing, though. Even at it's worst, while I was yelling at my mom (bold red letters, possibly in all caps or underlined, under my new color/tone system), I never made it about the Remix. Eons ago, the first time around, she was always in the middle. It was unfair, and an impossible position for her to navigate.
Oh yeah. Also may have mentioned that I love her in the e-mail to the parents. Not that it's a secret, obviously, or even a surprise, but certainly different. We've gone public, baby! Woo hoo!
10.20.2006
Turn, and face the change.
We moved to a new office today. Predictably, everything was fucked, from the get go. The phones didn't work, the computers didn't work, the fax machine ate everything you put into it, and everyone was a little haggard by the end of the day.
My new office is nicer, by a long shot. It's sunnier, there's more room to spread out, everything is easier. I wouldn't dream of going back. Not everything is different, but the things that are most certainly are better.
However, I was almost freakishly stressed out, all day long. My shoulders ache, a sure sign of extra tension, and I'm exhausted. Upon further review, (and what, really, do I not subject to further review) I realized that even as a grown man, change makes me uncomfortable. Different, I like. Changing, not so much. My new office is better, without question. Yet I find myself stubbornly resisting to learn the new phone system and futilely complaining about the (beautiful) courtyard my fellow smokers and I are relegated to. I don't like having to stand idly by while major changes are foisted on me by powers beyond myself. The adjustment is too rough, like slamming on the brakes and taking off in a new direction. I like the new stuf, sure. I just don't like getting there. And in a couple weeks, I'll never want to leave the new place.
I'm like this in other ways. Give me eel sushi and pig's feet in my pozole--just don't ask me to go somewhere new to try it. I'll try The End of Alice--but only if I casually pick it up while the Remix makes dinner, otherwise I'm going to sit on my couch and reread A Confederacy of Dunces again. Bring on shared apartments and kids and marriage--just don't start telling me all the things I have to do differently.
This last is sort of what I'm driving (meandering?) at. When the Remix and I were first dating (does that make her "the Mix?" Hmm...) I wasn't ready for the relationship we were trying to have. Now, five long years later, I am. We always loved each other. The requirements haven't changed, I have. My priorities are different. The five years sucked, for the most part. Without them, we wouldn't be here. I changed on my own. No one asked me to, no one forced me to. We're different now, both of us; but in all the important ways, nothing has changed.
My new relationship is nicer, by a long shot. It's sunnier, there's more room to spread out, everything is easier. I wouldn't dream of going back. Not everything is different, but the things that are most certainly are better.
However, I am not stressed out. Upon further review, I'm not missing anything. I don't feel like the car is turning without me. I turned by myself, and somehow ended up back on the road beside the person I love the most. I'm ready now, sweetheart. I'm with you now. And it only took a couple of dates to know that I never, never want to leave the new place.
My new office is nicer, by a long shot. It's sunnier, there's more room to spread out, everything is easier. I wouldn't dream of going back. Not everything is different, but the things that are most certainly are better.
However, I was almost freakishly stressed out, all day long. My shoulders ache, a sure sign of extra tension, and I'm exhausted. Upon further review, (and what, really, do I not subject to further review) I realized that even as a grown man, change makes me uncomfortable. Different, I like. Changing, not so much. My new office is better, without question. Yet I find myself stubbornly resisting to learn the new phone system and futilely complaining about the (beautiful) courtyard my fellow smokers and I are relegated to. I don't like having to stand idly by while major changes are foisted on me by powers beyond myself. The adjustment is too rough, like slamming on the brakes and taking off in a new direction. I like the new stuf, sure. I just don't like getting there. And in a couple weeks, I'll never want to leave the new place.
I'm like this in other ways. Give me eel sushi and pig's feet in my pozole--just don't ask me to go somewhere new to try it. I'll try The End of Alice--but only if I casually pick it up while the Remix makes dinner, otherwise I'm going to sit on my couch and reread A Confederacy of Dunces again. Bring on shared apartments and kids and marriage--just don't start telling me all the things I have to do differently.
This last is sort of what I'm driving (meandering?) at. When the Remix and I were first dating (does that make her "the Mix?" Hmm...) I wasn't ready for the relationship we were trying to have. Now, five long years later, I am. We always loved each other. The requirements haven't changed, I have. My priorities are different. The five years sucked, for the most part. Without them, we wouldn't be here. I changed on my own. No one asked me to, no one forced me to. We're different now, both of us; but in all the important ways, nothing has changed.
My new relationship is nicer, by a long shot. It's sunnier, there's more room to spread out, everything is easier. I wouldn't dream of going back. Not everything is different, but the things that are most certainly are better.
However, I am not stressed out. Upon further review, I'm not missing anything. I don't feel like the car is turning without me. I turned by myself, and somehow ended up back on the road beside the person I love the most. I'm ready now, sweetheart. I'm with you now. And it only took a couple of dates to know that I never, never want to leave the new place.
10.14.2006
The way to a man's heart...
So right now, there's a lemon-garlic chicken, four miniature apple pies, two pans of gratin potatoes, and a pan of rolls baking in the oven at casa de Remix. Could I be any happier?
On the agenda for next weekend, the best friend, the BFGF, the Remix and I will be taking in the 7pm Sunday show of Frank Caliendo's recent comedy tour. (Yes, we know it's the senior citizen special, but we saved four dollars a ticket. Fuck, that's a watered-down beer for each couple to share.) I'm really looking forward to it, to be honest. For all the cool things to do around my apartment, I very rarely do any of them. Here's hoping it's a good time, and a good show.
On the agenda for next weekend, the best friend, the BFGF, the Remix and I will be taking in the 7pm Sunday show of Frank Caliendo's recent comedy tour. (Yes, we know it's the senior citizen special, but we saved four dollars a ticket. Fuck, that's a watered-down beer for each couple to share.) I'm really looking forward to it, to be honest. For all the cool things to do around my apartment, I very rarely do any of them. Here's hoping it's a good time, and a good show.
10.13.2006
There's still a couple things I don't know...
So I have no excuse. None whatsoever. I have 32 minutes until the laundry is done, and when the timer beeps there will be folding and muttering under my breath. I'm not hungry, I don't need to clean anything...nothing to do but add a posting here.
Yesterday the Remix and I were talking idly (as we so often do, gladly, at great length and to my unceasing amazement) and I mentioned that there were literally dozens of things I'd like to know how to do, but just don't have time for. Lousy excuse, right? But it's true. The things listed below are all things I'd like to learn, but not one of them is important enough to me to take time away from anything else. Without further ado...
I'd like to learn:
Yesterday the Remix and I were talking idly (as we so often do, gladly, at great length and to my unceasing amazement) and I mentioned that there were literally dozens of things I'd like to know how to do, but just don't have time for. Lousy excuse, right? But it's true. The things listed below are all things I'd like to learn, but not one of them is important enough to me to take time away from anything else. Without further ado...
I'd like to learn:
- to shoot a gun. A handgun, even though I'd never bring one into my home. I'd like to know if I'm good at it.
- to sing harmony.
- to play the guitar. I owned a bass for a while, purchased under the influence on Ebay (Ebay should come with a breathlyzer, or so my college Visa bill would suggest), but my fingers are far too stubby to actually play the damn thing.
- Computer programming. I was good at visualBasic in high school, but that's as relevant to now as my guidance counselor's insistence that I pursue a career in law enforcement.
- to properly make menudo, or molé, or enchiladas, or any of the other fragrant oddities my great-grandmother used to make for holidays.
- the keyboard shortcut for a lower-case e with an acute accent (é)...oh, right. Just did. check it off the list.
- to swing dance. Swing dancing is totally cliché (there it is again!) now. It's not cool to take swing lessons, unless you also think it's cool to wear sweatshirts with Disney characters and fanny packs on vacation. But...if you just know how to swing, and you can bust it out just at the right time at a wedding, or a bar, you're instantly so cool Frank Sinatra would go get your drinks.
- to play the piano. Well. Like, hear a song on the radio and start playing along well. I can read music, and pick out Joy to the World with one hand, but it's not even close to the same.
- to wiggle my ears.
- to play blackjack.
So there it is. All the things I would do if I could, if I had time, and space in my brain. On the other hand...
I'd like to forget:
- reading Running With Scissors. Terrible book. Worst thing I've read in the past five years, including the bad sci-fi paperbacks my pop keeps in the guest bathroom.
- the lyrics to T-U-R-T-L-E Power, Total Eclipse of the Heart, Somewhere Out There, and Hit Me Baby One More Time. (And a solid 300 more awful songs that reside somewhere in the back of my mind.)
- the day my grandma died.
- how to play backgammon. I mean, really, when is that going to come up again?
- 16 years of Sunday church services.
- seeing Armageddon, Nothing But Trouble, The Blair Witch Project, Con-Air, and Corky Romano, my official top 5 worst movies I've ever seen.
- what asparagus tastes like.
- putting my dog to sleep.
See, there's plenty of ways to make room there. Anyone have an idea on how to pull it off? First person to show up here with a powerpoint and a bonesaw gets to do the operation.
10.11.2006
Sympathy for the Devil
Ah, the first fight. Over, done with, and in the books now, but boy was it bad while it lasted. Shamefully easy to predict, really...little thing becomes a big deal, everyone's feelings are hurt for no rational reason, now everyone is defensive. (Everyone, of course, being me.)
Anyway, the Remix is at the Stones concert, and I am still slightly brooding and a bit cranky, but the worst is over. So in typical form, I'm going to break it down and tell you why, even when we fight, this girl is way too good to me.
For one thing, it didn't get too nasty. A little bit, here and there, I said some unnecessarily harsh things out of frustration, and she hit me with some half-decade old reminders out of defensiveness, but on the whole we were civil, if not exactly tender and understanding. That's something of a relief to me, given the way we used to go at each other, years ago.
What's more important to me, though, and the reason that even though I'm still not thrilled with this whole situation, it's over in my mind, is the fact that nobody won. More than that, even, no one was trying to win. Let me clarify: Winning, for me, would have meant keeping her from doing this thing that I don't like, thus proving that my will is superior and even my most irrational feelings deserved unquestioning respect. Bullshit, right? Winning for her would have meant convincing me somehow that my feelings were just wrong, thus proving that she can always do whatever she wants, regardless of how I might feel, as long as she can justify it enough to sell me on it. Equally bullshit. The good news? No one tried to win. I never told her "no," she couldn't go. She never told me "no," my feelings are ridiculous and irrelevant to what she decides to do. Essentially, we agreed to disagree. She knows I'm not happy, and regardless of whether she thinks I ought to be, she's sorry that this is the case. I know she does actually care about my feelings, no matter how irrational and uncontrollable they are, and I'm sorry for not being more cooperative in the first place.
The funny thing is, nothing really changed, between yesterday morning and right now. She's still going, and I'm still pissed. Except that somehow, it's become ok on both sides. She's ok with me being pissed, because she knows I understand now where she's coming from. I'm ok with her going, because I know she understands now why it bothers me. The actual going, the actual concert? Afterthought. For a split second yesterday, I felt less important to her than her friend, the show, and most painfully, her desire to be free. For the next second, she felt like I was trying to own her, rein her in, and most painfully, cut her off from the other things that matter to her. And when all is said and done, we both know now that neither thing is true.
I hope she's having fun. I hope at some point, she wishes I was there. The rest? Already ancient history.
Anyway, the Remix is at the Stones concert, and I am still slightly brooding and a bit cranky, but the worst is over. So in typical form, I'm going to break it down and tell you why, even when we fight, this girl is way too good to me.
For one thing, it didn't get too nasty. A little bit, here and there, I said some unnecessarily harsh things out of frustration, and she hit me with some half-decade old reminders out of defensiveness, but on the whole we were civil, if not exactly tender and understanding. That's something of a relief to me, given the way we used to go at each other, years ago.
What's more important to me, though, and the reason that even though I'm still not thrilled with this whole situation, it's over in my mind, is the fact that nobody won. More than that, even, no one was trying to win. Let me clarify: Winning, for me, would have meant keeping her from doing this thing that I don't like, thus proving that my will is superior and even my most irrational feelings deserved unquestioning respect. Bullshit, right? Winning for her would have meant convincing me somehow that my feelings were just wrong, thus proving that she can always do whatever she wants, regardless of how I might feel, as long as she can justify it enough to sell me on it. Equally bullshit. The good news? No one tried to win. I never told her "no," she couldn't go. She never told me "no," my feelings are ridiculous and irrelevant to what she decides to do. Essentially, we agreed to disagree. She knows I'm not happy, and regardless of whether she thinks I ought to be, she's sorry that this is the case. I know she does actually care about my feelings, no matter how irrational and uncontrollable they are, and I'm sorry for not being more cooperative in the first place.
The funny thing is, nothing really changed, between yesterday morning and right now. She's still going, and I'm still pissed. Except that somehow, it's become ok on both sides. She's ok with me being pissed, because she knows I understand now where she's coming from. I'm ok with her going, because I know she understands now why it bothers me. The actual going, the actual concert? Afterthought. For a split second yesterday, I felt less important to her than her friend, the show, and most painfully, her desire to be free. For the next second, she felt like I was trying to own her, rein her in, and most painfully, cut her off from the other things that matter to her. And when all is said and done, we both know now that neither thing is true.
I hope she's having fun. I hope at some point, she wishes I was there. The rest? Already ancient history.
10.08.2006
Easy like Sunday morning
It's a beautiful sunny Sunday, and I'm in a great fucking mood. Played poker yesterday, not terribly well by my own stringent standards, but well enough that I'm not feeling bad about being knocked out. (Also easing the pain--once I was out of the tournament I got rip-roaring drunk, which I do infrequently enough at this point in my life for it be something of a thrill.) Got up early, made the two and a half hour drive from Peoria in an hour and forty minutes, somehow managed to not be the car that got pulled over when a state trooper descended on a pack of us going 95 on I-55. My beautiful girlfriend is coming over tonight, and we'll freeload on my parents for dinner. My Chicago Bears are dominating the opposition once again...the list goes on and on, but the reasons become somewhat irrelevant after a while.
I've got nothing to say, clearly, other than the sun is shining, there' s football to watch, a girlfriend to love, and I'm pretty goddamn happy, all around. Weird, huh?
I've got nothing to say, clearly, other than the sun is shining, there' s football to watch, a girlfriend to love, and I'm pretty goddamn happy, all around. Weird, huh?
10.06.2006
Who doesn't like cake?
So the Remix wants me to run the Turkey Trot with her in Chicago this Thanksgiving. I’m game, although not much of a runner. (Guys like me only run if there’s an italian beef ahead of them or an angry buffet owner behind, as a general rule.) She’s surprised, as per the norm, that I’m willing to do something so far out of my comfort zone, just to make her happy. That’s the key, I suppose, the just to make her happy part. If it was that, and that alone, I wouldn’t go anywhere near it.
That’s one of the crazy things about this, really, the propensity to do things to make her happy coupled with the realization that it makes me happy too. Apple picking, Nip/Tuck, running…all things I could catch some grief over from the boys at work, the little brother, any other redblooded male, right? But not one of them solely her idea, not one of them requires any coercion, and not one of them has caused me any pain. (Ok, the runnning will almost certainly cause me pain, but not in a bad way.)
I think the willingness to get away from my own sphere is partly her fault, too, but not in the way you’d think. When we broke up, way back when, I at first considered it to be all her fault, as usually happens with a breakup. Then I thought it was all my fault, for a long time. Some time (quite a bit of time, really) later, I realized that it was both of our faults, and none. One of the things I figured out for sure was just my problem was my selfishness with my time. Oh, we spent plenty of time together, for certain. The selfishness manifested in the ways we spent time together; or perhaps more importantly, the ways I spent my time when we weren’t together. See, I thought I could give her the garbage time, the late nights and weekend mornings, and still spend the “important” time doing my own things. Hanging out with my friends, drinking, playing video games until 3am—the things a normal 18 year old is wont to do. Unfortunately for both of us, we just don’t work that way.
Now, she gets the best of my time, She’s the one I want to be with on Friday nights and Sunday afternoons, she’s the one I want to take to the movies when something good comes out, and she’s the one I want to talk to most every night before I fall asleep. It’s so easy to understand, now, that I don’t see how I could have missed it the first time. I’m going to spend the night in some podunk Central Illinois town tomorrow, playing poker and swilling beer with some work friends. I’m still glad I’m free to do this kind of stuff—but I’d be a jittery wreck if I didn’t know I was going to see her tonight and kiss her goodbye when I leave in the morning. She’s first priority. No questions asked. The other stuff is just icing, my girl (she’ll be pleased by this comparison, I’m almost positive) is definitely the cake.
10.02.2006
Double dipping
Ok, I'm giving you two posts, because I realized the last two posts now are about negatives on the Remix front, not the positives, and I'd hate to risk giving my audience the wrong idea. So for clarification's sake, please note that the two weeks in between the last post and the one before were fabulous. Unfortunately for my readership, the continued success of the budding relationship does not generally insipre me to write the same way unburdening myself of my mistakes does.
That said, let me tell you about yesterday. 3rd person narrative style, because I need the practice...
The couple got in the car already smiling. Unshowered, unshaven, with the early Sunday morning determination that only comes from the prospect of some enjoyable event--the antithesis of families getting in the car for church. An hour drive, laughing and talking, he sneaking glances at her pretty smile, taking solace in her obvious contentment.
Later, in an apple orchard, they both reminisce about past experiences with bushels and short ladders, and they are both relieved to see that the new memories will not taint the old. Holding hands, stealing kisses, everyone around them can see how obnoxiously in love they are. He helps her load her apples on the wagon, though they both know she doesn't need it, and they joke about falling off as the tractor plods back to the barn.
Holding hands and filling a basket with smoked meats and cider donuts, she turns and smiles. She's happy, and says so. He agrees. This has almost become familiar enough that they're barely surprised. As they drive home, sipping apple cider from gas station cups and licking leftover donut sugar from their lips, the laughing and talking continues. The laughing and talking never really stops, which is why this works.
Laying sweating on the bed, after, they joke about what strange pillow talk they make, and debate the intellectual abilities of Jessica Alba and Cameron Diaz.
<*><*><*>
Ok. It's a bad story. The happy ones always are. See why you all just get the stuff I'm worried about? Long story short--I love her, she loves me, we're happy together, always, and if this thing was any better, I'd probably die.
That said, let me tell you about yesterday. 3rd person narrative style, because I need the practice...
The couple got in the car already smiling. Unshowered, unshaven, with the early Sunday morning determination that only comes from the prospect of some enjoyable event--the antithesis of families getting in the car for church. An hour drive, laughing and talking, he sneaking glances at her pretty smile, taking solace in her obvious contentment.
Later, in an apple orchard, they both reminisce about past experiences with bushels and short ladders, and they are both relieved to see that the new memories will not taint the old. Holding hands, stealing kisses, everyone around them can see how obnoxiously in love they are. He helps her load her apples on the wagon, though they both know she doesn't need it, and they joke about falling off as the tractor plods back to the barn.
Holding hands and filling a basket with smoked meats and cider donuts, she turns and smiles. She's happy, and says so. He agrees. This has almost become familiar enough that they're barely surprised. As they drive home, sipping apple cider from gas station cups and licking leftover donut sugar from their lips, the laughing and talking continues. The laughing and talking never really stops, which is why this works.
Laying sweating on the bed, after, they joke about what strange pillow talk they make, and debate the intellectual abilities of Jessica Alba and Cameron Diaz.
<*><*><*>
Ok. It's a bad story. The happy ones always are. See why you all just get the stuff I'm worried about? Long story short--I love her, she loves me, we're happy together, always, and if this thing was any better, I'd probably die.
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