got it together
My house looks like a war zone. I have decided to finish it. Not as in blow it up, but as in bringing in the contractor army and getting it in shape in case I need to bail. Bail, you say? Bail where? Nowhere right now. You just don't want to be caught in your bathrobe and slippers if the building suddenly catches fire and you need to flee. I don't predict that I'll have any reason to do this in the next few months, but it is good to be ready for anything. I wasn't ready for what happened three weeks ago, and look at me now.
As I observed my huge mess of catalogs, colored pencils, computer peripherals, old plates, glasses, napkins, DVDs, and receipts littering my coffee and dining tables this morning, I could only think, does anyone know I live this way? Well yes, some people do. My close friends, my mom, and now, that person in the Islamic Republic of Iran who I saw reading my blog in the site stats.
I often wonder what the definition is of "got it together." I think for the most part I project this lifestyle, and the people who are fooled are the ones who meet me at parties, the ones who watch me play polo, the girl at hockey who looks at me starry-eyed when I tell her where I work. Yesterday I was rushing to iron a collared shirt that had been lying in my "clean but wrinkled pile" for at least a month, when I tripped over the ironing board and almost sent the hot iron flying into the hallway. I paused for a moment, half dressed, my hair still hanging clumped and wet over my bare shoulders, and sat down on my bed. I had my first interview to conduct that day for a UI design candidate, and I could only think, is he rushing around furiously right now? Does he think man, I am going to interview with a lot of people at a cool company who've all got it together? As I dug through my laundry basket the way a dog digs a hole for a bone, I thought, thank God he doesn't know how I live.
This is the issue with perceptions. A lot of times, they're wrong. I did show up for the interview with my perfectly pressed shirt and my hair blow-dried into professionally straight strands and my trousers not fitting as well as they used to but no one could tell when I was sitting down. "Nice to meet you," I had said to the candidate, as I shook his hand. He had on a vertically striped shirt with a diagonally striped tie. I breathed a small sigh of relief. At least I knew you shouldn't wear two striped items on the same day. Still, I could only imagine what he was thinking when he met me. Smart, amazing, well dressed, got it together? How about going to emotional pieces? Halfway through the interview, when he finally turned to the whiteboard to work out the design problem I had given him, I sat back in my chair and put my hands over my face. I got it together, I thought to myself, then quickly nodded, smiling, when he turned back to me for approval of his design.
Of course, this works both ways, and I think more often than not I'm a mess on the outside and glowing ecstatically on the inside. The trouble is that when I'm on the verge of getting what I really want, I sometimes project my worst, allowing all my insecurities and fears to float to the surface and darken some otherwise golden moment in my life. But you can't escape public perception. If that's how it looks on the outside, why would people ever assume it's any different on the inside?
I was talking to Bloghatress the other day about a person I used to work with at my old company. Queenie is the type of person who has it all together, with the boyfriend she met at the cafe while writing her masters thesis, the house by the ocean they remodeled together, the Alaskan Malamute and two cats, the high profile job at a respectable company. I saw her once in the women's restroom, dressed primly in her blue suit, brushing her teeth at the sink. "I'm meeting customers today for a usability test," she said, "so I need fresh breath." She organized all of the UI group's social events, setting up pumpkin carving and costume contests at Halloween, and potluck parties throughout the year. I once went hiking with her and her boyfriend at San Pedro Valley Park in Pacifica, and they discussed with me their Asian house redecorating theme and athletic activities. Thai kickboxing was Queenie's passion. At a BBQ at one of our hockey player's houses, we watched Ultimate Fighting Championships on TV while she drooled over wrestling techniques and discussed the finer points of the leg hold with one of the other kickboxers in the group. To some extent, I was impressed. There's no doubt I have my own personal devotions and hobbies, but Queenie just had it all together. Classy, athletic, well dressed, professional, attractive socialite.
Last week Bloghatress told me that Queenie had decided to take a kickboxing vacation in Thailand while her boyfriend was visiting his family in another state. She returned, flushed and glowing, only to go back to the country shortly thereafter. When pressed, she admitted she wasn't going back for another personal vacation. It wasn't long after this that all photos of her boyfriend disappeared from her desk at work and images of a yoked, sinewy, half-nude Thai kickboxer in action filled all the frames on her shelves. "We're engaged," she finally admitted to coworkers, and she wasn't talking about the boyfriend she lived with.
"What?!" I had said to Bloghatress. "Yup," she said, nodding. "And everyone thinks she's got it all together." I had sat back in my chair at the pizza parlor then, my head buzzing a bit from liquor and the grim revelation. When I got over the shock, I realized then that maybe I had it more together than I thought. It's one thing to chase someone away with false doubts, like I've done. If I'm sometimes bad on the outside and mostly good on the inside, well, at least I'm still good on the inside. It's another issue entirely to lead someone to believe that your perfect exterior is also your perfect interior, when really it's just all garbage and seagulls in the end.
As I observed my huge mess of catalogs, colored pencils, computer peripherals, old plates, glasses, napkins, DVDs, and receipts littering my coffee and dining tables this morning, I could only think, does anyone know I live this way? Well yes, some people do. My close friends, my mom, and now, that person in the Islamic Republic of Iran who I saw reading my blog in the site stats.
I often wonder what the definition is of "got it together." I think for the most part I project this lifestyle, and the people who are fooled are the ones who meet me at parties, the ones who watch me play polo, the girl at hockey who looks at me starry-eyed when I tell her where I work. Yesterday I was rushing to iron a collared shirt that had been lying in my "clean but wrinkled pile" for at least a month, when I tripped over the ironing board and almost sent the hot iron flying into the hallway. I paused for a moment, half dressed, my hair still hanging clumped and wet over my bare shoulders, and sat down on my bed. I had my first interview to conduct that day for a UI design candidate, and I could only think, is he rushing around furiously right now? Does he think man, I am going to interview with a lot of people at a cool company who've all got it together? As I dug through my laundry basket the way a dog digs a hole for a bone, I thought, thank God he doesn't know how I live.
This is the issue with perceptions. A lot of times, they're wrong. I did show up for the interview with my perfectly pressed shirt and my hair blow-dried into professionally straight strands and my trousers not fitting as well as they used to but no one could tell when I was sitting down. "Nice to meet you," I had said to the candidate, as I shook his hand. He had on a vertically striped shirt with a diagonally striped tie. I breathed a small sigh of relief. At least I knew you shouldn't wear two striped items on the same day. Still, I could only imagine what he was thinking when he met me. Smart, amazing, well dressed, got it together? How about going to emotional pieces? Halfway through the interview, when he finally turned to the whiteboard to work out the design problem I had given him, I sat back in my chair and put my hands over my face. I got it together, I thought to myself, then quickly nodded, smiling, when he turned back to me for approval of his design.
Of course, this works both ways, and I think more often than not I'm a mess on the outside and glowing ecstatically on the inside. The trouble is that when I'm on the verge of getting what I really want, I sometimes project my worst, allowing all my insecurities and fears to float to the surface and darken some otherwise golden moment in my life. But you can't escape public perception. If that's how it looks on the outside, why would people ever assume it's any different on the inside?
I was talking to Bloghatress the other day about a person I used to work with at my old company. Queenie is the type of person who has it all together, with the boyfriend she met at the cafe while writing her masters thesis, the house by the ocean they remodeled together, the Alaskan Malamute and two cats, the high profile job at a respectable company. I saw her once in the women's restroom, dressed primly in her blue suit, brushing her teeth at the sink. "I'm meeting customers today for a usability test," she said, "so I need fresh breath." She organized all of the UI group's social events, setting up pumpkin carving and costume contests at Halloween, and potluck parties throughout the year. I once went hiking with her and her boyfriend at San Pedro Valley Park in Pacifica, and they discussed with me their Asian house redecorating theme and athletic activities. Thai kickboxing was Queenie's passion. At a BBQ at one of our hockey player's houses, we watched Ultimate Fighting Championships on TV while she drooled over wrestling techniques and discussed the finer points of the leg hold with one of the other kickboxers in the group. To some extent, I was impressed. There's no doubt I have my own personal devotions and hobbies, but Queenie just had it all together. Classy, athletic, well dressed, professional, attractive socialite.
Last week Bloghatress told me that Queenie had decided to take a kickboxing vacation in Thailand while her boyfriend was visiting his family in another state. She returned, flushed and glowing, only to go back to the country shortly thereafter. When pressed, she admitted she wasn't going back for another personal vacation. It wasn't long after this that all photos of her boyfriend disappeared from her desk at work and images of a yoked, sinewy, half-nude Thai kickboxer in action filled all the frames on her shelves. "We're engaged," she finally admitted to coworkers, and she wasn't talking about the boyfriend she lived with.
"What?!" I had said to Bloghatress. "Yup," she said, nodding. "And everyone thinks she's got it all together." I had sat back in my chair at the pizza parlor then, my head buzzing a bit from liquor and the grim revelation. When I got over the shock, I realized then that maybe I had it more together than I thought. It's one thing to chase someone away with false doubts, like I've done. If I'm sometimes bad on the outside and mostly good on the inside, well, at least I'm still good on the inside. It's another issue entirely to lead someone to believe that your perfect exterior is also your perfect interior, when really it's just all garbage and seagulls in the end.
itself
The light came through the window,
Straight from the sun above,
And so inside my little room
There plunged the rays of love.
In streams of light I clearly saw
The dust you seldom see,
Out of which the nameless makes
A name for one like me.
All busy in the sunlight
The flecks did float and dance,
And I was tumbled up with them
In formless circumstance.
I'll try to say a little more:
Love went on and on
Until it reached an open door
Then love itself
Love itself was gone.
Then I came back from where I'd been.
My room, it looked the same
But there was nothing left between
The nameless and the name.
- Leonard Cohen, Love Itself
Straight from the sun above,
And so inside my little room
There plunged the rays of love.
In streams of light I clearly saw
The dust you seldom see,
Out of which the nameless makes
A name for one like me.
All busy in the sunlight
The flecks did float and dance,
And I was tumbled up with them
In formless circumstance.
I'll try to say a little more:
Love went on and on
Until it reached an open door
Then love itself
Love itself was gone.
Then I came back from where I'd been.
My room, it looked the same
But there was nothing left between
The nameless and the name.
- Leonard Cohen, Love Itself
blogging under the influence
Instead of drunk dialing anyone tonight I decided to drunk blog. Let me see if I can remember why I was going to blog in the first place. Oh yes, dmk26 and I went out to dinner in downtown Mountain View. On the way down I pointed out my new little estrogen sticker on my back, which was now itching the hell out of me and turning out to not be a very good alternative to what I was using before. "Why even bother?" he said. Good point. It's not like I really needed this anymore. "I go crazy without it," I said. He looked at me curiously. "I mean, more crazy than I already am."
We sat down to dinner outside in the lovely weather where dmk26 was accosted by small, screaming children who kept wanting to drive their little Matchbox cars on the table and on his head. "I am so not ready for kids," he said. I patted my little sticker. "Me neither," I said, "at least right now." "But with my dad getting really sick," he continued, "I'm starting to see that when all you have is your family, you don't want to be alone forever." "I think there are very few people who want to be alone forever," I said, then thought, most people don't even choose to be alone, they just are.
My martini arrived and I downed about half of it before dinner came. I mentioned my situation to him. "You don't seem that upset about it," he said to me. While I only bawl my eyes out about once every two days, it's true that this time around it's had a different effect on me. I'm about 10 lbs. lighter with no appetite and I wake up every morning at 7:30 no matter what time I went to bed. "It's different," I said, realizing I was mostly through a martini that was now going straight to my sinus, making it hard to breathe. "I am upset, but it's manifesting itself differently than before." "Because before you had some hope, right?" "Yeah," I said. I still have hope but it glimmers faintly now, and that makes me very ill indeed.
We walked to the bank and then down to Molly MaGees, which I normally don't like because it's so dark inside. It wasn't tonight. I consciously avoided the chairs where Superstar and I sat only a few months earlier. Dmk26 tells me the song that's currently playing is really easy on the guitar. "I have a guitar," I said. "I haven't played it in two years." He agreed to show me when we got back to my house.
I got carded as soon as I sat down, and when dmk26 started to whip out his own wallet, the bartender pointed to me. "Not you, just her." "Ha, and I'm younger than you!" he said to me. "Thank you," I said. I suppose if I could grow a beard too I would get carded less.
Halfway into my second pear cider an odd fellow walked up next to us and asked for a vodka shot. He then offered me his cigarettes. "No thanks," I said. Then he tried to push them on dmk26, who also turned them down. He offered them to me again. "That's not my style," I said, "and anyway, those are bad for you." He put them down and asked the bartender for cherries.
"Excuse me," he said, turning to me. "Do you like cherries?" "What?" I said. "I'm sorry," he apologized to dmk26, apparently thinking he was my date. "Uh, sure," I said, taking one of the overly sweet maraschino cherries from his napkin. The man kept making strange sign language gestures that we couldn't interpret. "I'm sorry," he said again to me. "I know, I am an old man." "What?" I said. At this point, dmk26 had already finished his beer and was laughing his ass off. "I'm sorry." "Ok," I said, "duly noted."
At this point the bartender intervened. "I'm telling you, don't bother the clientele." They shook hands. What the hell is going on? Oh I wish I hadn't had so much to drink. Granted, that guy is in way worse shape than me, and on a Sunday night, no less. "I'm sorry," he parroted. Then he tried to toast dmk26 and me, but dmk26 was already done with his beer, which he tried to point out at least twice before the guy could figure out what was wrong. "I'm sorry." At this point the bartender came marching back over, and in his soft Irish accent said, "Look, I'm telling you one last time, you bother the other clientele and you're outta here." They shook hands again. "I'm sorry." OMG. I downed the rest of my cider and we ran from the bar, laughing.
"Ok, that was really weird," I said. "He was very apologetic," dmk26 said. I figured if I was that drunk off my ass on a Sunday night by myself in a bar with six people in it, I'd be apologizing to myself too.
We went back to my house where dmk26 was inciting me to play the guitar again, and also to buy a hot tub for my patio. "I'm going to turn it into a little oasis," I said. I showed him my tree lights. "I'm still waiting for this," he said. "It's true," I said. "I'm going to get tiki torches and a fire pit and apparently, a hot tub."
I don't know if I'm getting the hot tub. Maybe in the morning when I can think on this soberly I will find out if I ordered one already or not.
We sat down to dinner outside in the lovely weather where dmk26 was accosted by small, screaming children who kept wanting to drive their little Matchbox cars on the table and on his head. "I am so not ready for kids," he said. I patted my little sticker. "Me neither," I said, "at least right now." "But with my dad getting really sick," he continued, "I'm starting to see that when all you have is your family, you don't want to be alone forever." "I think there are very few people who want to be alone forever," I said, then thought, most people don't even choose to be alone, they just are.
My martini arrived and I downed about half of it before dinner came. I mentioned my situation to him. "You don't seem that upset about it," he said to me. While I only bawl my eyes out about once every two days, it's true that this time around it's had a different effect on me. I'm about 10 lbs. lighter with no appetite and I wake up every morning at 7:30 no matter what time I went to bed. "It's different," I said, realizing I was mostly through a martini that was now going straight to my sinus, making it hard to breathe. "I am upset, but it's manifesting itself differently than before." "Because before you had some hope, right?" "Yeah," I said. I still have hope but it glimmers faintly now, and that makes me very ill indeed.
We walked to the bank and then down to Molly MaGees, which I normally don't like because it's so dark inside. It wasn't tonight. I consciously avoided the chairs where Superstar and I sat only a few months earlier. Dmk26 tells me the song that's currently playing is really easy on the guitar. "I have a guitar," I said. "I haven't played it in two years." He agreed to show me when we got back to my house.
I got carded as soon as I sat down, and when dmk26 started to whip out his own wallet, the bartender pointed to me. "Not you, just her." "Ha, and I'm younger than you!" he said to me. "Thank you," I said. I suppose if I could grow a beard too I would get carded less.
Halfway into my second pear cider an odd fellow walked up next to us and asked for a vodka shot. He then offered me his cigarettes. "No thanks," I said. Then he tried to push them on dmk26, who also turned them down. He offered them to me again. "That's not my style," I said, "and anyway, those are bad for you." He put them down and asked the bartender for cherries.
"Excuse me," he said, turning to me. "Do you like cherries?" "What?" I said. "I'm sorry," he apologized to dmk26, apparently thinking he was my date. "Uh, sure," I said, taking one of the overly sweet maraschino cherries from his napkin. The man kept making strange sign language gestures that we couldn't interpret. "I'm sorry," he said again to me. "I know, I am an old man." "What?" I said. At this point, dmk26 had already finished his beer and was laughing his ass off. "I'm sorry." "Ok," I said, "duly noted."
At this point the bartender intervened. "I'm telling you, don't bother the clientele." They shook hands. What the hell is going on? Oh I wish I hadn't had so much to drink. Granted, that guy is in way worse shape than me, and on a Sunday night, no less. "I'm sorry," he parroted. Then he tried to toast dmk26 and me, but dmk26 was already done with his beer, which he tried to point out at least twice before the guy could figure out what was wrong. "I'm sorry." At this point the bartender came marching back over, and in his soft Irish accent said, "Look, I'm telling you one last time, you bother the other clientele and you're outta here." They shook hands again. "I'm sorry." OMG. I downed the rest of my cider and we ran from the bar, laughing.
"Ok, that was really weird," I said. "He was very apologetic," dmk26 said. I figured if I was that drunk off my ass on a Sunday night by myself in a bar with six people in it, I'd be apologizing to myself too.
We went back to my house where dmk26 was inciting me to play the guitar again, and also to buy a hot tub for my patio. "I'm going to turn it into a little oasis," I said. I showed him my tree lights. "I'm still waiting for this," he said. "It's true," I said. "I'm going to get tiki torches and a fire pit and apparently, a hot tub."
I don't know if I'm getting the hot tub. Maybe in the morning when I can think on this soberly I will find out if I ordered one already or not.
the bowling ball flies at midnight
I carefully placed my foot at the second leftmost dot, my right foot hovering next to it and slightly behind, non-weight bearing, ball up to my nose, and stared down the lane, straight between the one and three pins.
"Go Jessica!" yelled Databaseboy over the blaring bowling alley radio station. I never knew that bowling alleys had their own national radio broadcast. I sort of want this station in my car now.
I leaned forward, pushing the ball out in front of me and letting it drop with my step. I brought it forward and released, sliding on my left foot and letting my right foot swing out behind me, reaching up with my right hand as if I was going to grab the head pin.
I didn't have a lot of momentum with my twelve pound ball (it's been a while since I played), but the pins went flying and a big X appeared on the video monitor. You see, I used to play in undergrad for P.E. half units and averaged about 125, with my highest average one quarter being 165. These days, like in the rest of my life, I'm way too inconsistent to even break 100 most of the time. In other silly, little-known facts about me, I did archery as well, for two quarters, and am not too bad with a 30 lb. traditional long bow.
It would appear the only consistent thing about me is my inconsistency. I bowled a 113, 136, and a 95, with our last game finished in twenty minutes since the alley was closing. I guess I don't do anything well under pressure, including midnight bowling.
Luckily for Bloghatress, they turned off the disco lights half an hour before closing time and she seemed to do a lot better without the blinking and flashing. Of course, I also didn't drink out of the 20 oz. sports bottle we had snuck into the movie theater an hour or so earlier, and this made the lanes look a little straighter to me.
Before Bloghatress' latest hot date arrived, she, Databaseboy, and I went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. In order to appreciate this movie, you have to 1) be a huge Tim Burton fan, and 2) try to forget everything you remember about the 1971 version with Gene Wilder playing Wonka. I have to say, it was wild, it was weird, and it's even more absurd when you've smuggled a gallon of booze and a pound of candy into the theater with you.
Without giving it all away, let's just say that Burton took some artistic license (when doesn't he?) and made the story less about Charlie's honest nature and more about Wonka's emotional separation from his family. While I had to agree with Databaseboy that this completely changed the nature of Dahl's original story, I have to say also that I connected more with a character who was successful but without the support of a family who loved him. He is eventually "adopted" at the end, which touches a sensitive nerve with me, but I don't want to spoil it. Go see it.
Later in the evening Bloghatress told me that she and I were "in the same boat." I said hold on a second. Other than the three of us who are bowling right now all being recently broken up, we're not quite facing the same situation here. You just had your Canadian propose to you, which you shot down, and a few weeks later your overly hot new Indian date shows up at this bowling alley to fondle your candy necklace which you haven't quite gotten through. As we all know, you shouldn't eat your own candy -- it's much better when someone else does it for you. Me, I ate a few pieces and threw it away and washed my neck when I got home, for fear of waking up with ants all over me at 3 a.m.
We watched Bloghatress' hot new date bowl for a while, then I stood up and started dancing in front of the seats. "You're dancing to bowling alley music," Databaseboy pointed out. And so I was. With all the dancing I hadn't been doing the whole year, I guess for once I wished I had someone to dance with me in inappropriate places too.
"Go Jessica!" yelled Databaseboy over the blaring bowling alley radio station. I never knew that bowling alleys had their own national radio broadcast. I sort of want this station in my car now.
I leaned forward, pushing the ball out in front of me and letting it drop with my step. I brought it forward and released, sliding on my left foot and letting my right foot swing out behind me, reaching up with my right hand as if I was going to grab the head pin.
I didn't have a lot of momentum with my twelve pound ball (it's been a while since I played), but the pins went flying and a big X appeared on the video monitor. You see, I used to play in undergrad for P.E. half units and averaged about 125, with my highest average one quarter being 165. These days, like in the rest of my life, I'm way too inconsistent to even break 100 most of the time. In other silly, little-known facts about me, I did archery as well, for two quarters, and am not too bad with a 30 lb. traditional long bow.
It would appear the only consistent thing about me is my inconsistency. I bowled a 113, 136, and a 95, with our last game finished in twenty minutes since the alley was closing. I guess I don't do anything well under pressure, including midnight bowling.
Luckily for Bloghatress, they turned off the disco lights half an hour before closing time and she seemed to do a lot better without the blinking and flashing. Of course, I also didn't drink out of the 20 oz. sports bottle we had snuck into the movie theater an hour or so earlier, and this made the lanes look a little straighter to me.
Before Bloghatress' latest hot date arrived, she, Databaseboy, and I went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. In order to appreciate this movie, you have to 1) be a huge Tim Burton fan, and 2) try to forget everything you remember about the 1971 version with Gene Wilder playing Wonka. I have to say, it was wild, it was weird, and it's even more absurd when you've smuggled a gallon of booze and a pound of candy into the theater with you.
Without giving it all away, let's just say that Burton took some artistic license (when doesn't he?) and made the story less about Charlie's honest nature and more about Wonka's emotional separation from his family. While I had to agree with Databaseboy that this completely changed the nature of Dahl's original story, I have to say also that I connected more with a character who was successful but without the support of a family who loved him. He is eventually "adopted" at the end, which touches a sensitive nerve with me, but I don't want to spoil it. Go see it.
Later in the evening Bloghatress told me that she and I were "in the same boat." I said hold on a second. Other than the three of us who are bowling right now all being recently broken up, we're not quite facing the same situation here. You just had your Canadian propose to you, which you shot down, and a few weeks later your overly hot new Indian date shows up at this bowling alley to fondle your candy necklace which you haven't quite gotten through. As we all know, you shouldn't eat your own candy -- it's much better when someone else does it for you. Me, I ate a few pieces and threw it away and washed my neck when I got home, for fear of waking up with ants all over me at 3 a.m.
We watched Bloghatress' hot new date bowl for a while, then I stood up and started dancing in front of the seats. "You're dancing to bowling alley music," Databaseboy pointed out. And so I was. With all the dancing I hadn't been doing the whole year, I guess for once I wished I had someone to dance with me in inappropriate places too.
"Sometimes when grownups say forever, they really mean a very long time."
- Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
that story again
I went to dinner with Wonderboy last night in hopes of drowning out my sorrows with you know, an entire cocktail and some Malaysian food, but as usual I made it two-thirds of the way through the drink before I told him I couldn't finish it and still drive home. On top of this, instead of getting me to talk about airplanes or fashion or movies, he sat there and let me retell the entire story of how Superstar and I met in the hallway of the CMU business school building, how we went out for Valentine's Day, and the complete chronology of our time together up until this point.
"M and I are back together," he said. "Oh," I responded, "I thought you broke up." "We did," he said, "for one week." Wow, that must have been tough, I thought. A whole week. Granted, it's been two and a half weeks for me and every minute seems to pass in agonizing eternity. Wonderboy has illustrated the convenience of breaking up when you live in the same state, however. You can just drive over, kiss, make up, and everything's better again.
I don't know how much longer my faithful readers are going to put up with my drunken, sorrowful ramblings, so if you haven't heard the story I told Wonderboy yet, I'll tell you now. After all, this blog started several months after the story, so I never did get to tell it.
* * * * *
Think Tuesday night, February in Pennsylvania, snow, graduate school, me wearing neon pink thermal underwear, jeans, two sweatshirts, and a wool coat in the middle of class. Hey you gotta cut me some slack, I'm from California, and as far as I was concerned it was damn cold. I was sitting in this business school class I decided to take as an elective for my MHCI, nervously fidgeting in my seat, partially because I didn't know what was going on and partially because I had to leave early to go to hockey practice, which I had just barely started a few weeks ago. (Think me using my stick to keep upright, knees rigid, balanced precariously, but that's a whole 'nother story.) I had already decided that while business school students were a serious bunch, all dressed up and going to class, several of them were good looking enough to warrant taking an elective that I probably wouldn't do that well in. My GPA can take the hit for love, I thought.
Of course, there had been no approachable opportunities up until that point. In the middle of a video clip and presentation, with the room half darkened, I zipped up my backpack as quietly as I could and exited the room. I'm pretty sure everyone noticed the hallway light illuminating the entire room and the door slamming, but hey, I tried. I put my backpack down in the hallway to adjust the contents, including my absurdly heavy laptop, then hauled it back onto my shoulders and turned toward the stairs.
"Hey, you're going to miss my Braveheart demonstration." I turned abruptly in the hallway, my badly dyed blonde and purple locks rolling over my shoulders. "What?" I said. I stared for several seconds at a man wrapping some kind of tartan plaid picnic blanket or flannel around his waist and over his khaki Dockers.
"Um," I said, "I have to go to ice hockey." I'm not sure why I specified ice hockey, except that I thought no one would know what I was talking about. I had forgotten that I was on the east coast, and I also didn't realize I was talking to a Canadian. His eyes lit up and he stopped folding his picnic blanket, which I started to assume was a kilt from the Braveheart reference. "You play ice hockey? I play ice hockey!" he said all in one breath, excitedly.
"Oh," I responded, suddenly embarrassed, "I just started." You don't even know how bad I am, I thought. Of course, who am I to turn red, you're putting a kilt on in the hallway. "I like hockey cuz' it starts at night, I row crew and it's too early for me."
"I row too!" he said, "Luckily our team rows in the evenings, at Three Rivers. I'll bring you the information next time if you're interested." "Oh, thanks," I said, raising an eyebrow. I turned and headed down the stairs, evaluating what had just happened. I met a man in the hallway of the business school building, taking his pants off to put on a picnic blanket kilt, and he claims to play ice hockey and row crew, both of which I mysteriously also do. I suppose it could be coincidence (which it turns out later, it actually was), but I have to say it was still a little sketchy.
I returned on Thursday after my humiliating Tuesday night hockey practice during which I spent the whole time trying not to fall and crash, and sat down in class. During a lecture break while I was typing furiously away on my laptop (yes, IMing to friends), someone stood hovering over my desk and attracted my attention when I finally bothered to look up. It was kilt boy, from Tuesday, with the crew paperwork.
I never thought I'd ask out a guy with a beard, let alone a guy who gets naked in the hallways of public buildings. But I did manage to do it, a few days later, and the rest is history. And he did eventually see how badly I skated, but he showed me how to skate backwards, and for that I am eternally grateful. All I can hope now is that he comes to the conclusion it might be a good idea to make a little more history together, whether it also involves kilts, I don't mind either way.
"M and I are back together," he said. "Oh," I responded, "I thought you broke up." "We did," he said, "for one week." Wow, that must have been tough, I thought. A whole week. Granted, it's been two and a half weeks for me and every minute seems to pass in agonizing eternity. Wonderboy has illustrated the convenience of breaking up when you live in the same state, however. You can just drive over, kiss, make up, and everything's better again.
I don't know how much longer my faithful readers are going to put up with my drunken, sorrowful ramblings, so if you haven't heard the story I told Wonderboy yet, I'll tell you now. After all, this blog started several months after the story, so I never did get to tell it.
Think Tuesday night, February in Pennsylvania, snow, graduate school, me wearing neon pink thermal underwear, jeans, two sweatshirts, and a wool coat in the middle of class. Hey you gotta cut me some slack, I'm from California, and as far as I was concerned it was damn cold. I was sitting in this business school class I decided to take as an elective for my MHCI, nervously fidgeting in my seat, partially because I didn't know what was going on and partially because I had to leave early to go to hockey practice, which I had just barely started a few weeks ago. (Think me using my stick to keep upright, knees rigid, balanced precariously, but that's a whole 'nother story.) I had already decided that while business school students were a serious bunch, all dressed up and going to class, several of them were good looking enough to warrant taking an elective that I probably wouldn't do that well in. My GPA can take the hit for love, I thought.
Of course, there had been no approachable opportunities up until that point. In the middle of a video clip and presentation, with the room half darkened, I zipped up my backpack as quietly as I could and exited the room. I'm pretty sure everyone noticed the hallway light illuminating the entire room and the door slamming, but hey, I tried. I put my backpack down in the hallway to adjust the contents, including my absurdly heavy laptop, then hauled it back onto my shoulders and turned toward the stairs.
"Hey, you're going to miss my Braveheart demonstration." I turned abruptly in the hallway, my badly dyed blonde and purple locks rolling over my shoulders. "What?" I said. I stared for several seconds at a man wrapping some kind of tartan plaid picnic blanket or flannel around his waist and over his khaki Dockers.
"Um," I said, "I have to go to ice hockey." I'm not sure why I specified ice hockey, except that I thought no one would know what I was talking about. I had forgotten that I was on the east coast, and I also didn't realize I was talking to a Canadian. His eyes lit up and he stopped folding his picnic blanket, which I started to assume was a kilt from the Braveheart reference. "You play ice hockey? I play ice hockey!" he said all in one breath, excitedly.
"Oh," I responded, suddenly embarrassed, "I just started." You don't even know how bad I am, I thought. Of course, who am I to turn red, you're putting a kilt on in the hallway. "I like hockey cuz' it starts at night, I row crew and it's too early for me."
"I row too!" he said, "Luckily our team rows in the evenings, at Three Rivers. I'll bring you the information next time if you're interested." "Oh, thanks," I said, raising an eyebrow. I turned and headed down the stairs, evaluating what had just happened. I met a man in the hallway of the business school building, taking his pants off to put on a picnic blanket kilt, and he claims to play ice hockey and row crew, both of which I mysteriously also do. I suppose it could be coincidence (which it turns out later, it actually was), but I have to say it was still a little sketchy.
I returned on Thursday after my humiliating Tuesday night hockey practice during which I spent the whole time trying not to fall and crash, and sat down in class. During a lecture break while I was typing furiously away on my laptop (yes, IMing to friends), someone stood hovering over my desk and attracted my attention when I finally bothered to look up. It was kilt boy, from Tuesday, with the crew paperwork.
I never thought I'd ask out a guy with a beard, let alone a guy who gets naked in the hallways of public buildings. But I did manage to do it, a few days later, and the rest is history. And he did eventually see how badly I skated, but he showed me how to skate backwards, and for that I am eternally grateful. All I can hope now is that he comes to the conclusion it might be a good idea to make a little more history together, whether it also involves kilts, I don't mind either way.
the agony
I've been having strange metaphoric dreams lately. I dreamed last night that Superstar and I were at some event, though I am not sure what it was, and we were running around from person to person only able to say a few words to each of them, and there were so many it seemed like we'd never get around to speaking with everyone.
I am not sure what the resolution of that was, because as dreams go, you always wake up a split second before the answer is revealed. I've been sleeping badly, and have no appetite. Of course, now that I've lost 10 lbs. over the course of two weeks, I should call up dmk26 and tell him I'm finally ready to shoot again since there is now no possible way I'll look fat in any of the photos. In fact, if I keep this up, I'll be the poster child for anorexics anonymous.
"Maybe you should reconsider your sports activities since you haven't been eating right," Papaya said to me yesterday before I left for polo. "You would be amazed how long the body can go without proper food," I said to her. "I once played hockey on a Luna bar, which is the only thing I ate all day." I don't think she was impressed. But I know, it's not really your body that suffers over time, it's your mind. Your body will put up with the abuse for a while, but your mind will just sputter out and die on you. I don't think my mind can deal with lack of both love and food. One agony is plenty for it. Today I'm going to try to eat something.
It's strange how much less life glitters when you've made a huge mistake.
I am not sure what the resolution of that was, because as dreams go, you always wake up a split second before the answer is revealed. I've been sleeping badly, and have no appetite. Of course, now that I've lost 10 lbs. over the course of two weeks, I should call up dmk26 and tell him I'm finally ready to shoot again since there is now no possible way I'll look fat in any of the photos. In fact, if I keep this up, I'll be the poster child for anorexics anonymous.
"Maybe you should reconsider your sports activities since you haven't been eating right," Papaya said to me yesterday before I left for polo. "You would be amazed how long the body can go without proper food," I said to her. "I once played hockey on a Luna bar, which is the only thing I ate all day." I don't think she was impressed. But I know, it's not really your body that suffers over time, it's your mind. Your body will put up with the abuse for a while, but your mind will just sputter out and die on you. I don't think my mind can deal with lack of both love and food. One agony is plenty for it. Today I'm going to try to eat something.
It's strange how much less life glitters when you've made a huge mistake.
home, home again
Saturyne is coming home. Here is her blog about her trip.
While I am ecstatic she will be in the same state as me again, some part of me wishes I was going on a cross-country trip with my stuff too.
While I am ecstatic she will be in the same state as me again, some part of me wishes I was going on a cross-country trip with my stuff too.
misconceptions
saturyne: i just cant tell if he's got it all figured out in his head,
but out of fear he doesn't ever give you specific, exact,
gavel-hitting answers
saturyne: or is he truly confused
jess: i think he's put together all these things he thinks are
wrong and that is his answer
jess: and some of them are total misconceptions about me,
but when i try to correct them, he doesn't believe me
saturyne: yeah i think he's got it figured out in his head.....
whether his perceptions are correct or not..... and he's difficult to
convince otherwise
saturyne: it's frustrating when someone thinks something of
you that isnt true
saturyne: and the more you try to convince them....they see it
as a defensive reaction
but out of fear he doesn't ever give you specific, exact,
gavel-hitting answers
saturyne: or is he truly confused
jess: i think he's put together all these things he thinks are
wrong and that is his answer
jess: and some of them are total misconceptions about me,
but when i try to correct them, he doesn't believe me
saturyne: yeah i think he's got it figured out in his head.....
whether his perceptions are correct or not..... and he's difficult to
convince otherwise
saturyne: it's frustrating when someone thinks something of
you that isnt true
saturyne: and the more you try to convince them....they see it
as a defensive reaction
when you're alone
The grocery store is an embarrassing place to be single. I was at Safeway on Thursday at 9 p.m., after realizing I'd missed dinner at work and there was no food at my house. In line behind me was a guy flinging his items onto the conveyor belt -- prepackaged smoked ribs, wheat flakes cereal in plastic bags, imitation crab meat, Lean Cuisine, several tubs of Breyers ice cream. I almost caught myself feeling sorry for him when I looked at my own selection of TV dinners, refrigerated pasta, frozen waffles, and a jar of syrup and decided, just like in the airplane oxygen mask safety warnings, that I needed to feel sorry for myself first, before empathizing with others.
I used to cook. In fact, I got a recipe for chocolate crepes in the mail (it came as part of a real estate newsletter from my realtor) that suddenly inspired me to mention crepe making at lunch on Friday with coworkers. I was advised to buy a crepe pan and get a long handled knife to flip them. Coworkers are good for that. They can't wallow in your sorrows with you (and you probably wouldn't want them to) but if you bring up some stupid therapeutic idea you have for coping with your loneliness they'll always be sure to tell you what kind of skillet to avoid and the best brand of pudding for the job.
It's odd how you can sniff out almost any bachelor(ette) by simply observing a shopping list. Most notably, they're always picking up frozen food, ice cream, cereal, and if they're feeling healthy, one banana wrapped in a clear bag with a twist tie on it. In addition, their items nearly always fit in a basket, or if they're actually pushing a shopping cart you'll see their food lost at the bottom, with fashion and/or sports magazines propped open in the child seat so they can read while they push.
Is this me? I think. Sometimes, when my house is actually clean, I'll buy fresh flowers at the grocery store to throw people off. Single people don't buy flowers for themselves, right? They only buy flowers because there are other people living at or coming to visit their house. I think sometimes if I buy flowers that maybe it will attract company, like bees, except better than bees, and I won't have to spend Saturday nights alone. I haven't tested my theory yet. I do enjoy the flowers on my own but there is something sad about their inevitable wilting over the course of the week. It's as if they died waiting for company that never arrived.
When you're alone, the world is like this giant Noah's ark, where everyone comes in pairs except for you. They're getting into cars together, they're arriving at parties together, they're pumping gas together, they're watching TV together and you can see them at night through their living room window, laughing at old black and white reruns of I Love Lucy. Yesterday I went to hockey, and instead of staying to sub with me for the second game, one of the beginning players I like better left early, and took her really good goalie with her. I watched him skate leisurely behind her small frame as they left the rink. There was something sad and insulting about that, but I guess you'd only understand if you were a single hockey player too.
I received a disturbing handwritten letter in the mail the other day from a distant friend who I was upset with, who admitted he felt differently about me than mere friendship. I have no interest. Then, what Palahniuk writes in Invisible Monsters is true, someone is always chasing after us, and we're always chasing after someone completely different, and that person in turn is chasing after someone else. It's like this giant conga line of unrequited desire, instead of an intimate tango of two.
Maybe I'll go buy some flowers tomorrow.
I used to cook. In fact, I got a recipe for chocolate crepes in the mail (it came as part of a real estate newsletter from my realtor) that suddenly inspired me to mention crepe making at lunch on Friday with coworkers. I was advised to buy a crepe pan and get a long handled knife to flip them. Coworkers are good for that. They can't wallow in your sorrows with you (and you probably wouldn't want them to) but if you bring up some stupid therapeutic idea you have for coping with your loneliness they'll always be sure to tell you what kind of skillet to avoid and the best brand of pudding for the job.
It's odd how you can sniff out almost any bachelor(ette) by simply observing a shopping list. Most notably, they're always picking up frozen food, ice cream, cereal, and if they're feeling healthy, one banana wrapped in a clear bag with a twist tie on it. In addition, their items nearly always fit in a basket, or if they're actually pushing a shopping cart you'll see their food lost at the bottom, with fashion and/or sports magazines propped open in the child seat so they can read while they push.
Is this me? I think. Sometimes, when my house is actually clean, I'll buy fresh flowers at the grocery store to throw people off. Single people don't buy flowers for themselves, right? They only buy flowers because there are other people living at or coming to visit their house. I think sometimes if I buy flowers that maybe it will attract company, like bees, except better than bees, and I won't have to spend Saturday nights alone. I haven't tested my theory yet. I do enjoy the flowers on my own but there is something sad about their inevitable wilting over the course of the week. It's as if they died waiting for company that never arrived.
When you're alone, the world is like this giant Noah's ark, where everyone comes in pairs except for you. They're getting into cars together, they're arriving at parties together, they're pumping gas together, they're watching TV together and you can see them at night through their living room window, laughing at old black and white reruns of I Love Lucy. Yesterday I went to hockey, and instead of staying to sub with me for the second game, one of the beginning players I like better left early, and took her really good goalie with her. I watched him skate leisurely behind her small frame as they left the rink. There was something sad and insulting about that, but I guess you'd only understand if you were a single hockey player too.
I received a disturbing handwritten letter in the mail the other day from a distant friend who I was upset with, who admitted he felt differently about me than mere friendship. I have no interest. Then, what Palahniuk writes in Invisible Monsters is true, someone is always chasing after us, and we're always chasing after someone completely different, and that person in turn is chasing after someone else. It's like this giant conga line of unrequited desire, instead of an intimate tango of two.
Maybe I'll go buy some flowers tomorrow.
brats
As I've said before, writing about work in your blog is typically asking for trouble. But I guess some things are not only not confidential, but much too absurd to keep quiet about. There was this long e-mail thread over the past couple of weeks about our parking woes at the Mountain View campus. The downlow is this: it's extremely difficult to find parking if you come in after 11:00 a.m. You know, I'm pretty casual about work and even I see a few glaring issues with this, the fact that you're coming into work at lunchtime only being the minor one.Yesterday I came into work at around 10:30 a.m. and cars were already circling the underground parking garage for spots. Crap, I thought, it's starting earlier. I exited the lot on the other side, turned right, and there were at least 45 open spots outside. Odd. I parked, got out, and walked back into the garage to go upstairs. Inside, a guy was trying desperately to squeeze his shiny black Land Rover into an illegal parking spot between a beam and another car, wedging the other poor schmuck into his space. While I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt, that perhaps he didn't know there were a ton of spots outside open, I have this sinking feeling he just didn't want his shiny new Land Rover outside in the hot sun and dust.
You want more examples of brattism? The parking complaining got so bad, they're now going to offer free valet service for people coming into work after 10 a.m. Oh my God. This would be like if you were a kid still living at your mom's house, and every time you missed the school bus she'd drive you to school in her Mercedes with the video game/DVD console in the back seat and the mini fridge with the sodas. What incentive would you have to ever go to school on time?
There's more. The last thread was complaining that our brand new made-to-order breakfast service (yes, omelettes, smoothies, sausages, french toast, the whole deal) started too early in the morning and ended too early. My only guess is that the same people coming in at 11 a.m. and can't find parking also aren't making it to breakfast. I wonder if that guy in the Land Rover wrote in to voice his complaint. I'm assuming that next, the people who come in late and can't find parking will want a drive-in breakfast service, with waitresses on rollerskates hanging trays on the side of their car windows. "Yes, I'd like an omelette with everything, and also could you bring my laptop over here and um, push my car closer because the wireless signal is sorta bad here."
I always have great intentions of adding my two cents to these threads, usually along the lines of "Why don't you just all shut the hell up and appreciate what you have?" Seriously, not only do no other companies I know of offer these "perks" (although I'd rather call them "immoral luxuries"), but there are people lying around in Rwanda with flies all over their faces waiting to die while we complain about breakfast and parking. Alas, I never actually contribute to the threads, because I feel like it would be useless to point out that we're totally unappreciative, especially to that one guy who keeps demanding the company cupcakes.
I'd mostly let this stuff slide, but as I was driving into work this morning I almost got into an accident staring out my passenger side window at the carnival that had magically appeared on campus. I had gotten some e-mails a few weeks ago about a company picnic, but a ferris wheel? I shook my head and went into the office and sat down. Everyone seemed to be typing away as usual. I checked my e-mail and there was a note about the Zipper, carnie games, and life size monopoly. I leaned around my adjacent cubemate's huge LCD displays and said "They have the Zipper outside." "What?" he said. I said, "You know, the Zipper, that carnival ride where you get whipped around upside down in these stand up cages." "I got four hours of sleep," he said, "I don't know if I can go on that."
I furrowed my brows and leaned back into my chair, staring at the e-mail. Around noon I asked anyone if they were going to get food. "The cafe is closed," one of the designers said, without looking up from her computer. "Uh yeah," I said, but there is some kinda carnival out there." Eventually, everyone got up begrudgingly from their desks and we went outside. And this is what we saw:
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The Zipper, a Ferris Wheel (the last photo shows the office from the wheel), inflatable slides, free food, booze, ice cream, a giant monopoly game, dunk tank, weird actors and clowns, carnie games, prizes, two live bands. Whole families were there, dogs, all of Mountain View. We picked up our free visors and walked around, the new guy in our group with a "What the hell is this?" expression on his face the entire time. One of the designers told me it was bigger and badder every year. We agreed we should definitely complain via e-mail that Ben & Jerry's was a monopoly on campus and that the ice cream stands marked "ice cream" only had popsicles inside. This was very deceitful, and you know, we had to walk all the way over there thinking we were getting free ice cream. I wondered when it would get to the point where it'd just cave in on itself, like bay area real estate, yet at the same time, I was glad I was there to say I lived it.
Hopefully, no one at work reads this and cans my ass for pointing out the carnival. I don't think you can keep a ferris wheel confidential, though. As I rode on it and we reached the highest point of its rotation, I looked across the street and was sure in some office building over there, an employee of another company was filling out a job application right now. There isn't an 8 year old alive who saw the spoiled 8 year old in another family and didn't wish he was that kid, whether or not it was good for him.
IM support line
bear: dude, i haven't talked to you in what, weeks?
jess: something like that
bear: you haven't broken any laws since then, have you?
jess: no just broken up
bear: oh? i'm sorry
bear: if you were a guy, i'd take you to a strip club
jess: thanks
bear: right there for ya
jess: something like that
bear: you haven't broken any laws since then, have you?
jess: no just broken up
bear: oh? i'm sorry
bear: if you were a guy, i'd take you to a strip club
jess: thanks
bear: right there for ya
bragging rights
My favorite Sharks fan took a tumble from a horse last week while I was away on vacation, and I still hadn't posted the photos she lent me from regional championships, nor had I updated my blog. Needless to say, the least I could have done was post a blog entry for a woman in the hospital. And so, to add insult to injury, I am posting here a photo of the horse that sent her to the emergency room on Tuesday.
That's Prairie and me at Arabian Sporthorse Regional Championships in April, and some disgruntled member of the show staff with our prizes. That is also my new blue hunt coat, which I splurged on at the California Horse Expo the same weekend, after much goading from my favorite Sharks fan who calls me a "traditionalist." Hey, it's better than what I call myself, which is cheap, but I do still put all my hair under my helmet and refuse to wear those trendy little show bows. I suppose I could simply cut all my hair off, since the rules of singlehood once again apply and shaving one's head is at least less permanent than a relationship rebound tattoo.
This is my favorite Shark's fan's horse, Penny, and me in our hunter over fences class at regionals. Penny and I have this strange relationship that consists alternately of flaming burnouts and stunning wins. Interestingly, Penny is as on and off as me -- either give it all you have or don't bother doing it at all. There are no mediocre shades of gray in Penny's little horsey world, and there aren't a whole lot of gradations in mine, either. This photo is of us on an up day, literally and figuratively.
I hope Penny's mom feels better soon, after all, there's polo to be played and people to beat up on and I can't very well do all of this myself.
That's Prairie and me at Arabian Sporthorse Regional Championships in April, and some disgruntled member of the show staff with our prizes. That is also my new blue hunt coat, which I splurged on at the California Horse Expo the same weekend, after much goading from my favorite Sharks fan who calls me a "traditionalist." Hey, it's better than what I call myself, which is cheap, but I do still put all my hair under my helmet and refuse to wear those trendy little show bows. I suppose I could simply cut all my hair off, since the rules of singlehood once again apply and shaving one's head is at least less permanent than a relationship rebound tattoo.This is my favorite Shark's fan's horse, Penny, and me in our hunter over fences class at regionals. Penny and I have this strange relationship that consists alternately of flaming burnouts and stunning wins. Interestingly, Penny is as on and off as me -- either give it all you have or don't bother doing it at all. There are no mediocre shades of gray in Penny's little horsey world, and there aren't a whole lot of gradations in mine, either. This photo is of us on an up day, literally and figuratively.I hope Penny's mom feels better soon, after all, there's polo to be played and people to beat up on and I can't very well do all of this myself.
my ordinary life
I recently returned to my ordinary life. I suppose "ordinary" is different to different people, but my ordinary life still consists of all those things I do that many would consider far from mainstream. It doesn't make any difference when you've lost what to you made your life more than ordinary. You could be a celebrity, a royal, a scandalous politician -- but if it's missing, it's missing, and you're nothing but ordinary.
B and I went to polo clinic yesterday, or thought we were going, only to discover that the arena had been filled with jumps for the horse show and there were no trailers in sight. We ended up in the hitting cage, taking swings at the little white ball and fixating on it as it rolled towards us down the ramps. I took some poorly timed partial swings before letting go with a full swing to send the ball smashing into the back wall.
We're on divergent paths.
Off side forward shot.
I want someone who can work a room.
Off side back shot.
I'm happiest when we're sharing each other with friends.
Near side forward shot.
It's too risky for you to move.
Near side back shot.
You know where I stand.
Horrible miss. I put my mallet down.
"My arm hurts and I can't stay in two-point on this wooden horse," I say, jumping off. B gets in the saddle, takes a tail shot and I duck for cover, leaping to the other side of the cage.
Excuses. Welcome to my ordinary life. Everything loses some flavor upon the return to ordinary life. No more plane trips, no more "meet me in Rome," no more curling irons, flirty dresses, sky-high heels, "yes there really is snow in California," "no I really do think the seasons are beautiful," no more stepmothers making premature recommendations for your married life together.
"Your garden is lovely," I said to him. He thanks me. It's the only time we've spoken in private without the relatives interrupting. He hopes I had a good time, and that I'll come back, even though he knows it's a long flight. "I'm going to...take pictures of your flowers," I say. From the other side of the yard I watch him pulling long leaved weeds from the flower bed. He's calm, rational, charming. Like me, when I'm not being erratic, illogical, and scary. He never seemed demanding or imploring. I wonder curiously how his offspring spawned those traits.
"The reason you're not hitting it straight on," B says, "is because your hand is turned the wrong way at the top of your swing." I turn my palm forward and my hits are consistent. Spiritual polo revelation.
"Are you still playing ice hockey?" she asks me. "Yes," I say. A motorboat rumbles to life on the water far below. "I didn't think it was still hockey season." "We play year round back home," I say. "Well of course, I guess it is all indoors over there." She smiles. It's fragile, but genuine. I look out at the boats. A replica old-fashioned red and blue tugboat approaches the dock. "We want to have a renewal of our vows here, at the Tiki bar," she says. "We were going to do a ten year but now we have to do five years instead, because of his illness." "Oh," I say, looking down at the sloppily lacquered table. "I wish he would take care of himself too," she says, gesturing out at the water where her son helps to refuel the boat. "You should tell him to go to the doctor." "I will," I say.
I throw the ball up the ramp for B. She takes several shots in succession. I watch her gear up for a full swing, pausing, standing up out of the saddle, timing her reaction as the ball rolls down. Invariably, she misses, with frustrated commentary.
"He speaks so highly of you," she says, leaning forward over the din of trombones. "You know, he and I used to not get along, in the beginning, we just didn't click. Now we're much better. It just took some time." I can't hear some of the words in whatever she says next. Just "the" and "of" but no nouns that would help me decipher what she's trying to say. I figure she's already told me what was important anyway, and I let the music drown her out.
I walk out of the hitting cage, taking a swig of my water. The heat and dust are choking. We open the car doors and as I get into the driver's seat I feel the corner of my eye is wet. I wipe my entire face with my sleeve. "My allergies are bad," I say to B, hollowly. Welcome back to my ordinary life.
B and I went to polo clinic yesterday, or thought we were going, only to discover that the arena had been filled with jumps for the horse show and there were no trailers in sight. We ended up in the hitting cage, taking swings at the little white ball and fixating on it as it rolled towards us down the ramps. I took some poorly timed partial swings before letting go with a full swing to send the ball smashing into the back wall.
We're on divergent paths.
Off side forward shot.
I want someone who can work a room.
Off side back shot.
I'm happiest when we're sharing each other with friends.
Near side forward shot.
It's too risky for you to move.
Near side back shot.
You know where I stand.
Horrible miss. I put my mallet down.
"My arm hurts and I can't stay in two-point on this wooden horse," I say, jumping off. B gets in the saddle, takes a tail shot and I duck for cover, leaping to the other side of the cage.
Excuses. Welcome to my ordinary life. Everything loses some flavor upon the return to ordinary life. No more plane trips, no more "meet me in Rome," no more curling irons, flirty dresses, sky-high heels, "yes there really is snow in California," "no I really do think the seasons are beautiful," no more stepmothers making premature recommendations for your married life together.
"Your garden is lovely," I said to him. He thanks me. It's the only time we've spoken in private without the relatives interrupting. He hopes I had a good time, and that I'll come back, even though he knows it's a long flight. "I'm going to...take pictures of your flowers," I say. From the other side of the yard I watch him pulling long leaved weeds from the flower bed. He's calm, rational, charming. Like me, when I'm not being erratic, illogical, and scary. He never seemed demanding or imploring. I wonder curiously how his offspring spawned those traits.
"The reason you're not hitting it straight on," B says, "is because your hand is turned the wrong way at the top of your swing." I turn my palm forward and my hits are consistent. Spiritual polo revelation.
"Are you still playing ice hockey?" she asks me. "Yes," I say. A motorboat rumbles to life on the water far below. "I didn't think it was still hockey season." "We play year round back home," I say. "Well of course, I guess it is all indoors over there." She smiles. It's fragile, but genuine. I look out at the boats. A replica old-fashioned red and blue tugboat approaches the dock. "We want to have a renewal of our vows here, at the Tiki bar," she says. "We were going to do a ten year but now we have to do five years instead, because of his illness." "Oh," I say, looking down at the sloppily lacquered table. "I wish he would take care of himself too," she says, gesturing out at the water where her son helps to refuel the boat. "You should tell him to go to the doctor." "I will," I say.
I throw the ball up the ramp for B. She takes several shots in succession. I watch her gear up for a full swing, pausing, standing up out of the saddle, timing her reaction as the ball rolls down. Invariably, she misses, with frustrated commentary.
"He speaks so highly of you," she says, leaning forward over the din of trombones. "You know, he and I used to not get along, in the beginning, we just didn't click. Now we're much better. It just took some time." I can't hear some of the words in whatever she says next. Just "the" and "of" but no nouns that would help me decipher what she's trying to say. I figure she's already told me what was important anyway, and I let the music drown her out.
I walk out of the hitting cage, taking a swig of my water. The heat and dust are choking. We open the car doors and as I get into the driver's seat I feel the corner of my eye is wet. I wipe my entire face with my sleeve. "My allergies are bad," I say to B, hollowly. Welcome back to my ordinary life.
