On the way home, conclusion
Tony came into town a few days early and had every intention of spending as much time with Jane as possible. The town in which they grew up, where she still lived, was on the far suburban reaches of a major city. Not exactly the sticks, but far enough for her, and surrounded by factories, chemical plants, and the kind of blue collar bars that catered to the blue collar locals. He agreed to meet her at her favorite icehouse.
They talked for hours, but it didn't seem to last that long. He talked about himself, and she talked about herself, but they didn't talk about them being together. Better to dance around that subject a bit longer, but neither was fooling the other that it was the reason they were there in the first place. He listened to her tales of heartbreak and for the first time in a very long time he really heard what a woman was saying to him. He began to feel the heartbreak she had felt, and the heartbreak he had caused those other women. He began to doubt, and began to think that they wouldn't, couldn't be together.
They closed down that little icehouse, but 'last call' doesn't mean the night is over. He followed her home and she poured a couple glasses of wine. She was about to launch into another story of heartbreak when he leaned in to kiss her. Not a kiss to shut her up, though that was an unintended benefit. It was a kiss to apologize for the pain she had felt and the pain he had caused. A nice kiss, the way nice boys kiss nice girls. It was just the right thing at just the right time and now she wanted him to stay. He knew she wanted him to stay and he knew how to get her to ask him to, but he stood up as the words had just begun to form on her lips.
He could have tried to explain it to her. She hadn't said anything when he kissed her, and she hadn't said anything when he stood up to leave. She had no way of knowing that he finally understood that he had caused such heartbreak. Not
her heartbreak, but the difference didn't matter to him. Of course, she thought she'd done the wrong thing and her face flushed with embarassment. The furrowed brow asked the question for her, one to which she didn't think she could stomach an answer. He
should have tried to explain it to her, but the only thing he could think of was that tonight he could still hurt her. He kept that to himself and kissed her wrinkled forehead instead. A smile and a wink punctuated the sentence. He knew he'd see her again soon. This night, however, was over.
He headed back into the city and actually felt pretty good about things. A single kiss didn't undo a string of empty relationships. Leaving when he could have stayed didn't erase the past, but he felt like he might have turned a corner. Nobody else even knew he was in town so nobody would have expected him or been shocked to see him coming home at 3 in the morning. The rain came out of nowhere. Unfamiliar roads, now slick, he strained his eyes to find that turnoff in the dark. He saw the sign at the last second, too late to slow down. He rolled that little pick 'em up truck 2 and a half times, finally coming to rest upside down in a ditch rapidly filling with rainwater. This night was definitely over.
On the way home, part 1
Tony drove a plain white pickup truck. This is the kind of truck that usually had some of the letters on the tailgate blacked out (or whited-out, in this case) so that it read "TOY" or "YO" or something equally clever. If Tony was 17 years old again he might have done that to this truck, but a decade and a half later it didn't occur to him. His grandpa would have called it a
pick 'em up truck and, not that it has anything to do with it, Tony rarely had a problem where women were concerned. The very first time he said he was in love with a girl she broke his heart. After that, Tony never said it and he wound up doing the breaking. He honest-to-God never meant to, he never promised anything, and he never cheated or slept around. But it's not always what you do that breaks a heart. It can be what you don't do.
Tony's name was Tony. Nobody called him Anthony, not even his parents. Bobby called him Antonio in a hetero-male affectionate way, but Bobby could call anyone whatever he wanted and get away with it. Bobby used to sport a mullet, used to drive an IROC with
Rockford Fosgate imprinted on the doors. The last time anyone saw Bobby he wore a tie, drove a LandRover, and had pierced everything pierceable, but I digress. Jane called him Tony too.
Jane and Tony had known each other a long time, not that he'd ever paid much attention to her way back when. She was the kind of girl who went from one heartbreak to another, falling in love every time the moon was full. Her friends had long since given up trying to give her advice, and her "tales of woe" were really getting tedious. But still, she was a pretty girl trying to fill some void in her heart with any reasonably-nice guy who came along or every stray cat in the neighborhood.
Tony was back in his hometown for Christmas and bumped into Jane at the grocery store. So much had changed in this little town- new roads, new stores- and so much had stayed the same- Jane, an uncomplicated smalltown girl. To say that a spark kindled some childhood romance would be reading too much into a chance encounter. It really was just two acquaintences bumping into each other. And don't forget, although Tony doesn't fall in love, Jane couldn't help but. Even the old Greek guy sacking groceries knew this didn't have much of a chance.
She began writing to him, innocently enough at first, catching up on old times. She wrote to him every day for 13 weeks straight without missing a day, and somehow she managed to ask just the right questions and tell him just the right stories to keep him interested and writing back for more. Tony didn't need a long-distance relationship. He didn't need a penpal. He was used to taking what he wanted from women willing to give. It's not
using someone in that golddigger/sugar daddy kind of way if they get what they thought they wanted too. But Jane had wormed her way into his life and, thanks to the distance between them, Tony hadn't been able to take from her and move on. Easter was another 2 weeks away and they both knew he'd be back in town.
Relax Luther, it's much worse than you think
When did people stop wearing shoes? I do a lot of people watching, and I'm noticing that shoes are optional nowadays. For the purposes of this evening's rant, shoes will be defined to include sandals with at least one leather/leatherette strap. I don't have a problem with seeing people's feet, if that's what you're thinking. But lately I've been seeing a lot of $0.99 flip-flops on those feet. Come on people, have a little decency when you leave the house. I'm not asking you to put on something expensive. I'm not even going to insist that the ladies wear heels
(though I'll look a little closer if you do). But save the cheap ass flip-flops for the beach. And pick up your feet when you walk. You're shuffling.
In other news, I've had a counter on my blog now for a while. I made it invisible so you wouldn't feel self-conscious about me monitoring your comings and goings, but now that I've mentioned it I guess I've shot that all to hell, haven't I? Some of the comings are easy to identify, as I occasionally see
ne.jp or
txchiro.edu pop up. Others aren't so easy to link to a specific person, not that it really matters. Those of you with sitemeters know that the other cool thing is that it tracks referring pages- If you clicked on a link to my page from someone else's, I'd see where you were coming from. It's just that cool. Most of the referring pages are blank or blocked, which probably means you either typed in my URL directly or clicked on my page saved to your 'favorites'
(BTW- thank you). A couple times a day I'll get a batch of referring pages that are other people's blogs, which I'm told means someone was hitting "next" in the top righthand corner. The real gems though are the searches. It's not hard to decipher what someone was searching for when they got my blog instead. I know this is a popular blog theme, but I bet at least one of you didn't know all that detail about sitemeters, so chew me.
Although I've gotten a lot of visits from people looking up a popular daytime talkshow host
(mentioned in 2 consecutive entry titles) no one has been searching for sex, kinky or otherwise, and found me
(sounds like art imitating life, if you ask me). Not one person.
Really? Really really. But my all-time favorite query, where someone got my blog instead of what they were looking for, is "Gaaah!" Someone actually typed that into Google. So, welcome.
I dreamed the whole thing!
That's right, this whole weekend was just a cheesy flashback sequence straight out of
Dallas. Except in Houston. You're buying that, right? Oh come on, just a little? If you hadn't guessed by now, despite my protestations, I did consider Friday night to be a date. For those of you who aren't fully familiar with the male psyche, here's the short version: Go ahead and ignore what we say, it's probably bullshit anyway.
Friday night didn't go badly, but it didn't go well either. I was nervous as hell because for some reason I thought that nice girl wanted to have a relationship with me. That's how messed up I am- I go right from "Hi" to relationship. So, to take the pressure off myself, I decided to drink a little tequila. No, I didn't get ripped, though I probably should have. I'm going to have to look into the chemical equation, but nervous, tequila, and sushi don't go together. I felt like I had swallowed a 5# sack of flour. On top of that, the bar we went to turned out to be a smokey biker bar. I don't really mind smokers
(I don't smoke) and I don't mind bikers, but I went in full-on preppy mode with a sweater vest and ankle boots. I don't know how those bikers resisted kicking my ass. I would have, if I had felt up to it. The talking was good, until the music started and it was too loud to talk. There was more good talking in the parking lot after the show. And more good talking Saturday night when she came over to watch a little TV and have chocolate chip pancakes. I was still feeling like Dufus Rex, king of the dorks, so I still didn't entirely manage to relax and enjoy myself and her lovely company.
So that's really all there is to it. Jeanette wins the prize for coming closest to the mark with her comment about seeing "normal" through someone else. Even though I thought I was, I'm definitely not normal
(for the time being, anyway), and she knows it too. Fortunately she doesn't appear to be looking for anything more than friendship, so the only thing damaged is me and it may still be possible to carry on from here.
What about
I know one or two of you are interested in reading about what happened Friday night in my so-called "real life" but I'm sorry, I can't write about it yet. In a way that none of you should understand, this past weekend is still going on and I need to get through a bit more of it before I'm able to sort it out and make sense of it. I hope it will suffice to say that part of it went poorly, part of it went swimmingly, but there's still the majority yet to be categorized and filed appropriately.
I'm kind of stuck here. There were one or two other things I thought I might say at this point, but it doesn't sound right. I think I overshot the happy place tonight.
Turn your head and cough
I like language, even though I know I resort to linguistic shortcuts sometimes. Dunno. Kinda. Yeah. Then there's the swearing. I live in Texas where they swear on the local news, so it's no big deal to me. I know some people say swearing is what people resort to when they don't have the vocabulary to express themself. Bullshit.
So I was thinking particularly about the vocabulary of the human body. Why do we refer to "brains" in the ploural, when we only have one brain? For example, we tend to say "she fucked my
brains out" not "she fucked my
brain out." Is there any other body part that gets special treatment like that? Not that I know of. I didn't do much of anything today, but I didn't tell anyone that I had my thumb up my butts or picked lint out of my navels. It's not solely about the brain being important, because I've never had my hearts broken. On the other hand, hair is singular when we have lots of it. Why doesn't anyone get their hairs cut?
ANYWAY...
So February is almost over and the deadline for summer interns is rapidly approaching. I only have a few positions open, so please get your applications in to me as quickly as possible. The deadline is still March 1 and letters of acceptance go out April 1. Late applications will be processed as fall applications. The deadline for fall interns here at my blog is July 1 and letters of acceptance go out August 1.
ANYWAY...
I had a great conversation with a friend this morning. I don't remember exactly how we got to talking about it, but I said I could name the people who really care about me on one hand
(an exaggeration of course, but I was making a point) and I told her considered her the thumb. Know what she said to me?
"That's what separates us from the animals. The thumb." What a great gal. Guys, go marry her.
Will-power
I will not allow myself to build this up into something it isn't. I've been invited to tag along with friends of a friend to a show. That's all. It's not a date, it's two friends catching up on 15 years. There was never anything more than friendship there to begin with, so why would there be anything more now? I will not allow myself to build this up...
Yet, there's anticipation. Can't calling it yearning, can't call it longing. Gave those up, remember? Sure there's been a little flirting, but that's how I talk to
anyone of the opposite sex
(that I'm not related to, sicko), whether there's potential or not. No, it's nothing out of the ordinary.
What possible good could come from getting excited about this non-date? Well, yeah, but I could have had that already with half a dozen skanks at school and I know she's no skank. I want more and I have no reason to settle. Conventional wisdom says I settled last time and I will not repeat my mistakes. It's no big deal, I swear.
Ok, she says she's excited but that's just her personality, right? It doesn't change whatever chemistry does or doesn't already exist. Just because she's planning a second non-date doesn't mean anything. I haven't even been divorced a whole year. It doesn't matter when the marriage actually ended, you go from the date of the divorce, right? I just want to be friends. Don't I?
Happy Make-up Sex Day
Guys: Today is the day when your wife/girlfriend stops being mad at you for fucking up Valentine's Day...
I didn't blog yesterday because I was doing the happy dance. I'm such a music fiend now that anything new results in the happy dance until I fall down on the floor exhausted. Yesterday's happy dance involved getting two albums that don't officially come out until March and April respectively. I don't know where they come from, they just show up on my doorstep with no postage cancellation or identifying marks of any kind. Far be it from me to turn away unsolicited packages containing highly groovable music.
In other,
completely unrelated news, that Jack Johnson is one talented bloke. :)
Tonight there was some sort of Dean's Cocktail Reception in the lobby at school. People with name tags milling about and a huge buffet begging to be raided. I got to school early so I took up station on the periphery of the event and people-watched. In case it hasn't been obvious up to this point, I like the ladies. There were some nicely dressed ladies in attendance and I was trying not to stare when some dufus
(he might have been a dipshit, though I didn't get a good look at him) started milling about directly in my line of sight. I figured he'd move on in a second, so I didn't say or do anything, but then he started backing up into me. He wasn't bent over or anything, but he seriously invaded my personal space. He was so clueless that he almost tripped over my shoe and STILL didn't notice me. I should have shoved him and knocked him down, but I restrained myself.
Of course, part of the point of my people-watching was to get a good look at Cute Chinese Girl, but after I spied the world's hairiest man I figured my luck had run about as dry as it gets. Actually, the hairy guy was barely a man- He couldn't have been more than 22 or 23. The next 40 years are NOT going to be kind to this person. Not for nothing though: Two distinct and separate eyebrows.
Finally, something for my girls...
TinyValentines
Today was no different than any other. I slept late by local standards, though it wouldn't be considered late if you're in Hawaii. I washed myself, dressed myself, fed myself. I studied, I drove myself to school, I negotiated. I'm really indifferent to Valentine's Day. I had a few conversations about it, read more than a few blogs about it, and saw all the fuss on TV. What I read and saw gives me the impression I should be extra sad
(wistful much?) about being alone today, but I swear I'm not buying it. I don't feel relieved that I don't have to jump through hoops to get flowers and candy for someone. I guess I've just come to terms with it and I let it go. And I gave up pants for Lent, so there's that.
I actually had a big feast on Saturday night courtesy of my parents, specifically my Dad. Mom & Pops belong to a wine club here in town, due to the fact that we used to own a couple of wine-grape vinyards here in Texas. Every couple of months the club gets together and has a big fancy dinner with different wines at each course. Dad came down sick Saturday morning, so I stepped in to be Mom's date. She loved showing me off to her snooty friends. I don't mind snooty friends, since I fit in just fine, but to be honest I don't
really like wine. My palate is still evolving, so I'm just beginning to appreciate wines. Mom said I should come anyway because the food alone was worth the price of admission
(which they were paying to begin with). The 6 course meal included oysters on the half shell, roasted salmon
(which I prefer as sushi, but this was delish!), bacon-wrapped filet mignon, crab cakes, and chocolate mousse cake. The wines were pretty good to my novice palate: A sparkling brut rosé, a tangy Torrontes, a very woody Pinot Noir, a tough Cabernet Sauvignon
(didn't care for), and a sugar-coma-sweet Muscat Canelli. The real treat was a 1977 Smith-Woodhouse Vintage Port served with the cake. Poured from magnums, this is a spectacular glass of wine- like liquid caramel, and I loves caramel.
(It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.) With nearly twice the alcohol as a regular glass of wine, the infusion of sugar and caffeine from the cake, plus half a dozen other glasses of wine I got my buzz on proper. All for the low low price of letting myself be seen with my mother in public.
In other news, I reconnected with a girl I went to high school with. Nothing romantic either now or then, just a couple of emails so far with someone from a past I vaguely remember.
(15 years and it's just gone from memory. Damn, I'm senile!) I'm contemplating inviting her into my bloggosphere, but it feels a little funny having someone I actually know, flesh and blood, here. I don't think there's anything particularly sensitive here, but it's still my fortress of solitude
(with comments). We'll see.
Valentine's Day aka "Singles Awareness Day" (SAD)
I hate that I had to steal that title from Ryan Seacrest. Hate hate hate. Moving on...
I spent some quality time making up a new game for myself. It's pretty stupid, so don't read this. I was going through my music collection looking for songs with 3 syllables in just the right place so that I could substitute my name in them. Some of my favorites-
Close to You, by The Carpenters -
"Just like me, they long to be, tinyhands."Cry for Help, by Rick Astley -
"Tinyhands, is all I need. All I need is tinyhands."Crazy Love, by Poco -
"It happens all the time, these tinyhands of mine wrap around my heart, refusing to unwind."I won't bore you with the rest.
Valentine's Day alone reminds me that some time ago I wrote a personal ad for one of the popular online dating sites. Some of you may have seen it and I was a little proud of myself, having worked on it for quite a while to get it just right. It read, partially...
This charming, fully-furnished, Galleria-area unit is tastefully decorated and ready for entertaining company. Great views from all directions, this 1-1-1 is both cozy and elegant. Traditional floorplan but very flexible with tons of possibilities only limited by your imagination ... Ample closetspace with no skeletons. Has been flooded in the past but rarely gets flooded anymore. Previous owner left in a hurry, but this one has stayed clean and underwent a minor remodel. Foundation is solid: This is NOT a fixer-upper ...
There was more, but you get the idea. I got a few nibbles at one dating site, so I duplicated the ad at a few others. Having actually worked on it and given it a lot of serious thought I was going to get as many miles out of it as possible.
(Yes, I also use the same term papers over and over in different classes, so what?) At about the third or fourth site they locked my account and sent me a very rude rejection letter. Apparently my ad didn't meet their standards. I had to ask for clarification and they told me that they didn't want their cheesy dating site to be used for commercial purposes. Umm, you didn't happen to drop out of high-school, did you? Maybe you should have stayed for the day they covered metaphors. What does
symbolism mean? What is
incompetent?
American Idle
I was doing my taxes earlier with the help of a wonderful program that shall remain nameless until their endorsement check clears
(no free publicity). I'm going through the questionnaire and it starts off with the basics: name, address, SSN, etc. Then it asks for your W-2, which for my foreign friends is a document sent to you by your employer (if you're an employee) that lists how much they paid you, how much taxes they withheld, etc. Since I didn't work at all in 2004, I don't have any W-2s. Ok, do you have a 1099-misc (form for independent contractors)? No, go fish. 1099-div/1099-int (income from investments)? Yes, I've got a couple of those. The program actually said to me,
PC: "Damn son, you made a lousy couple thou in the market and you can't do your taxes without this stupid program? I should erase your harddrive, bitch."Me: Yeah, but I bought this rad condo and paid points. What about my deductions?
PC: "Cracka, puh-lease." (apparently my PC is street)All because my brain is now whipped potatoes that have gone and rotted. I looked for a job today, and found a couple of things I'm both interested in and could reasonably fool someone that I'm qualified for. But with the state I'm in
(read: retarded, no offense to actual retarded people) it's probably better if they don't call me. I cite as evidence-
Exhibit 1: I had a conversation with someone recently that was equivalent to this fictional reenactment-
Her: You know, I really like M&MsMe: Really? I prefer M&Ms instead.
Exhibit 2: I had another conversation with someone where I apparently gave her advice on her love life. Me. Give advice on anyone's love life. You want butter and bacon bits with those potatoes?
Exhibit 3: I heard on the news that
The Tony Danza show was picked up for next season. Is no one listening to me? Am I screaming alone in the dark? Why do I bother getting up in the early afternoon?
So if I've talked to/emailed/IM'ed you or left a comment on your blog recently and you came away thinking
"that boy full o' shit" a) you're not alone; and b) you're right. We apologise for the confusion. Those responsible have been sacked.
Ode to My Dictionary
I love dictionaries. I used to read the dictionary for fun and I once bought an encyclopedic dictionary for even more reading fun. That there are several good dictionaries online makes me happy. Giddy.
gid·dy
adj. gid·di·er, gid·di·est
1.
a-Having a reeling, lightheaded sensation; dizzy.
b-Causing or capable of causing dizziness:
a giddy climb to the topmast.
2. Frivolous and lighthearted; flighty.
(Yeah, that sounds about right.)
pant
v. pant·ed, pant·ing, pants
v. intr.
1. To breathe rapidly in short gasps, as after exertion.
2. To beat loudly or heavily; throb or pulsate.
3. To give off loud puffs, especially while moving.
4. To long demonstratively; yearn:
was panting for a chance to play.
#4 is interesting. I don't think I've ever heard of that particular definition before. I do a lot of that, longing demonstratively, that is. Maybe I shouldn't, or at least maybe I should give it up for Lent. I've already said that I'm not terribly religious at the moment, but I did consciously abstain from meat today and I didn't have any sweets. Habit I guess, which isn't a very good reason for a quasi-religious observance. Better than nothing I suppose.
I don't know if I could really give up
yearning for Lent though. I saw the pretty Chinese girl at school today and there was much yearning
(on my part only, I'm quite sure) so I've already blown it after all of 18 hours. To a lot of Catholics I know, once you've broken your resolution you don't have to bother keeping it for the rest of Lent. I'm not saying they're very good Catholics.
Well, here goes, I'm going to try to give up pants for the remainder of Lent.
I might keep doing #2 though.
Completely uninspired
Damn, 11:59 already.
I've got
Shake a Tailfeather (Blues Brothers) and
Makin' It (David Naughton) on endless repeat and still no inspiration. I'm even doing the
Tailfeather dance scene here in my chair. d'Oh!
I had a great dream the other night. Badaunt suggested I write down a couple words as soon as I awoke so that I wouldn't forget it. I woke up and remembered that she said that, but I was too lazy to get out of bed. I laid there for a few minutes and repeated it over and over to myself, confident that I'd remember, due to my superior brain power. Yeah, I forgot.
Pantsless Wednesday, huh? I'm worried that we're going to have time-zone issues, what with readers from GMT +10 to GMT -8. We might need some sort of coordinated signal. I'll have one of my production assistants work on it. They're just interns, they never appear on camera, and I don't have to pay them anyway. Real world problems are just the kind of experience they need.
Oh, I have to say something about Mardi Gras, even though it's now over for most of you.
(And these observations are from the perspective of my liberal Catholic upbringing. Your mileage may vary.) Just about everyone knows that Mardi Gras means "Fat Tuesday" and marks the last celebration before the beginning of Lent. I think most people know that Lent is the 40 days from Ash Wednesday to Easter, which is supposed to be observed by fasting on Fridays (or at least abstaining from meat). Traditionally, Catholics also give up some additional minor vice (such as sweets or alcohol) every day, in addition to meatless Fridays. What I don't get is why some people think it's ok to celebrate Mardi Gras without observing the associated abstention of Lent. Of course, I'm not referring to you, wonderful God-fearing people, but the heathens I see on TV. I mean, isn't that like celebrating Christmas without recognizing the birth of Jesus? Oh yeah, they do that too. Ok, how about celebrating Easter without recognizing the resurrection. Hmm, another bad example. Since when is it OK to pick and choose religious observations without accepting or rejecting the whole bundle? Especially only choosing the parties without taking the responsibility of the meaning or rationale behind them. Since I'm still semi-officially faithless, I'm undecided as to what I'm personally going to do as far as religious observation for these next few weeks. That shouldn't prohibit me in any way from pointing out other people's flaws.
I'm going to go burn some incense just because it smells nice.
A soupçon of blogging
I stalked someone else today. I don't really keep a mental (or otherwise) file on people and most of the time I don't even set out to stalk someone. It just happens that someone will post a link to an article, an mp3, or just write the right thing at the wrong time and into the whipped potatoes
(my brain) it goes and out comes a full name, phone number, address, whatever. It's really just a game to me. In the interest of fairness I usually give the stalkee my name in return, as a measure of good-faith that I'm not really going to hop a Greyhound to Kirksville MO, Minneapolis MN, or some other exotic locale. The lengths that I went to when stalking an ex-girlfriend even scare me, so I'd better not write about the details else you all give up on me completely.
Maybe I should start a
Do Not Stalk registry? While I would prefer that you not stalk me
(I will eventually answer your questions if you ask me nicely and privately via email) I can't really stop you. But if you're going to do it, no cheating. You may not ask anyone else for hints.
In other news...
I remembered where my somewhat recently acquired love of Spanish/classical guitar comes from- the Eagles'
Hell Freezes Over reunion in which Don Felder and Joe Walsh played those awesome solos on Hotel California. I know it's not all that Spanishy
(it's a word, look it up) but it's my head. If you don't like it get out.
Trivia tidbit: As I was writing last night
My Big Fat Greek Wedding was on cable. I've seen it a time or thirty but I picked up a little inside joke in last night's viewing. At the wedding reception, at the end of the movie, one of the songs that the band is playing is called
All My Only Dreams. I know you're wracking your brain to figure it out, so I'll give you a hint: The production company that brought
MBFGW to market is called Play-Tone, a name that figures prominently in another movie filled with inside jokes.
And more trivia: If you didn't already know, Nia Vardalos, who wrote and played the leading role is married in real life to Ian Gomez (thus, the name of John Corbett's character) who appears as the character Ian's best friend Mike. Ian Gomez was also on the
Drew Carey Show (as Larry Almada) for most of its run and had some great lines, none of which I can remember right now. Most of what made them funny was the delivery, so you're not missing out on much by me not remembering them.
Finally, though this isn't final, I think I'm going to propose on Valentine's Day.
The ER Dream
I don't usually remember my dreams at night. They say everyone dreams, but it's a rare occasion for me to wake up and know what happened in my subconscious. If I do remember a nighttime dream, it's often in black and white. I don't know what that means. On the other hand, I'm more of a day dreamer, and I don't mean that in the artsy-fartsy way that most people do. I literally day.dream. I'll be sitting in class, in a restaurant, or in traffic and I'll envision something outrageous happening. And I see it in vivid color and full-motion action. Maybe I'll see myself jumping up onto the table winging chips and salsa
(and the plates and the bowls and...) at the guy whose cell-phone won't stop ringing. Or maybe I'll jump up onto the desk to slow dance with a beautiful co-ed. Usually there's some sort of jumping up on the furniture involved. Often I'm shooting other motorists in the face. That might be real though.
So imagine my surprise to wake up the other morning and have a dream fresh in my memory. I was the main actor, of course, but there was another blogger as the leading lady. Decency prohibits me from saying who, but it wasn't an
(entirely) indecent dream. I was a young doctor/med student/resident/whatever at County General hospital in Chicago. A young woman patient came in complaining of all sorts of generic conditions.
(The real blogger doesn't complain like that, so don't go thinking you've figured out who.) I ran test after test on her, drawing blood and every fluid she had looking for the hidden clue. I remember very specifically looking at something under a microscope and finding a very distinct K-shaped virus/organism
(also not a clue to her identity). It meant nothing to me because I was just a lowly student, so I had to go find an attending physician to present the case to. Doctor Carter was available for consult and we discussed the case but he didn't know immediately either. So, off to the medical library. I eventually found some reference in a journal and brought it back. He explained to me that what I had found couldn't be the cause because it could only exist in the most sexually depraved and morally corrupt person(s) on the planet. Having read the history I had taken on this woman he knew that couldn't be the case. Unfortunately I had to explain that I knew this woman outside the ER and I hadn't included her
extensive sexual history on her chart. I knew I was in trouble for leaving it out, but that's where I woke up, telling him that I hadn't taken down her complete history.
Pictures
I haven't uploaded pictures in a while and two recent topics at Jeanette's blog sparked me to upload these, so...
First, the face in my bathroom wallpaper:
There's a left-profile of a neanderthal in the coral. If it were just a face that would be one thing. That it's a neanderthal makes it worse for me.
Second, where I blog:
The back-half of my bedroom. Loveseat
(misnomer if ever there was one) at the foot of the bed and computer "nook" offset from the main area. Walk-in closet is behind closed louvered doors. The black box on the wall between the nook and the closet is one of my surround speakers for the home theater which the loveseat faces.
My desk. 17" LCD monitor, 3 speakers
(subwoofer at my feet), blogging notebook, calculator, phone, TV remote, snacks, CDs, and junkmail
(aka taxes). You can also see the miniblinds behind my desk which cover a sliding glass door that doesn't open, but would open into my closet if it did.
My beloved books behind me. Categorized and alpha by author. I need some bookends, but for now favorites in each category are faced-out. Also present, diploma (low miles) and surround speakers- absolutely essential for mp3s.
Gettin' my perv on
So I flip on the tv last night...
(aside: What great story doesn't start that way?)
I've got an old tv downstairs that doesn't tell you right away what channel it's on, so I assume it's still on Home Shopping Network. You guys watch HSN, right? Fabulous merchandise, fantastic values, and entertaining celebrities. Once you watch you
have to put the phone number on speed-dial, because you only have so much time to get in on the action. So the picture comes up and I see a bunch of cute girls in swimwear. Nice. Where's the phone?
HSN: "Good Evening. My name's Beth, how can I help you?"
Me: "Hi Beth, it's me. I'd like a 'Miss Connecticut' and 2 'Miss Hawaii's please. Account number 77057."
HSN: "I beg your pardon?"
Me: (hits "channel recall" on TV remote - NBC)
"Umm, just a sec..."
HSN: "Sir?"
Me: (grabs TV Guide - 8pm: Miss Teen USA)
"Sorry, I'm watching the wrong channel. Call you back later."
HSN: "Ok, thank you and have a good night."
So I'm clearly gettin' my perv on when I call HSN and the girl is so cool with it. Polite, even. I'm going to marry a girl like that someday. This blog is dedicated to HSN Operator Beth...I think I love you.
[Note: The name and account number have been changed because that's what you do when you publish a story about someone else and an account number.]
5 more reasons to hate Montəll Williαms
ARGH! I
so don't want to complain about the petty shit that happens in my life, but as there's nothing else...It was a cold and miserable day here, and I spent a great deal of time rubbing bits of me against other bits of me trying to keep warm.
Regardless of whatever else I say or write, I actually have a very open belief system. I'm perfectly willing to let you believe whatever makes you tingly. Just don't expect me to buy it and we'll get along fine. That said, one of the curry-smelling dorks in my class tonight
(we'll call him Stinky) was reading the horoscopes in the paper and he kept saying to me, "Oh man, that's totally me!" I wasn't buying it but he was very insistent and quite offensive smelling to my western nose. End of story. Guess I didn't need to go through the trouble of setting that up and naming the character and everything. Oh well.
I ordered my textbooks 2 weeks ago and 50% of my order was wrong. So I sent them an email explaining that it was a pretty sorry way of doing business and that as a FIRST step in fixing the problem they could send me a gift certificate to one of their competitors, one who charges more but I know does a better job than 50%. Of course I got the form letter reply that they would refund my money, but they weren't in the habit of giving out gift certificates to their competitors. To which I replied that I know they're not in the
habit of doing it, but I'm in the hole without my books all because I trusted them. I also upped the amount of the gift certificate it would take to make me happy and insisted that they escalate the problem to someone with the authority to do more than send me a form letter. I don't actually believe that they'll buy me off like that, but what have I got to lose?
I went and walked at the mall today. Warm and dry seemed preferable to cold and wet and what do you know, I was right. However, the little old ladies powerwalking the mall were looking at me and I just felt so dirty.
Went to class from the mall and had to get off the freeway. Cold and wet means the flow of traffic goes in the opposite direction, so I was never going to get there. Drove through construction that reminded me of a Cambodian mine field but actually arrived early. I went to the computer lab to print out my notes and had to fight for a computer. Some kid walked in- yes, ahead of me- and set down his backpack and then walked off. He didn't log in, he just put his backpack on a chair and walked out of the lab. No savies! I pushed his backpack aside and proceeded to log in, while his friends at the adjacent computers called me every profane name they knew, which was really just
'asshole'. I printed out my notes and was logged off in less than a minute, long before their friend returned. I asked one if all the cursing was worth it but didn't wait around for a reply. Another one had walked away from her computer, towards the door, so as I was leaving I told her I hope she feels better, also not waiting for a reply. I did nothing wrong and I was totally in the right, but I still feel bad about the whole conflict and it'll probably keep me up tonight. I don't get it- I'm nearly twice as old as those children and I
don't care what they think about me. They don't know me, I don't know them. Why the hell can't I let it go?
