We all have the ability to have a dumb conversation. We all say the wrong thing from time to time, we all misunderstand things.
Then there are people who seem purposefully obtuse.
Like a guy I used to know, whom I fortunately don't know anymore, and whom we'll call "BSJ" here. We had some doozy conversations, but this was my favorite:
Sally: I just applied for a job that requires you to speak a European language.
BSJ: You don't speak a European language.
Sally: Okay, we'll just ignore the fact that English is a European language for now, because I speak some Spanish as well.
BSJ: Spanish isn't a European language.
Sally: What?
BSJ: They don't speak Spanish in Europe.
Sally: What do they speak in Spain, then?
BSJ: . . . Well, where do they speak Mexican?
Sally: Mexican isn't a language.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Insane or evil? I'm both!
I used to write a series of columns for my friend Skylar's website; the series was called "Hey, Free Dinner!" and it was about my trials and tribulations in the world of dating.
One thing I wrote about was the after-breakup explanation. When things don't work out with men, women often say things like "It just didn't work out" or "We're not right for one another," instead of telling the truth: "He's a cheap jackass" or "I think he's probably a serial killer" or "He smells like cauliflower." We don't say these things because we're often brought up to be nice, and kind, and to say good things about people. We're supposed to be sweet, and nurturing, and we're taught that we should never hurt anyone's feelings.
Men, on the other hand, are frequently told to say whatever they want, because they're probably right. So men, when asked why things didn't work out, often go with one of two routes:
"She's insane."
"She's a bitch."
I won't go into the insane discussion here, but I realized a long time ago, while single and dating, how men sometimes get to the "She's a bitch" decision.
And yes, before I go on, there are some really, truly horrible women out there. Women I wouldn't date, because they're just mean, nasty people who are unpleasant to be around. And when a guy says that about a woman I know to be a pretty crappy human being, I can only agree. Yes, she is awful. You are right. No, I don't like her either.
But sometimes, when I read emails like the one currently circulating from the insane investment banker to the woman with whom he had one date, I am reminded of the article I wrote a while ago, and how I came to understand how men can decide that perfectly nice, pleasant women are evil harpyshrews.
Because it happened to me at least a couple times.
Sometimes, a guy would ask me out, and we would go out on a date, and I just wouldn't want it to go further. Sometimes I'd get a good friend, sometimes I'd find a guy to fix up with another friend, and sometimes I had no interest in ever seeing him again.
But because I didn't want to hurt his feelings, I'd try the demure route. And our conversation would go something like this . . .
Guy: Hey, would you want to go out again?
Me: It's really nice of you to ask, and I really appreciate it, but I just see you as a friend.
G: Well, we had a good time, right?
M: Absolutely. You're a really nice guy. I just don't see this going anywhere.
G: Why not?
M: I think we want different things.
G: We could try going out again to see if it works.
M: Yeah . . . but I just think we're better off as friends.
G: Why?
M: I think you're a really nice guy, I just don't think we're supposed to be in a relationship.
G: Well, if I'm so nice, why don't you want to be in a relationship with me?
M: I just think we want different things. You're a great guy. I just don't see this working out.
G: I don't see what you're talking about. I don't know why you won't go out with me again.
M: I just think you're looking for someone else.
G: How do you know I'm not looking for you?
M: I don't, but I just don't think we're right for each other.
G: Well, why not?
M: . . . I just think we'd be better off as friends. I think you'd be a great boyfriend for someone, just not me.
G: I just wish you'd tell me why you don't want this to go further. I don't think you've thought this through.
M: Okay, look. I don't find you physically attractive. You smell weird, you have bad teeth, and your hair is awful. Your choice in clothing is reprehensible. You made fun of my accent, you made fun of my hometown, and you told me my career is pointless. You talked incessantly about how much money you made, and told me how much everything you're wearing costs, but then wanted us to go Dutch. You're not very bright, your opinions verge on the insane, you made fun of things I believe, and you mispronounced or misused at least 25 words in this conversation. I don't want to be around you, much less date you.
G: God, you are such a bitch.
M: Yeah, I get that a lot.
One thing I wrote about was the after-breakup explanation. When things don't work out with men, women often say things like "It just didn't work out" or "We're not right for one another," instead of telling the truth: "He's a cheap jackass" or "I think he's probably a serial killer" or "He smells like cauliflower." We don't say these things because we're often brought up to be nice, and kind, and to say good things about people. We're supposed to be sweet, and nurturing, and we're taught that we should never hurt anyone's feelings.
Men, on the other hand, are frequently told to say whatever they want, because they're probably right. So men, when asked why things didn't work out, often go with one of two routes:
"She's insane."
"She's a bitch."
I won't go into the insane discussion here, but I realized a long time ago, while single and dating, how men sometimes get to the "She's a bitch" decision.
And yes, before I go on, there are some really, truly horrible women out there. Women I wouldn't date, because they're just mean, nasty people who are unpleasant to be around. And when a guy says that about a woman I know to be a pretty crappy human being, I can only agree. Yes, she is awful. You are right. No, I don't like her either.
But sometimes, when I read emails like the one currently circulating from the insane investment banker to the woman with whom he had one date, I am reminded of the article I wrote a while ago, and how I came to understand how men can decide that perfectly nice, pleasant women are evil harpyshrews.
Because it happened to me at least a couple times.
Sometimes, a guy would ask me out, and we would go out on a date, and I just wouldn't want it to go further. Sometimes I'd get a good friend, sometimes I'd find a guy to fix up with another friend, and sometimes I had no interest in ever seeing him again.
But because I didn't want to hurt his feelings, I'd try the demure route. And our conversation would go something like this . . .
Guy: Hey, would you want to go out again?
Me: It's really nice of you to ask, and I really appreciate it, but I just see you as a friend.
G: Well, we had a good time, right?
M: Absolutely. You're a really nice guy. I just don't see this going anywhere.
G: Why not?
M: I think we want different things.
G: We could try going out again to see if it works.
M: Yeah . . . but I just think we're better off as friends.
G: Why?
M: I think you're a really nice guy, I just don't think we're supposed to be in a relationship.
G: Well, if I'm so nice, why don't you want to be in a relationship with me?
M: I just think we want different things. You're a great guy. I just don't see this working out.
G: I don't see what you're talking about. I don't know why you won't go out with me again.
M: I just think you're looking for someone else.
G: How do you know I'm not looking for you?
M: I don't, but I just don't think we're right for each other.
G: Well, why not?
M: . . . I just think we'd be better off as friends. I think you'd be a great boyfriend for someone, just not me.
G: I just wish you'd tell me why you don't want this to go further. I don't think you've thought this through.
M: Okay, look. I don't find you physically attractive. You smell weird, you have bad teeth, and your hair is awful. Your choice in clothing is reprehensible. You made fun of my accent, you made fun of my hometown, and you told me my career is pointless. You talked incessantly about how much money you made, and told me how much everything you're wearing costs, but then wanted us to go Dutch. You're not very bright, your opinions verge on the insane, you made fun of things I believe, and you mispronounced or misused at least 25 words in this conversation. I don't want to be around you, much less date you.
G: God, you are such a bitch.
M: Yeah, I get that a lot.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Everyone is one day closer to death now
My husband put together a wonderful birthday for me. He sent me irises at work, with a quote from my favorite poem in the card.
Curtis: It's amazing how hard it is to find something nice, or happy, or romantic in The Wasteland.
Me: Yeah.
Then he took me to dinner at what is currently one of my most favorite of foods: Ethiopian.
Curtis: This lamb is great.
Sally: Everything's better with a spongy eating blanket.
Curtis: Mmmm, flappy.
Then we went for drinks, in near hurricane conditions, at a bar I've decided I just don't like. It was open-mike night, and one of the performers launched this conversation:
Curtis: Wow. This guy is terrible.
Sally: I'm going to make up a backstory for him. He was the preeminent composer of theme songs for television shows in the 80s, until his unfortunate PCP addiction stopped him in his tracks. Now he's here, in Arlington, trying to put his life back together, and bringing us the musical stylings of his heyday.
Curtis: Yeah, you can actually hear the theme from Greatest American Hero right there.
Sally: I don't know, I got more Growing Pains. Oooh, wouldn't it be great if Kirk Cameron came here now and told us how we were going to hell? That would be awesome.
He also bought me a gift, which I told Tracy about.
Sally: I just opened my gift from Curtis!
Tracy: It's not your birthday. Your birthday is tomorrow.
Sally: I know. But he wanted me to open it tonight.
Tracy: Well, what is it?
Sally: Knives! He gave me a new set of knives.
Tracy: I don't know that that's the best idea ever.
Sally: Because of my homicidal tendencies?
Tracy: No, I just think of knives as a more Valentine's Day gift.
And, finally, he's putting together a party for me right now.
Sally: What do we need to do to get ready?
Curtis: Nothing. I have it planned.
Sally: Well, I was thinking that we needed to get some ice, and make sure we have forks, and I need to clean the bathroom, and--
Curtis: Are you reading this from a spreadsheet?
Sally: No. Okay, yes.
Curtis: Stop it. Stop it right now.
Sally: It's really hard for me to relinquish control of a party.
Curtis: I have The Napkin. I'll get it out. Don't force my hand.
(The Napkin refers to a pact I made with him a few weeks ago. It says "Sally gives up control of her party to Curtis, and she will not discuss it with him at all, other than in positive ways, such as 'I'm so excited about the party' and 'You did such a good job on the party.'")
Curtis: It's amazing how hard it is to find something nice, or happy, or romantic in The Wasteland.
Me: Yeah.
Then he took me to dinner at what is currently one of my most favorite of foods: Ethiopian.
Curtis: This lamb is great.
Sally: Everything's better with a spongy eating blanket.
Curtis: Mmmm, flappy.
Then we went for drinks, in near hurricane conditions, at a bar I've decided I just don't like. It was open-mike night, and one of the performers launched this conversation:
Curtis: Wow. This guy is terrible.
Sally: I'm going to make up a backstory for him. He was the preeminent composer of theme songs for television shows in the 80s, until his unfortunate PCP addiction stopped him in his tracks. Now he's here, in Arlington, trying to put his life back together, and bringing us the musical stylings of his heyday.
Curtis: Yeah, you can actually hear the theme from Greatest American Hero right there.
Sally: I don't know, I got more Growing Pains. Oooh, wouldn't it be great if Kirk Cameron came here now and told us how we were going to hell? That would be awesome.
He also bought me a gift, which I told Tracy about.
Sally: I just opened my gift from Curtis!
Tracy: It's not your birthday. Your birthday is tomorrow.
Sally: I know. But he wanted me to open it tonight.
Tracy: Well, what is it?
Sally: Knives! He gave me a new set of knives.
Tracy: I don't know that that's the best idea ever.
Sally: Because of my homicidal tendencies?
Tracy: No, I just think of knives as a more Valentine's Day gift.
And, finally, he's putting together a party for me right now.
Sally: What do we need to do to get ready?
Curtis: Nothing. I have it planned.
Sally: Well, I was thinking that we needed to get some ice, and make sure we have forks, and I need to clean the bathroom, and--
Curtis: Are you reading this from a spreadsheet?
Sally: No. Okay, yes.
Curtis: Stop it. Stop it right now.
Sally: It's really hard for me to relinquish control of a party.
Curtis: I have The Napkin. I'll get it out. Don't force my hand.
(The Napkin refers to a pact I made with him a few weeks ago. It says "Sally gives up control of her party to Curtis, and she will not discuss it with him at all, other than in positive ways, such as 'I'm so excited about the party' and 'You did such a good job on the party.'")
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Tradition is alive and well at the Boovans house.
On the subject of holidays . . .
Curtis: Now that we have the tree up, why don't we watch a good old-fashioned Christmas movie to put us in the spirit?
Sally: Okay, what?
Curtis: Human Centipede 2.
Curtis: Now that we have the tree up, why don't we watch a good old-fashioned Christmas movie to put us in the spirit?
Sally: Okay, what?
Curtis: Human Centipede 2.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Why do you know this?
On the subject of serial killers:
Curtis: What are you watching?
TV show: " . . . Green River . . ."
Curtis: Oh, is this about the Green River Killer?
Sally: Yeah.
Curtis: Who is he, again? Was he the church guy?
Sally: I don't know. I honestly don't know much about him.
Curtis: So, not the guy who went to church a lot?
Sally: He might have. But are you thinking of Dennis Rader?
Curtis: Maybe?
Sally: BTK?
Curtis: Yeah, I am. You're right.
Sally: It's easy to get them confused. They were arrested at practically the same time, and they had similar MOs. Wait, I think I know the Green River Killer's name. Gary . . . Gary . . . Gary! Gary Leon Ridgway. That was it. But I don't know a whole lot more about him.
Curtis: You know more than I'm comfortable knowing that you know. Why do you know this stuff?
Sally: People ask me that every time we talk about serial killers.
Curtis: I'm guessing this happens a lot.
Curtis: What are you watching?
TV show: " . . . Green River . . ."
Curtis: Oh, is this about the Green River Killer?
Sally: Yeah.
Curtis: Who is he, again? Was he the church guy?
Sally: I don't know. I honestly don't know much about him.
Curtis: So, not the guy who went to church a lot?
Sally: He might have. But are you thinking of Dennis Rader?
Curtis: Maybe?
Sally: BTK?
Curtis: Yeah, I am. You're right.
Sally: It's easy to get them confused. They were arrested at practically the same time, and they had similar MOs. Wait, I think I know the Green River Killer's name. Gary . . . Gary . . . Gary! Gary Leon Ridgway. That was it. But I don't know a whole lot more about him.
Curtis: You know more than I'm comfortable knowing that you know. Why do you know this stuff?
Sally: People ask me that every time we talk about serial killers.
Curtis: I'm guessing this happens a lot.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
The Boovanses on Sporting Tournaments
I generally hate sports. I'm not good at participating in them, and mostly I don't like watching them. I wanted to find a guy who also did not like sports (playing or watching), as I'd had one formative experience in dating a sports fanatic (and I use that term in its most literal sense). At one point, ex and I had the following conversation:
Sally: I'm really glad you don't like baseball. Because if you did, I doubt we would have had a conversation or made eye contact in the last year and a half.
Guy: (Glances at me, irritated, before re-fixing his eyes on the television across the restaurant, which is showing some basketball game) What?
Sally: Never mind.
With that interlude (and many others) in mind, I wanted to find this guy's opposite, maybe even someone who didn't like sports at all. But I knew that was probably not going to happen.
And then I found my husband.
And he not only doesn't like sports as much as the other guy . . . he likes them less than I do.
Because I might hate sports, but I LOVE Virginia Tech.
And as I hate baseball, and they're generally terrible at basketball, football is my only choice for a sport to yell about.
Fortunately, they're generally pretty good at football.
Curtis has even gone so far as to attend a game with me this year, and it so happened that it was the ONE GAME THEY LOST. And we've had a lot of conversations about that. Like tonight, when a commentator in the UVA - VT game said that VT had only lost one game.
Curtis: They only lost one game?
Sally: Yes.
Curtis: To Clemson?
Sally: Yes.
Curtis: The one we went to?
Sally: Yes.
Curtis: And stood in the rain?
Sally: Yes.
Curtis: And then you got a speeding ticket later?
Sally: Yes. We've gone over this repeatedly.
Curtis: (with gleeful malice) I know.
Or when I tried to explain Basic Rankings to Curtis:
Sally: Clemson lost to Georgia Tech. And Virginia Tech is playing them next week. If they can beat Georgia Tech next week, that will be good.
Curtis: Why would that matter?
Sally: Because Virginia Tech lost to Clemson, but Clemson lost to Georgia Tech. If Georgia Tech loses to Virginia Tech, it puts us in a better standing.
Curtis: But you still lost to Clemson.
Sally: I know. But if we beat Georgia Tech, it's good for us.
Curtis: But Clemson still beat you.
Sally: I know that.
Curtis: Really, really bad. I mean bad. Like bad.
Sally: Yup. Totally clear on this.
Sally: I'm really glad you don't like baseball. Because if you did, I doubt we would have had a conversation or made eye contact in the last year and a half.
Guy: (Glances at me, irritated, before re-fixing his eyes on the television across the restaurant, which is showing some basketball game) What?
Sally: Never mind.
With that interlude (and many others) in mind, I wanted to find this guy's opposite, maybe even someone who didn't like sports at all. But I knew that was probably not going to happen.
And then I found my husband.
And he not only doesn't like sports as much as the other guy . . . he likes them less than I do.
Because I might hate sports, but I LOVE Virginia Tech.
And as I hate baseball, and they're generally terrible at basketball, football is my only choice for a sport to yell about.
Fortunately, they're generally pretty good at football.
Curtis has even gone so far as to attend a game with me this year, and it so happened that it was the ONE GAME THEY LOST. And we've had a lot of conversations about that. Like tonight, when a commentator in the UVA - VT game said that VT had only lost one game.
Curtis: They only lost one game?
Sally: Yes.
Curtis: To Clemson?
Sally: Yes.
Curtis: The one we went to?
Sally: Yes.
Curtis: And stood in the rain?
Sally: Yes.
Curtis: And then you got a speeding ticket later?
Sally: Yes. We've gone over this repeatedly.
Curtis: (with gleeful malice) I know.
Or when I tried to explain Basic Rankings to Curtis:
Sally: Clemson lost to Georgia Tech. And Virginia Tech is playing them next week. If they can beat Georgia Tech next week, that will be good.
Curtis: Why would that matter?
Sally: Because Virginia Tech lost to Clemson, but Clemson lost to Georgia Tech. If Georgia Tech loses to Virginia Tech, it puts us in a better standing.
Curtis: But you still lost to Clemson.
Sally: I know. But if we beat Georgia Tech, it's good for us.
Curtis: But Clemson still beat you.
Sally: I know that.
Curtis: Really, really bad. I mean bad. Like bad.
Sally: Yup. Totally clear on this.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Five years and counting
I've started this exact blog post many times, and have always pulled back at the last minute: it feels too personal, too raw, too petty, too angry, too sad, too vindictive, too something. But today, it's appropriate, for reasons I will address later.
First, a bit about me: I try hard to let my past go, to exorcise my demons, but I am the first to admit that that is difficult for me. It's hard for me to shrug many things off, and I am notorious for my ability to hold grudges. I forget many of the wonderful things in my life, then dwell on the terrible things. For example, last night I was lying in bed and I remembered this horrible woman from the yard sale we had last year, right before we moved. THIS IS WHAT KEPT ME AWAKE FOR A LONG TIME.
So that's who I am. I'd like to say I'm a different person, but I'd be lying.
And sometimes things conspire to make this tendency in me even worse.
Specifically, a weird recent spate of reminders of exes, via the miracle of social media.
A couple of days ago, I looked at my LinkedIn profile to add someone, and I saw that an ex was there. Then I checked Facebook, and saw suggestions to add TWO other exes. Then, in my Facebook marquee, I saw that a friend had wished a happy birthday to the truly psychotic guy I dated in high school. Yet another Facebook friend had a picture of one of my exes, with his new wife. This was all in this week.
It seemed strange that the cosmos was suddenly smacking me in the face with all of my past relationships. Remember him? Remember that? Oh yes. I remember.
But there is often a method to the universe's madness, a reasoning and a pattern behind everything. There is timing in chaos. And it is perfect that this all happened this week.
Five years ago, I had completely given up hope that I would ever find love with someone. I know my friends tired of hearing me say "I'm going to spend the rest of my life alone," but I meant it. A relationship, a marriage, was not meant for me. It happened for other people, but it wasn't going to happen for me. I had even gone through the Five Stages of Grief, stretched out over years:
Denial: This period was the longest one, and it went on during all of my major relationships. I believed that something was going to work out, one of these was going to go somewhere. I believed that, at any moment, I was going to find The Guy. This lasted from around 1994 - 2005. During this time, I had serious relationships with the following men:
The Guy Who Simply Didn't Want ME. I dated a guy who loved every last one of his friends, every last member of his family, basketball, football, his car, and his laundry more than he loved me. I was not first in his life, and I never would be. I wasn't even 10th, or 25th. He wasn't a bad guy; he wasn't mean, or abusive. He was actually very nice. But even with all the niceness he had, and it was quite a bit, it wasn't enough. All along, I knew we weren't right for one another--we were alike in a few ways, but extremely different in almost all other, major ways. However, even knowing that then, I did love him, and I thought we were meant to be together for various reasons. Because of this misguided conviction, I held on with him for 2.5 years, thinking that, at some point, he'd wake up one day and realize how awesome I was. We even talked about getting married, in this ephemeral way. He'd say things like "One day, when we possibly consider talking about the idea of maybe theoretically exploring the potential of discussing the concept of marriage . . ." Finally, one day, I just asked him: Are we going to get engaged? He said yes. I asked when. He said when I finished my PhD. I said that would be in 6 years, and I said I was done. And, to be sure, I was far from perfect in the relationship. It was time to let go, because it wasn't going anywhere. I'd wanted it to, but it wasn't.
I broke up with him, and I comforted myself: "He just doesn't want to get married." Nine months later, he was engaged to someone else. And I had to realize something painful: it wasn't that he didn't want to get married. He just didn't want to marry me.
The Guy Who Said He Wanted to Marry Me, then Lost His Memory. A year and a half later, I entered into a long-distance relationship with a guy I'd met through friends. Things started in a whirlwind: after a week, he was telling me he loved me; he was talking about marriage. Looking back now, I see exactly how immature and bizarre his behavior is, but keep in mind: I was 23, and not all that mature myself. Furthermore, I'd spent 2.5 years with a guy who still didn't know if he wanted to be with me, who had then proposed to someone else 9 months after we broke up. I thought, "Maybe this is how love is. Maybe you just KNOW."
We were together for about 5 months, long-distance the entire time, until he dumped me rather unceremoniously after we'd attended a wedding together. This is exactly how it went:
Me: So, when am I going to see you again?
Forgetful Guy: Well, yeah, I've been kind of thinking about that. We should break up.
In the ensuing tearful argument, I told him I'd thought we were going to get married. He said that he had no idea where I'd gotten that idea. As soon as I got back to the Internet, a week later, I forwarded him every email he'd sent me that contained rapturous pronouncements of forever love and the intent to marry me one day.
This is when the next step in the process, Anger, kicked in.
And I think my fury at the process led me to the next guy, two and a half years (and quite a few go-nowhere dates) after Forgetful Guy:
The Cokehead Who Cheated on Me. I don't think I really need to go into much detail here. The name should tell you enough. This relationship was just a straight-up disaster from day one. I saw good things in him in the beginning, but by the end, there was nothing but cold, dead regret and pain.
The Really Nice Guy Who Just Wanted Other Things. A few months after The Cokehead, I started dating an extremely sweet, thoughtful, interesting, intelligent guy. I loved him, and I have nothing bad to say about him. We had a nice relationship, but it just didn't work out, because we were going in two different directions and wanted different things. Of course, at the time, I was crushed by our breakup. I knew it was the right thing to do, but it added to the pile: nothing is ever going to work.
The Sociopath. About six months after The Really Nice Guy, I started dating The Sociopath. His story is a complicated one. We'd met a couple of years before, while I was dating The Cokehead. The Sociopath did not originally present as such; he started out as The Hot Guy, because he was hot. But I was in a relationship, so no. For the next two years, he pursued me throughout the relationships with Cokehead and Nice Guy, but I kept saying no. And it wasn't even just because I was in a relationship; even when I was single, I didn't want to date him. Despite his attractiveness, there was nothing else I liked about him or wanted from him. Sure, he was good looking, but from our conversations, I knew we weren't right for one another. We didn't like the same things or do the same things or believe the same things.
But he was persistent; not only did he pursue me, he called my friends and had them talk to me on his behalf; he would show up at my job and my favorite hangouts. Through it all, I remained steadfast: I was not interested.
One night, though, I was at my very favorite bar, and both The Cokehead and The Nice Guy were there. While I did not miss The Cokehead at all, I was extremely injured by our relationship, and ever more angry about how badly things had gone. I missed The Nice Guy tremendously, but knew we were not meant to be. And I thought about some recent dates I'd had, with guys I liked but who hadn't been into me, and I thought about The Hot Guy. And my thoughts went something like this:
Here's this nice, young, hot guy who is interested in you. He's been chasing you for years, and he professes his love for you. But you are letting yourself be damaged by people like The Cokehead, and you are pining away over The Nice Guy, while you let a perfectly good guy go because you think you aren't compatible enough.
Here we are, in Bargaining. If I just give up what I'm looking for, and what I want in a guy, then I'll be happy. If I just ignore all of the things I don't like about him, and all of the little red flags (like he seems like a borderline stalker), everything will be fine.
So I decided to give him a shot.
And he helped me formulate one of my favorite theories about men:
Men are like dogs chasing cars.
Dogs will chase cars endlessly, running down the street, barking themselves hoarse, until the car gets out of sight. Then another car comes along, and the dog goes after it, single-minded and intent on getting THAT CAR. But what would happen if the car ever stopped? I saw a car stop once when a dog was chasing it. The dog ran up to it, came to a screeching halt, looked at the car, then walked away, confused.
And that is what happened with The Hot Guy, who was quickly becoming The Sociopath.
He chased after me with a single-minded fervor, then once he had me, it didn't matter.
Our relationship went rapidly downhill. There were pleasant times, to be sure, but mostly it was a disaster. He became convinced I was cheating on him (I wasn't). What I always remember about this relationship was something he said to me: "Everything in our relationship would be fine if you were completely different."
Of course, I gave as good as I got. At one point, after The Sociopath and I broke up and I said something favorable about The Nice Guy, The Sociopath said, "I am so sick of hearing about [The Nice Guy!] I'm sick of hearing about how perfect he is!"
And I replied: "He's not perfect. He's just better than you."
I won't go into all the unpleasant details of our relationship--and believe me, there were many. All I can say about him is that the name I've given him here is perfect.
The Perfect Guy. After The Sociopath, I started dating one of my close friends. And I thought this was magic. We had literally everything in common, something I'd looked for for years and hadn't found. We liked the same things, did the same things, even had the same friends. When we got together, everything was, literally, perfect. And I believed that I had found The Guy. The Perfect Guy, to be exact. But after about 4 months, I could feel his interest in me waning. I could feel it happening, but I was powerless to make it stop. He repeatedly assured me that he loved me, he was happy, but no matter what he said, I knew what I felt. Something was wrong. I pondered breaking up with him, but I loved him and wanted things to work. I have this need, as I had with others, to make sure that I did absolutely everything to make it work, even when I knew we were doomed. I didn't want to look back later and think about what I could have done that would have instantly fixed everything.
He eventually broke up with me after a nine-month relationship; the split occurred two days after I told him my father was dying of cancer.
Even after that, I tried to salvage our friendship, because we genuinely had been good friends before. But he seemed to blame me for the fact that he'd broken up with me. We still don't really speak today.
This was when I hit Depression. Depression lasted from 2005 - 2006.
And then I achieved Acceptance in the summer of 2006. I was still sad, mind you, but I'd accepted it. This was the way it would be. I was not going to find anyone. I tried a few dates here and there, but nothing was working, and nothing was right.
So that was how things were through the summer and fall of 2006.
Throughout that time, I had a friend I'd met in 2003, who had purportedly once been interested in me. But that had been three years before, and I'd heard of his interest from a mutual friend. However, he'd never asked me out, never shown anything other than a cursory appreciation past that first inquiry. I knew he'd dated other people, as had I, of course. We weren't meant to be, and his interest had obviously waned. Part of it, no doubt, came from his discovery that I might not be what he was looking for. Somewhere along the way, we were at the bar we frequented, and in an attempt to have himself heard over the din, he asked me to come outside with him. We went outside to talk, but it was drizzling lightly, and I exclaimed "Ack! My hair!" and scurried back in. He immediately thought, "This girl is not for me." He wanted someone to go camping, fishing, hiking. Someone who couldn't even stand a little rain wasn't what he wanted. If I couldn't stand it long enough to talk to him . . . no.
Of course, it didn't matter to me then--I was doing my own thing. Besides, he barely talked to me otherwise. When I'd see him out, I'd attempt conversations with him, and while he was receptive and pleasant, he was generally uncommunicative. Our conversations generally went like this:
Me: Hey, how are you?
Him: Fine.
Me: How's your night?
Him: Good.
Me: What are you drinking?
Him: Beer.
Me: How've you been?
Him: Good.
Me: How's work?
Him: Fine.
Me: . . . Okay! Well, I'm going to go find [my best friend] Jim!
One day, though, I began reading his blogs.
And they were so funny. And insightful. And clever. And he seemed so well-read. And thoughtful.
Where, I thought, is this guy when I see him out? Where is the funny, insightful, clever guy?
Sometimes, he came to parties at my house.
He came to the Dog Show party I threw one year, and he was the only person who showed up on the second night of Westminster.
He came to the party I threw one December, Hot Liquor Now. I wanted it to be a Fancy Party, and I suggested that everyone should think fancy. He rang the doorbell, and I answered it. I was delighted to find him in a dapper suit.
Me: You dressed up! You look so nice!
Him: Yeah, it seemed like you wanted people to dress up. So. Yeah.
I wilted a bit, but recovered and invited him in.
He and I had been chatting pretty regularly throughout the summer of 2006, but, again, nothing was really going anywhere, and I didn't expect it to. After all, Acceptance. I was not going to find anyone, and no one was ever going to love me. That was how things were. It was nice to have friends, but to believe that anything would ever materialize was folly.
Which brings us to the Fall of 2006, in the midst of my Acceptance.
I found myself calling him at 8:00 on Tuesday, after I got out of the class I'd just begun taking. I'd just call to say hello. We were friends, of course, so that was okay.
The Sunday before Halloween, some friends and I spent a day at a wine tasting, then decided to go to dinner. On a lark, I called him and invited him out. I was a bit mortified at where we ended up: Cracker Barrel. I decided that he had to think we were a bunch of rubes. He ordered ham biscuits, and I could only think he was disappointed: he got 6 ham biscuits. Nothing else. But he ate them.
That Tuesday, Halloween, I was where I always was at 9:00 on a Tuesday: at Hunter Gatherer, after class, reading and eating dinner. He called and said he was on his way to see some friends who were performing in a Misfits cover band--could he drop by and see me? Of course, I said.
He surprised me, in more ways than one. First, he snuck up on me (he has a stealthy way about him), and second, he was wearing really impressive skeleton makeup.
Friday of the next week, I was planning to see some friends in an Improv show, which took place at our regular haunt. I first went to a happy hour with the husband of one of the players. And I had an unhappy happy hour. Nothing external did it--everyone was having a fine time, the food was good, the beverages were tasty. But as time passed, I found myself sinking lower and lower. A gloom had overtaken me for reasons I couldn't figure out. I was angry, and resentful, and miserable. If I hadn't promised to go to the show, I would've just gone home and gotten in bed.
I went to the show, and the bits were funny, and everyone was on their game . . . but I couldn't shake the weird, depressive rot that had taken up residence in my chest.
I planned to go home afterward, but I ran into my friends Kim and Gary and decided to stay for a beverage or two.
We ended up on the dance floor, as we were wont to do. This dance floor is a small one, usually crowded. A song ended, and I found myself talking to some guy. I don't even remember what he looked like.
In the middle of our conversation, I happened to look across the room.
And this is where it turns into an 80s movie.
I swear to you, the crowd parted. I swear. Everyone in front of me stepped out of the way, to reveal, on the other side of the dance floor, the guy.
The guy who didn't talk much, but who wrote such hilarious, insightful blog posts.
The guy who came to the Dog Show party.
The guy who dressed up Fancy.
The guy who ate all the ham biscuits.
The guy who had the nifty skeleton makeup.
The Guy.
I walked swiftly across the floor, seemingly outside of my own volition, and into his arms. I hugged him like I'd never hugged anyone before. I never wanted it to end. I almost cried. I felt like I was where I was supposed to be, and I wondered why I hadn't been there all along.
We spent the rest of the night together, dancing (he's a good dancer, and we dance well together). We kissed for the first time.
When he was ready to go, I walked him to his car.
Him: So, what now?
Me: You ask me out on a date.
Him: Okay. Um . . . what would you like to do?
Me: Okay, tell you what. I have tickets to a play tomorrow, and I'm going with some friends. We're going to have dinner first. Would you like to go with us?
Him: Sure.
We argue, five years later, over what our first date officially is. I say it's when we went to Cracker Barrel and he ate enough ham biscuits to choke a horse. (Or mule.) He says it's the night we went to dinner and to the play--that that's a real date.
But we celebrate this day, November 10, as our anniversary. Or, as he calls it, our "Kissiversary." (He also has a penchant for the cute, I learned long ago, which is a huge plus, as I love cute.)
When I kissed him that night and then walked him out to the car, I had no idea what the future held in store. I didn't know what would happen. I didn't know if we'd go out on a few dates and that would be the end. Knowing my past, I could assume the worst.
I wish I had known.
I wish I'd known, walking with him there on Park St., that I'd found my future husband. I wish I'd known we'd be together five years later, through so many good times and bad. I wish I'd known that he would be the man who cried as soon as he saw my feet at the top of the stairs, on the day of our wedding. I wish I'd known that he would be the person who went with me all those times to see my mother while she was dying, and that he would be the person to tell me she was gone. I wish I'd known he would be the person who is our primary chinchilla caregiver. I wish I'd known he would be the one to help me decide to take the awesome job I have today, and who would agree, without a second thought, to leave the only home he's ever really known so that I could do something fulfilling with my life. I wish I'd known he would be my best friend, my confidante, my partner in crime, my cheerleader, my foil, my conscience, the first person I see every morning and the last person I see at night. The sober yin to my raging yang.
I wish I'd known all that.
I didn't, but I do now.
And he learned, in the early months of our relationship, why I'd freaked out over the rain that night, when I ran inside and he was left to think "I cannot date such a princess."
I have curly hair, and at the time, it was a short bob that I straightened every day. Rain was bad for the bob.
Years later, when he and I were dating, I'd grown my hair out, and was wearing it curly again. One night, though, getting ready to go out, I decided to straighten it. First I watched the Weather Channel and deemed the humidity level acceptable. Then I took a long shower, during which time I used a deep-treatment conditioner. Then I got out and put in leave-in conditioner. And then I applied a straightening balm to my hair. And then I applied a gel (with straightening properties). And then I used a large-barrel round brush on my hair while I blew it dry. And then I used a flat iron.
In the midst of this rigmarole, which he had watched, fascinated, he said, "What are you doing to your hair?" I told him I had to do this to straighten it, because it's hard to keep my hair straight.
And suddenly he realized why I'd fled the rain that day--it wasn't him, which is what he'd thought. And it wasn't necessarily that I was such a princess (even though I kind of am); it was simply my hair. He'd wanted someone who would sleep on the ground with the bugs and snakes, and he got me instead. Fortunately, I'm exactly what he wanted. While I had dated The Perfect Guy, he'd dated The Perfect Girl: she wanted to fish and camp and hike and sleep on the ground and get dirty. Beyond all of those attributes, though, she was a monster. So he and I both learned a lesson: just because someone likes what you like and does what you do doesn't mean that they're going to like you.
So I have a husband who likes to touch fish with his bare hands, and my husband has a wife who would rather die than touch a fish with her bare hands.
But there's so much more than fish handling in the world.
I love my husband with all my heart no matter what, because he is a sweet, thoughtful, intelligent, funny, clever, hot, giving, gentle, strong, insightful, hardworking, ambitious, caring man. He does not love me in spite of who I am; he loves me because of who I am. And I never thought I'd find that.
Sometimes you're reminded of what could have happened . . . right before you're reminded of what did. And you remember all of the bullets dodged, the mistakes made, and are so grateful, more than ever, of how truly, truly fortunate you are.
First, a bit about me: I try hard to let my past go, to exorcise my demons, but I am the first to admit that that is difficult for me. It's hard for me to shrug many things off, and I am notorious for my ability to hold grudges. I forget many of the wonderful things in my life, then dwell on the terrible things. For example, last night I was lying in bed and I remembered this horrible woman from the yard sale we had last year, right before we moved. THIS IS WHAT KEPT ME AWAKE FOR A LONG TIME.
So that's who I am. I'd like to say I'm a different person, but I'd be lying.
And sometimes things conspire to make this tendency in me even worse.
Specifically, a weird recent spate of reminders of exes, via the miracle of social media.
A couple of days ago, I looked at my LinkedIn profile to add someone, and I saw that an ex was there. Then I checked Facebook, and saw suggestions to add TWO other exes. Then, in my Facebook marquee, I saw that a friend had wished a happy birthday to the truly psychotic guy I dated in high school. Yet another Facebook friend had a picture of one of my exes, with his new wife. This was all in this week.
It seemed strange that the cosmos was suddenly smacking me in the face with all of my past relationships. Remember him? Remember that? Oh yes. I remember.
But there is often a method to the universe's madness, a reasoning and a pattern behind everything. There is timing in chaos. And it is perfect that this all happened this week.
Five years ago, I had completely given up hope that I would ever find love with someone. I know my friends tired of hearing me say "I'm going to spend the rest of my life alone," but I meant it. A relationship, a marriage, was not meant for me. It happened for other people, but it wasn't going to happen for me. I had even gone through the Five Stages of Grief, stretched out over years:
Denial: This period was the longest one, and it went on during all of my major relationships. I believed that something was going to work out, one of these was going to go somewhere. I believed that, at any moment, I was going to find The Guy. This lasted from around 1994 - 2005. During this time, I had serious relationships with the following men:
The Guy Who Simply Didn't Want ME. I dated a guy who loved every last one of his friends, every last member of his family, basketball, football, his car, and his laundry more than he loved me. I was not first in his life, and I never would be. I wasn't even 10th, or 25th. He wasn't a bad guy; he wasn't mean, or abusive. He was actually very nice. But even with all the niceness he had, and it was quite a bit, it wasn't enough. All along, I knew we weren't right for one another--we were alike in a few ways, but extremely different in almost all other, major ways. However, even knowing that then, I did love him, and I thought we were meant to be together for various reasons. Because of this misguided conviction, I held on with him for 2.5 years, thinking that, at some point, he'd wake up one day and realize how awesome I was. We even talked about getting married, in this ephemeral way. He'd say things like "One day, when we possibly consider talking about the idea of maybe theoretically exploring the potential of discussing the concept of marriage . . ." Finally, one day, I just asked him: Are we going to get engaged? He said yes. I asked when. He said when I finished my PhD. I said that would be in 6 years, and I said I was done. And, to be sure, I was far from perfect in the relationship. It was time to let go, because it wasn't going anywhere. I'd wanted it to, but it wasn't.
I broke up with him, and I comforted myself: "He just doesn't want to get married." Nine months later, he was engaged to someone else. And I had to realize something painful: it wasn't that he didn't want to get married. He just didn't want to marry me.
The Guy Who Said He Wanted to Marry Me, then Lost His Memory. A year and a half later, I entered into a long-distance relationship with a guy I'd met through friends. Things started in a whirlwind: after a week, he was telling me he loved me; he was talking about marriage. Looking back now, I see exactly how immature and bizarre his behavior is, but keep in mind: I was 23, and not all that mature myself. Furthermore, I'd spent 2.5 years with a guy who still didn't know if he wanted to be with me, who had then proposed to someone else 9 months after we broke up. I thought, "Maybe this is how love is. Maybe you just KNOW."
We were together for about 5 months, long-distance the entire time, until he dumped me rather unceremoniously after we'd attended a wedding together. This is exactly how it went:
Me: So, when am I going to see you again?
Forgetful Guy: Well, yeah, I've been kind of thinking about that. We should break up.
In the ensuing tearful argument, I told him I'd thought we were going to get married. He said that he had no idea where I'd gotten that idea. As soon as I got back to the Internet, a week later, I forwarded him every email he'd sent me that contained rapturous pronouncements of forever love and the intent to marry me one day.
This is when the next step in the process, Anger, kicked in.
And I think my fury at the process led me to the next guy, two and a half years (and quite a few go-nowhere dates) after Forgetful Guy:
The Cokehead Who Cheated on Me. I don't think I really need to go into much detail here. The name should tell you enough. This relationship was just a straight-up disaster from day one. I saw good things in him in the beginning, but by the end, there was nothing but cold, dead regret and pain.
The Really Nice Guy Who Just Wanted Other Things. A few months after The Cokehead, I started dating an extremely sweet, thoughtful, interesting, intelligent guy. I loved him, and I have nothing bad to say about him. We had a nice relationship, but it just didn't work out, because we were going in two different directions and wanted different things. Of course, at the time, I was crushed by our breakup. I knew it was the right thing to do, but it added to the pile: nothing is ever going to work.
The Sociopath. About six months after The Really Nice Guy, I started dating The Sociopath. His story is a complicated one. We'd met a couple of years before, while I was dating The Cokehead. The Sociopath did not originally present as such; he started out as The Hot Guy, because he was hot. But I was in a relationship, so no. For the next two years, he pursued me throughout the relationships with Cokehead and Nice Guy, but I kept saying no. And it wasn't even just because I was in a relationship; even when I was single, I didn't want to date him. Despite his attractiveness, there was nothing else I liked about him or wanted from him. Sure, he was good looking, but from our conversations, I knew we weren't right for one another. We didn't like the same things or do the same things or believe the same things.
But he was persistent; not only did he pursue me, he called my friends and had them talk to me on his behalf; he would show up at my job and my favorite hangouts. Through it all, I remained steadfast: I was not interested.
One night, though, I was at my very favorite bar, and both The Cokehead and The Nice Guy were there. While I did not miss The Cokehead at all, I was extremely injured by our relationship, and ever more angry about how badly things had gone. I missed The Nice Guy tremendously, but knew we were not meant to be. And I thought about some recent dates I'd had, with guys I liked but who hadn't been into me, and I thought about The Hot Guy. And my thoughts went something like this:
Here's this nice, young, hot guy who is interested in you. He's been chasing you for years, and he professes his love for you. But you are letting yourself be damaged by people like The Cokehead, and you are pining away over The Nice Guy, while you let a perfectly good guy go because you think you aren't compatible enough.
Here we are, in Bargaining. If I just give up what I'm looking for, and what I want in a guy, then I'll be happy. If I just ignore all of the things I don't like about him, and all of the little red flags (like he seems like a borderline stalker), everything will be fine.
So I decided to give him a shot.
And he helped me formulate one of my favorite theories about men:
Men are like dogs chasing cars.
Dogs will chase cars endlessly, running down the street, barking themselves hoarse, until the car gets out of sight. Then another car comes along, and the dog goes after it, single-minded and intent on getting THAT CAR. But what would happen if the car ever stopped? I saw a car stop once when a dog was chasing it. The dog ran up to it, came to a screeching halt, looked at the car, then walked away, confused.
And that is what happened with The Hot Guy, who was quickly becoming The Sociopath.
He chased after me with a single-minded fervor, then once he had me, it didn't matter.
Our relationship went rapidly downhill. There were pleasant times, to be sure, but mostly it was a disaster. He became convinced I was cheating on him (I wasn't). What I always remember about this relationship was something he said to me: "Everything in our relationship would be fine if you were completely different."
Of course, I gave as good as I got. At one point, after The Sociopath and I broke up and I said something favorable about The Nice Guy, The Sociopath said, "I am so sick of hearing about [The Nice Guy!] I'm sick of hearing about how perfect he is!"
And I replied: "He's not perfect. He's just better than you."
I won't go into all the unpleasant details of our relationship--and believe me, there were many. All I can say about him is that the name I've given him here is perfect.
The Perfect Guy. After The Sociopath, I started dating one of my close friends. And I thought this was magic. We had literally everything in common, something I'd looked for for years and hadn't found. We liked the same things, did the same things, even had the same friends. When we got together, everything was, literally, perfect. And I believed that I had found The Guy. The Perfect Guy, to be exact. But after about 4 months, I could feel his interest in me waning. I could feel it happening, but I was powerless to make it stop. He repeatedly assured me that he loved me, he was happy, but no matter what he said, I knew what I felt. Something was wrong. I pondered breaking up with him, but I loved him and wanted things to work. I have this need, as I had with others, to make sure that I did absolutely everything to make it work, even when I knew we were doomed. I didn't want to look back later and think about what I could have done that would have instantly fixed everything.
He eventually broke up with me after a nine-month relationship; the split occurred two days after I told him my father was dying of cancer.
Even after that, I tried to salvage our friendship, because we genuinely had been good friends before. But he seemed to blame me for the fact that he'd broken up with me. We still don't really speak today.
This was when I hit Depression. Depression lasted from 2005 - 2006.
And then I achieved Acceptance in the summer of 2006. I was still sad, mind you, but I'd accepted it. This was the way it would be. I was not going to find anyone. I tried a few dates here and there, but nothing was working, and nothing was right.
So that was how things were through the summer and fall of 2006.
Throughout that time, I had a friend I'd met in 2003, who had purportedly once been interested in me. But that had been three years before, and I'd heard of his interest from a mutual friend. However, he'd never asked me out, never shown anything other than a cursory appreciation past that first inquiry. I knew he'd dated other people, as had I, of course. We weren't meant to be, and his interest had obviously waned. Part of it, no doubt, came from his discovery that I might not be what he was looking for. Somewhere along the way, we were at the bar we frequented, and in an attempt to have himself heard over the din, he asked me to come outside with him. We went outside to talk, but it was drizzling lightly, and I exclaimed "Ack! My hair!" and scurried back in. He immediately thought, "This girl is not for me." He wanted someone to go camping, fishing, hiking. Someone who couldn't even stand a little rain wasn't what he wanted. If I couldn't stand it long enough to talk to him . . . no.
Of course, it didn't matter to me then--I was doing my own thing. Besides, he barely talked to me otherwise. When I'd see him out, I'd attempt conversations with him, and while he was receptive and pleasant, he was generally uncommunicative. Our conversations generally went like this:
Me: Hey, how are you?
Him: Fine.
Me: How's your night?
Him: Good.
Me: What are you drinking?
Him: Beer.
Me: How've you been?
Him: Good.
Me: How's work?
Him: Fine.
Me: . . . Okay! Well, I'm going to go find [my best friend] Jim!
One day, though, I began reading his blogs.
And they were so funny. And insightful. And clever. And he seemed so well-read. And thoughtful.
Where, I thought, is this guy when I see him out? Where is the funny, insightful, clever guy?
Sometimes, he came to parties at my house.
He came to the Dog Show party I threw one year, and he was the only person who showed up on the second night of Westminster.
He came to the party I threw one December, Hot Liquor Now. I wanted it to be a Fancy Party, and I suggested that everyone should think fancy. He rang the doorbell, and I answered it. I was delighted to find him in a dapper suit.
Me: You dressed up! You look so nice!
Him: Yeah, it seemed like you wanted people to dress up. So. Yeah.
I wilted a bit, but recovered and invited him in.
He and I had been chatting pretty regularly throughout the summer of 2006, but, again, nothing was really going anywhere, and I didn't expect it to. After all, Acceptance. I was not going to find anyone, and no one was ever going to love me. That was how things were. It was nice to have friends, but to believe that anything would ever materialize was folly.
Which brings us to the Fall of 2006, in the midst of my Acceptance.
I found myself calling him at 8:00 on Tuesday, after I got out of the class I'd just begun taking. I'd just call to say hello. We were friends, of course, so that was okay.
The Sunday before Halloween, some friends and I spent a day at a wine tasting, then decided to go to dinner. On a lark, I called him and invited him out. I was a bit mortified at where we ended up: Cracker Barrel. I decided that he had to think we were a bunch of rubes. He ordered ham biscuits, and I could only think he was disappointed: he got 6 ham biscuits. Nothing else. But he ate them.
That Tuesday, Halloween, I was where I always was at 9:00 on a Tuesday: at Hunter Gatherer, after class, reading and eating dinner. He called and said he was on his way to see some friends who were performing in a Misfits cover band--could he drop by and see me? Of course, I said.
He surprised me, in more ways than one. First, he snuck up on me (he has a stealthy way about him), and second, he was wearing really impressive skeleton makeup.
Friday of the next week, I was planning to see some friends in an Improv show, which took place at our regular haunt. I first went to a happy hour with the husband of one of the players. And I had an unhappy happy hour. Nothing external did it--everyone was having a fine time, the food was good, the beverages were tasty. But as time passed, I found myself sinking lower and lower. A gloom had overtaken me for reasons I couldn't figure out. I was angry, and resentful, and miserable. If I hadn't promised to go to the show, I would've just gone home and gotten in bed.
I went to the show, and the bits were funny, and everyone was on their game . . . but I couldn't shake the weird, depressive rot that had taken up residence in my chest.
I planned to go home afterward, but I ran into my friends Kim and Gary and decided to stay for a beverage or two.
We ended up on the dance floor, as we were wont to do. This dance floor is a small one, usually crowded. A song ended, and I found myself talking to some guy. I don't even remember what he looked like.
In the middle of our conversation, I happened to look across the room.
And this is where it turns into an 80s movie.
I swear to you, the crowd parted. I swear. Everyone in front of me stepped out of the way, to reveal, on the other side of the dance floor, the guy.
The guy who didn't talk much, but who wrote such hilarious, insightful blog posts.
The guy who came to the Dog Show party.
The guy who dressed up Fancy.
The guy who ate all the ham biscuits.
The guy who had the nifty skeleton makeup.
The Guy.
I walked swiftly across the floor, seemingly outside of my own volition, and into his arms. I hugged him like I'd never hugged anyone before. I never wanted it to end. I almost cried. I felt like I was where I was supposed to be, and I wondered why I hadn't been there all along.
We spent the rest of the night together, dancing (he's a good dancer, and we dance well together). We kissed for the first time.
When he was ready to go, I walked him to his car.
Him: So, what now?
Me: You ask me out on a date.
Him: Okay. Um . . . what would you like to do?
Me: Okay, tell you what. I have tickets to a play tomorrow, and I'm going with some friends. We're going to have dinner first. Would you like to go with us?
Him: Sure.
We argue, five years later, over what our first date officially is. I say it's when we went to Cracker Barrel and he ate enough ham biscuits to choke a horse. (Or mule.) He says it's the night we went to dinner and to the play--that that's a real date.
But we celebrate this day, November 10, as our anniversary. Or, as he calls it, our "Kissiversary." (He also has a penchant for the cute, I learned long ago, which is a huge plus, as I love cute.)
When I kissed him that night and then walked him out to the car, I had no idea what the future held in store. I didn't know what would happen. I didn't know if we'd go out on a few dates and that would be the end. Knowing my past, I could assume the worst.
I wish I had known.
I wish I'd known, walking with him there on Park St., that I'd found my future husband. I wish I'd known we'd be together five years later, through so many good times and bad. I wish I'd known that he would be the man who cried as soon as he saw my feet at the top of the stairs, on the day of our wedding. I wish I'd known that he would be the person who went with me all those times to see my mother while she was dying, and that he would be the person to tell me she was gone. I wish I'd known he would be the person who is our primary chinchilla caregiver. I wish I'd known he would be the one to help me decide to take the awesome job I have today, and who would agree, without a second thought, to leave the only home he's ever really known so that I could do something fulfilling with my life. I wish I'd known he would be my best friend, my confidante, my partner in crime, my cheerleader, my foil, my conscience, the first person I see every morning and the last person I see at night. The sober yin to my raging yang.
I wish I'd known all that.
I didn't, but I do now.
And he learned, in the early months of our relationship, why I'd freaked out over the rain that night, when I ran inside and he was left to think "I cannot date such a princess."
I have curly hair, and at the time, it was a short bob that I straightened every day. Rain was bad for the bob.
Years later, when he and I were dating, I'd grown my hair out, and was wearing it curly again. One night, though, getting ready to go out, I decided to straighten it. First I watched the Weather Channel and deemed the humidity level acceptable. Then I took a long shower, during which time I used a deep-treatment conditioner. Then I got out and put in leave-in conditioner. And then I applied a straightening balm to my hair. And then I applied a gel (with straightening properties). And then I used a large-barrel round brush on my hair while I blew it dry. And then I used a flat iron.
In the midst of this rigmarole, which he had watched, fascinated, he said, "What are you doing to your hair?" I told him I had to do this to straighten it, because it's hard to keep my hair straight.
And suddenly he realized why I'd fled the rain that day--it wasn't him, which is what he'd thought. And it wasn't necessarily that I was such a princess (even though I kind of am); it was simply my hair. He'd wanted someone who would sleep on the ground with the bugs and snakes, and he got me instead. Fortunately, I'm exactly what he wanted. While I had dated The Perfect Guy, he'd dated The Perfect Girl: she wanted to fish and camp and hike and sleep on the ground and get dirty. Beyond all of those attributes, though, she was a monster. So he and I both learned a lesson: just because someone likes what you like and does what you do doesn't mean that they're going to like you.
So I have a husband who likes to touch fish with his bare hands, and my husband has a wife who would rather die than touch a fish with her bare hands.
But there's so much more than fish handling in the world.
I love my husband with all my heart no matter what, because he is a sweet, thoughtful, intelligent, funny, clever, hot, giving, gentle, strong, insightful, hardworking, ambitious, caring man. He does not love me in spite of who I am; he loves me because of who I am. And I never thought I'd find that.
Sometimes you're reminded of what could have happened . . . right before you're reminded of what did. And you remember all of the bullets dodged, the mistakes made, and are so grateful, more than ever, of how truly, truly fortunate you are.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
I hear the secrets that you keep . . .
I talk in my sleep. I always have. I don't know that I'm doing it at the time, of course; I'm just told about it the next day by friends and relatives who were subjected to my nonsensical ravings.
I also went through a phase, a couple of years ago, where I had night terrors. And those were no joke. I don't remember them, have no idea I did anything, but Curtis had to put up with my getting up and looking out the windows, telling him over and over that people were in the house, that people were coming to kill us; with my waking up and screaming; with his waking up to find me staring at him, wide-eyed and trembling, then hissing "I don't know who you are."
I don't seem to do that anymore, luckily for him. I'm sure it was starting to get to him.
Curtis has never been a talker in his sleep; when he's asleep, he's out. Once, a month or two ago, he fell so soundly asleep on the couch that I honestly thought he was dead.
But about two weeks ago, he talked in his sleep for what is probably the first time ever.
He'd fallen asleep on the couch, and I was still wide awake. And then . . .
Curtis: Are you ready to blow some smoke rings? [He said this as clearly as he'd say "Good afternoon, this is Curtis" on the phone to a co-worker. Not mumbly, not indistinct. Furthermore, he sounded excited.]
Sally: What? [I thought he'd woken up and was teasing me.]
Curtis: Are you ready to blow smoke rings? I am!
Sally: Do you know how?
Curtis: Yeah! [At this point, I got up and looked at him. He was out.]
Sally: How long have you done it?
Curtis: A long time!
Sally: Can you tell me how to do it?
He stopped talking then; presumably, he did not want to share his secret technique.
I also went through a phase, a couple of years ago, where I had night terrors. And those were no joke. I don't remember them, have no idea I did anything, but Curtis had to put up with my getting up and looking out the windows, telling him over and over that people were in the house, that people were coming to kill us; with my waking up and screaming; with his waking up to find me staring at him, wide-eyed and trembling, then hissing "I don't know who you are."
I don't seem to do that anymore, luckily for him. I'm sure it was starting to get to him.
Curtis has never been a talker in his sleep; when he's asleep, he's out. Once, a month or two ago, he fell so soundly asleep on the couch that I honestly thought he was dead.
But about two weeks ago, he talked in his sleep for what is probably the first time ever.
He'd fallen asleep on the couch, and I was still wide awake. And then . . .
Curtis: Are you ready to blow some smoke rings? [He said this as clearly as he'd say "Good afternoon, this is Curtis" on the phone to a co-worker. Not mumbly, not indistinct. Furthermore, he sounded excited.]
Sally: What? [I thought he'd woken up and was teasing me.]
Curtis: Are you ready to blow smoke rings? I am!
Sally: Do you know how?
Curtis: Yeah! [At this point, I got up and looked at him. He was out.]
Sally: How long have you done it?
Curtis: A long time!
Sally: Can you tell me how to do it?
He stopped talking then; presumably, he did not want to share his secret technique.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Antiregionalism at its finest
My friend Shannon first introduced me to the word "circe."
Well, that's not true. I first heard "Circe" in about the 5th or 6th grade, when my Gifted class was studying Greek mythology.
So when Shannon talked about "giving [her] friends a little Circe," I thought of this Circe, and wondered if there would be pig transformations. Not really. But I did wonder what on Earth she was talking about.
I was able to ascertain that she was talking about little gifts, which is explained here. And I may be spelling it incorrectly in my head. I found this word charming, and even though I still have pig transformations floating about in my head from time to time, I think of little gifts when I hear it, and I like giving and receiving little gifts, so you can't go wrong. But I'd never heard it until I came to South Carolina. And the person who said it was originally from Texas. And, according to the site I posted, it seems to be a very South Carolina thing.
Anyhoo, it came up tonight somehow, when Curtis said something about giving someone a circe (or searcy or whatever) . . .
Sally: You know I'd never heard that word until I moved to South Carolina?
Curtis: You didn't have those in West Virginia?
Sally: No.
Curtis: You didn't give people circes?
Sally: Well, yeah, but we didn't call them anything special. My mom called them "tricks," but when I got older I began to associate that with hookers, so I stopped thinking about them that way. They were just little gifts. We definitely didn't say "circe."
Curtis: It comes from the French.
Sally: Well, that explains it. You South Carolinians and your fancy French Huguenot ways. We West Virginians don't know about such fanciness. We're all a bunch of Kraut-Mick hillbillies. No gifts for us. No social graces.
Curtis: Certainly no circes.
Sally: Certainly not. We punch you French sissies in the face.
Well, that's not true. I first heard "Circe" in about the 5th or 6th grade, when my Gifted class was studying Greek mythology.
So when Shannon talked about "giving [her] friends a little Circe," I thought of this Circe, and wondered if there would be pig transformations. Not really. But I did wonder what on Earth she was talking about.
I was able to ascertain that she was talking about little gifts, which is explained here. And I may be spelling it incorrectly in my head. I found this word charming, and even though I still have pig transformations floating about in my head from time to time, I think of little gifts when I hear it, and I like giving and receiving little gifts, so you can't go wrong. But I'd never heard it until I came to South Carolina. And the person who said it was originally from Texas. And, according to the site I posted, it seems to be a very South Carolina thing.
Anyhoo, it came up tonight somehow, when Curtis said something about giving someone a circe (or searcy or whatever) . . .
Sally: You know I'd never heard that word until I moved to South Carolina?
Curtis: You didn't have those in West Virginia?
Sally: No.
Curtis: You didn't give people circes?
Sally: Well, yeah, but we didn't call them anything special. My mom called them "tricks," but when I got older I began to associate that with hookers, so I stopped thinking about them that way. They were just little gifts. We definitely didn't say "circe."
Curtis: It comes from the French.
Sally: Well, that explains it. You South Carolinians and your fancy French Huguenot ways. We West Virginians don't know about such fanciness. We're all a bunch of Kraut-Mick hillbillies. No gifts for us. No social graces.
Curtis: Certainly no circes.
Sally: Certainly not. We punch you French sissies in the face.
Wars of Attrition
Curtis and I rarely fight over the remote. One thing that solves this common road to marital discord is 2 tvs--when he wants to watch a documentary on quasars and I want to watch Teen Mom, we can take to separate rooms. The other is that we mostly agree on shows, and we've even managed to turn one another on to favorites. I didn't really care about House until we moved in together; he now likes Law & Order.
The only source of discontent comes from two sources:
1) The fact that I get stuck on what Tracy called "the Purple Channel." I'll look at the guide, then choose something. Then I'll keep looking at the guide. And then I don't take it down. And so there's the show in a tiny square in the upper right corner, and 3/4 of the screen is taken up by the guide. Hence: "Oh, good, we're watching the Purple Channel again."
2) The inability to choose something. When we're feeling brain-dead (like right now, when we're both quite ill, and we can't go anywhere, and we're too tired and uncomfortable even to play a game, and reading gives me a headache), TV is easy. But that's a velvet trap, because we become incapable of making a decision. We surf through the Purple Channel for a while, and then I put the remote down next to Curtis and tell him to pick something. He does the same. This goes back and forth until he wins the battle through sheer irritation. He picks something I hate, then I'm forced to make a decision.
For example, tonight:
Sally is playing on the Internet while Curtis flips through channels.
WHITE NOISE
Bill O'Reilly: BLAH BLAH BLAH I AM INSANE BLAH BLAH BLAH
Sally: (head snaps up) What is this?
Curtis: You wouldn't pick anything. I was forced into a corner.
Sally: Not in my house. Here. Deadly Women.
See next blog!
The only source of discontent comes from two sources:
1) The fact that I get stuck on what Tracy called "the Purple Channel." I'll look at the guide, then choose something. Then I'll keep looking at the guide. And then I don't take it down. And so there's the show in a tiny square in the upper right corner, and 3/4 of the screen is taken up by the guide. Hence: "Oh, good, we're watching the Purple Channel again."
2) The inability to choose something. When we're feeling brain-dead (like right now, when we're both quite ill, and we can't go anywhere, and we're too tired and uncomfortable even to play a game, and reading gives me a headache), TV is easy. But that's a velvet trap, because we become incapable of making a decision. We surf through the Purple Channel for a while, and then I put the remote down next to Curtis and tell him to pick something. He does the same. This goes back and forth until he wins the battle through sheer irritation. He picks something I hate, then I'm forced to make a decision.
For example, tonight:
Sally is playing on the Internet while Curtis flips through channels.
WHITE NOISE
Bill O'Reilly: BLAH BLAH BLAH I AM INSANE BLAH BLAH BLAH
Sally: (head snaps up) What is this?
Curtis: You wouldn't pick anything. I was forced into a corner.
Sally: Not in my house. Here. Deadly Women.
See next blog!
Targeted Advertising
On the appropriateness of commercials, as I turn to ID to watch Deadly Women . . .
Curtis: That's so weird, that they show a commercial for Snuggle fabric softener during Deadly Women.
Sally: I think it makes perfect sense. I bet there are a lot of women out there who buy Snuggle who could really identify with this show.
Curtis: You're probably right.
Sally: I'm totally right. A woman's sitting there folding the 15th load of laundry while her husband's in his 15th hour of football, and on this 15th beer of the day, and she happens to catch 10 minutes of Deadly Women . . .
Curtis: She thinks "I could totally see how she'd murder him."
Sally: Yup. Also "I need more Snuggle, to make sure my shirt is nice and soft after washing out all the blood."
Curtis: That's so weird, that they show a commercial for Snuggle fabric softener during Deadly Women.
Sally: I think it makes perfect sense. I bet there are a lot of women out there who buy Snuggle who could really identify with this show.
Curtis: You're probably right.
Sally: I'm totally right. A woman's sitting there folding the 15th load of laundry while her husband's in his 15th hour of football, and on this 15th beer of the day, and she happens to catch 10 minutes of Deadly Women . . .
Curtis: She thinks "I could totally see how she'd murder him."
Sally: Yup. Also "I need more Snuggle, to make sure my shirt is nice and soft after washing out all the blood."
Thursday, November 3, 2011
The Fanciest of Skaters
On proper attire for skating on one's board . . .
Curtis: I got new skate shoes!
Sally: I had no idea Dolce & Gabbana made skate shoes.
Curtis: What?
So I showed him these . . .
Curtis: I got new skate shoes!
Sally: I had no idea Dolce & Gabbana made skate shoes.
Curtis: What?
So I showed him these . . .
And he said, "It's more like the Gucci logo."
Compromise: it's like the Dolce & Gabbana and Gucci labels had a baby. And that baby is a skater.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
The Fanciest of Flying Rats
On various pets . . .
Sally: I don't get why people have birds as pets. I mean, I like birds, don't get me wrong. I think they're cute. But I just don't get them as a pet.
Curtis: They can be really sweet.
Sally: Sweet? Sweet how?
Curtis: Parrots close their eyes when you're scratching them.
Sally: Is that your criteria for cuteness? Eye closing?
Curtis: I don't know. They're just cute.
Sally: I'd get a kiwi. Kiwis are cute.
Curtis: They're blind, you know.
Sally: No, I didn't know that. [pause] I'd have a Victoria Crowned Pigeon.
Curtis: A what?
Sally: A Victoria Crowned Pigeon.
Curtis: That sounds like the fussiest fussy thing ever.
Sally: It IS.
See?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Ah-woooooooooooo
On the topic of insane Native American stereotypes . . .
Curtis: This guy I know [who is also Native], his son sends me messages on Facebook. But we're not friends. I don't know how it works, we just communicate somehow.
Sally: Is it telepathically? Do you communicate through your minds?
Curtis: Yes. Because we're Indians, and all Indians are magic.
Sally: Ah.
Curtis: Our wolves talk to each other.
Sally: Through wolfogram?
Curtis: No, our wolves have Facebook pages, and they read our thoughts, and then they talk to each other about what we're thinking and send messages to each other on Facebook. And then they tell us what the other person is thinking.
Sally: Do you get messages from my wolf?
Curtis: No, you're not Native American.
Sally: My great-great grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee princess.
Curtis: Of course she was.
Sally: Can I have a wolf now?
Curtis: No.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
We all have our nerdiness.
Curtis found this meme and posted it on his Facebook page, and I commented. And no one said anything until I mentioned it. (Yes, I'm that person.)
Sally: I can't believe no one got my Judy Blume shout-out.
Curtis: What are you talking about?
Sally: What I said about the This Is Dog meme. No one said anything.
Curtis: About what?
Sally: Okay, there's this book by Judy Blume called Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret. So I turned it around and said "Are you there, Dog? It's me, Teragram."
Curtis: That's not funny.
Sally: Yes it is.
Curtis: And who the hell is Judy Blume? Did she write Where the Sidewalk Ends?
Sally: No, that's Shel Silverstein.
Curtis: God. Of course you'd know that. Nerd. Book-loving librarian nerd. NERD.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Even worse
On the topic of people in movies that we don't know and will never meet:
Sally: How do you feel about Mark Wahlberg?
Curtis: I don't like him. He beat some kid half to death.
Sally: Is he worse than Hitler? [shout-out to one of my favorite Simpsons lines]
Curtis: Of course he's worse than Hitler. He's Marky Mark.
Sally: Marky Mark is worse than Hitler?
Curtis: Do you remember "Good Vibrations?" . . . All right then.
Sally: How do you feel about Mark Wahlberg?
Curtis: I don't like him. He beat some kid half to death.
Sally: Is he worse than Hitler? [shout-out to one of my favorite Simpsons lines]
Curtis: Of course he's worse than Hitler. He's Marky Mark.
Sally: Marky Mark is worse than Hitler?
Curtis: Do you remember "Good Vibrations?" . . . All right then.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
My husband, the sports fanatic.
On going to his first VT game . . .
Sally: Are you excited about this weekend?
Curtis: Yes.
Sally: Come on.
Curtis: I am!
Sally: What are you most excited about?
Curtis: The game.
Sally: You are not. What are you really excited about? Seriously.
Curtis: The turkey legs, okay? I'm most excited about the turkey legs. I've been thinking about them a lot, and I've been envisioning myself eating them.
Sally: If you want to get one when we first get there, and another one at halftime, you can.
Curtis: I wasn't aware that there was another plan in place.
On a related note:
Yeah, we're just that crazy. We eat our own mascot.
Sally: Are you excited about this weekend?
Curtis: Yes.
Sally: Come on.
Curtis: I am!
Sally: What are you most excited about?
Curtis: The game.
Sally: You are not. What are you really excited about? Seriously.
Curtis: The turkey legs, okay? I'm most excited about the turkey legs. I've been thinking about them a lot, and I've been envisioning myself eating them.
Sally: If you want to get one when we first get there, and another one at halftime, you can.
Curtis: I wasn't aware that there was another plan in place.
On a related note:
Yeah, we're just that crazy. We eat our own mascot.
Oh no, Hokie Bird! Run! Curtis is coming, and he's been thinking of your delicious, delicious legs all week!
Hokie Bird says, "I've been working out. I can take him."
Video punched my wife in the face
On the subject of video game violence . . .
Sally: I'm going to punch you.
Curtis: I'm going to take you out and street fight you.
Sally: What's that like? Is it different from regular fighting? Or is it just regular fighting, but out in the street?
Curtis: No. It's like the video game. Street Fighter.
Sally: So, is someone going to come out and yell "FINISH HIM?"
Curtis: (disgusted) No, that's Mortal Kombat, stupid. God.
Sally: I'm going to punch you.
Curtis: I'm going to take you out and street fight you.
Sally: What's that like? Is it different from regular fighting? Or is it just regular fighting, but out in the street?
Curtis: No. It's like the video game. Street Fighter.
Sally: So, is someone going to come out and yell "FINISH HIM?"
Curtis: (disgusted) No, that's Mortal Kombat, stupid. God.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Curtis and I need to buy matching red codpieces!
On the subject of how one is, via Google Chat:
Sally: What up, yo?
Curtis: Word up. It's the code word.
Sally: No matter how you say it
Curtis: You know that you'll be heard.
Sally: Now all the super DJs . . .
Sally: What up, yo?
Curtis: Word up. It's the code word.
Sally: No matter how you say it
Curtis: You know that you'll be heard.
Sally: Now all the super DJs . . .
Monday, September 5, 2011
Live Long and Prosper
Curtis loves Star Trek; I never got into it. I'm a Star Wars nerd. Just to illustrate what level of Trekkie I am:
1) I loved the most recent movie. I called it "thrilling," "fun," and "exciting!" Trekkies everywhere winced. Curtis, when asked, pronounced it "serviceable."
2) There's one movie I really like. It's the one with the Borg Queen. I have to ask Curtis every time which one it is. I always think it's Nemesis. I'm always wrong. He always tells me what it is. It's like I have a mental block, the same one I have with this one line in L.A. Confidential.
3) I watch the Tribble episode because they're cute. I fast forward through all the dialogue until I get to a particularly cute scene, and can't understand why they don't just let them take over.
We've been watching a lot of Voyager lately. I don't think these are optimum conditions for my Trekkie husband, really, as conversations like these occur routinely:
On That Thing on Her Face
Sally: What's wrong with her eye?
Curtis: She used to be a borg.
Sally: I know, but what's that thing? Why is that thing next to her eye?
Curtis: They had to remove all of her [some unintelligible technobabble].
Sally: But they left that.
Curtis: I guess they couldn't remove it.
Sally: They can make her hair grow back, but they can't take a thing off her face?
Curtis: I don't know. I guess I just don't know my Borg technology that well.
Sally: Can you look that up?
On Vulcans
Sally: So, wait, they have to have a Vulcan on every ship?
Curtis: I don't think they have to, but I think it's customary. Like you have to have a cat on every ship?
Sally: So, Vulcans are the cats of the future?
More on That Borg Girl
Trek Person to Borg Girl, on this one episode: You stay here with [terrified person] while we look around.
Sally: Why would they ever leave her with anyone? She's awful.
Curtis: Her soothing robotic tones ease the mind.
Sally: Ugh.
Curtis: What's worse is that the last three seasons, she was basically the focus of every episode.
Sally: Why?
Curtis: The nerds demanded it.
Sally: Nerds love boobs.
On Diversity
Sally: Did you ever watch Kids in the Hall?
Curtis: Yeah, he looks like that one guy.
Sally: Is that him?
Curtis: I don't know.
Sally: Has there ever been a gay character on any of the shows?
Curtis: You know, I don't think so. And there's some discussion about including a gay character in upcoming movies.
Sally: Huh. [pause] You know, when I asked that, of course I wasn't thinking of Patrick Stewart or George Takei.
Curtis: They're not characters.
Sally: Shut it.
1) I loved the most recent movie. I called it "thrilling," "fun," and "exciting!" Trekkies everywhere winced. Curtis, when asked, pronounced it "serviceable."
2) There's one movie I really like. It's the one with the Borg Queen. I have to ask Curtis every time which one it is. I always think it's Nemesis. I'm always wrong. He always tells me what it is. It's like I have a mental block, the same one I have with this one line in L.A. Confidential.
3) I watch the Tribble episode because they're cute. I fast forward through all the dialogue until I get to a particularly cute scene, and can't understand why they don't just let them take over.
We've been watching a lot of Voyager lately. I don't think these are optimum conditions for my Trekkie husband, really, as conversations like these occur routinely:
On That Thing on Her Face
Sally: What's wrong with her eye?
Curtis: She used to be a borg.
Sally: I know, but what's that thing? Why is that thing next to her eye?
Curtis: They had to remove all of her [some unintelligible technobabble].
Sally: But they left that.
Curtis: I guess they couldn't remove it.
Sally: They can make her hair grow back, but they can't take a thing off her face?
Curtis: I don't know. I guess I just don't know my Borg technology that well.
Sally: Can you look that up?
On Vulcans
Sally: So, wait, they have to have a Vulcan on every ship?
Curtis: I don't think they have to, but I think it's customary. Like you have to have a cat on every ship?
Sally: So, Vulcans are the cats of the future?
More on That Borg Girl
Trek Person to Borg Girl, on this one episode: You stay here with [terrified person] while we look around.
Sally: Why would they ever leave her with anyone? She's awful.
Curtis: Her soothing robotic tones ease the mind.
Sally: Ugh.
Curtis: What's worse is that the last three seasons, she was basically the focus of every episode.
Sally: Why?
Curtis: The nerds demanded it.
Sally: Nerds love boobs.
On Diversity
Sally: Did you ever watch Kids in the Hall?
Curtis: Yeah, he looks like that one guy.
Sally: Is that him?
Curtis: I don't know.
Sally: Has there ever been a gay character on any of the shows?
Curtis: You know, I don't think so. And there's some discussion about including a gay character in upcoming movies.
Sally: Huh. [pause] You know, when I asked that, of course I wasn't thinking of Patrick Stewart or George Takei.
Curtis: They're not characters.
Sally: Shut it.
Friday, August 5, 2011
A total waste of time
On quality time . . .
Sally: I think I'm going to go get cheap Thai food for lunch. Do you want to come meet me?
Curtis: No, I think I'm going to hop on my bike and ride around. It's such a pretty day, and I don't want to waste my afternoon.
Sally: . . .
Curtis: Wow, that came out really wrong.
Sally: No, not at all. Have an awesome, Sally-free afternoon!
Sally: I think I'm going to go get cheap Thai food for lunch. Do you want to come meet me?
Curtis: No, I think I'm going to hop on my bike and ride around. It's such a pretty day, and I don't want to waste my afternoon.
Sally: . . .
Curtis: Wow, that came out really wrong.
Sally: No, not at all. Have an awesome, Sally-free afternoon!
Monday, August 1, 2011
I have NO IDEA where you'd get free books.
On being an advocate for my chosen career . . .
Curtis: I've been looking for deals on audiobooks, but I can't really find any.
Sally: Did you check the library?
Curtis: Oh. Right.
Curtis: I've been looking for deals on audiobooks, but I can't really find any.
Sally: Did you check the library?
Curtis: Oh. Right.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Meg Griffin does Patrick Bateman
On seeing that the direct-to-video masterpiece American Psycho 2 is on Netflix insta-watch . . .
Curtis: Wait, what? That can't be right.
Sally: What? What can't be right?
Curtis: American Psycho 2 has Mila Kunis and William Shatner? And it's directed by Morgan J. Freeman?
Sally: Yeah, so?
Curtis: Morgan Freeman directed that?
Sally: That's not the same Morgan Freeman. That's Morgan J. Freeman. Different person.
Curtis: But . . . but still. William Shatner? William Shatner is in a direct-to-video movie?
Sally: Oh yeah. Because William Shatner is such an amazing, discerning, important thespian. I can't believe he'd be in something BAD.
Curtis: Okay, fine. Whatever. But . . . but . . . I mean . . . okay, look. I've got to watch this now.
Curtis: Wait, what? That can't be right.
Sally: What? What can't be right?
Curtis: American Psycho 2 has Mila Kunis and William Shatner? And it's directed by Morgan J. Freeman?
Sally: Yeah, so?
Curtis: Morgan Freeman directed that?
Sally: That's not the same Morgan Freeman. That's Morgan J. Freeman. Different person.
Curtis: But . . . but still. William Shatner? William Shatner is in a direct-to-video movie?
Sally: Oh yeah. Because William Shatner is such an amazing, discerning, important thespian. I can't believe he'd be in something BAD.
Curtis: Okay, fine. Whatever. But . . . but . . . I mean . . . okay, look. I've got to watch this now.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
NEVER LEAVE AGAIN
Backstory: In June 2010, I went to the ALA conference in DC. I was on the job hunt, I needed to network, and DC was only an 8-hour drive from Columbia. Also, I could see some friends, which was an added bonus.
Everything was fine when I left.
On Things Going to Hell in the Proverbial Handbasket:
RING RING RING
Sally: Hello?
Curtis: Hey, baby!
Sally: Hey! How are things? I miss you!
Curtis: I miss you too. Things aren't going well.
Sally: Oh no! What's wrong?
Curtis: Well, I decided to mow the lawn. And I sprayed gasoline all over myself. And then I went inside and didn't take the shirt off.
Sally: Okay . . .
Curtis: And then I made tuna salad. [see my companion blog for Curtis's definition of "tuna salad."]
Sally: Uh huh.
Curtis: So now the house smells like gasoline, tuna, and onions.
Sally: Ew.
THE NEXT DAY: RING RING RING
Sally: Hey baby!
Curtis: Hey!
Sally: How are things?
Curtis: Bubby and Waffles have turned on Chauncey. I had to split them up.
Sally: What? Oh no!
Curtis: I know. They were all living together, and everything was fine, and then suddenly they attacked Chauncey.
Sally: Aw. He's so fat, he can't defend himself. I'm sorry, baby.
THE NEXT DAY: RING RING RING
Sally: Hey baby!
Curtis: Hey.
Sally: You don't sound good.
Curtis: We have a baby spider infestation. There must be a hundred of them in the tub in the master bath.
Sally: eeep!
Curtis: Yeah, I know. I don't really know what to do.
LATER THAT DAY, I told a fellow liberrian at the ALA conference what was going on.
Sally: I'm seriously never leaving home again.
Fellow Liberrian: Maybe he could set his gasoline-soaked shirt on fire and throw it in on the baby spiders. It would get rid of two problems. And the smell of tuna and onions would be overcome by the smell of burning fabric and baby spiders.
Sally: That's a good idea, but I have this vision of a hundred flaming baby spiders scurrying all over the house. And burning it down.
Fellow Liberrian: Yeah, probably not a good idea.
Sally: I'm definitely not telling my husband about your idea.
Fellow Liberrian: I wouldn't.
Everything was fine when I left.
On Things Going to Hell in the Proverbial Handbasket:
RING RING RING
Sally: Hello?
Curtis: Hey, baby!
Sally: Hey! How are things? I miss you!
Curtis: I miss you too. Things aren't going well.
Sally: Oh no! What's wrong?
Curtis: Well, I decided to mow the lawn. And I sprayed gasoline all over myself. And then I went inside and didn't take the shirt off.
Sally: Okay . . .
Curtis: And then I made tuna salad. [see my companion blog for Curtis's definition of "tuna salad."]
Sally: Uh huh.
Curtis: So now the house smells like gasoline, tuna, and onions.
Sally: Ew.
THE NEXT DAY: RING RING RING
Sally: Hey baby!
Curtis: Hey!
Sally: How are things?
Curtis: Bubby and Waffles have turned on Chauncey. I had to split them up.
Sally: What? Oh no!
Curtis: I know. They were all living together, and everything was fine, and then suddenly they attacked Chauncey.
Sally: Aw. He's so fat, he can't defend himself. I'm sorry, baby.
THE NEXT DAY: RING RING RING
Sally: Hey baby!
Curtis: Hey.
Sally: You don't sound good.
Curtis: We have a baby spider infestation. There must be a hundred of them in the tub in the master bath.
Sally: eeep!
Curtis: Yeah, I know. I don't really know what to do.
LATER THAT DAY, I told a fellow liberrian at the ALA conference what was going on.
Sally: I'm seriously never leaving home again.
Fellow Liberrian: Maybe he could set his gasoline-soaked shirt on fire and throw it in on the baby spiders. It would get rid of two problems. And the smell of tuna and onions would be overcome by the smell of burning fabric and baby spiders.
Sally: That's a good idea, but I have this vision of a hundred flaming baby spiders scurrying all over the house. And burning it down.
Fellow Liberrian: Yeah, probably not a good idea.
Sally: I'm definitely not telling my husband about your idea.
Fellow Liberrian: I wouldn't.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
In honor of Father's Day . . .
My dad died on December 9, 2005, two days after my birthday. He was one of the smartest, weirdest, quirkiest, most difficult men I've ever known. He understood science and math in ways that I'll never get, but real-world things escaped him.
For example . . .
Tom Evans, on Wedding Attire:
In 1990, I was in my friend Paula's wedding. It took place 2 years after I was in my cousin's wedding, and my mother and I had to go buy my bridesmaid dress for Paula's wedding. Right before we were supposed to leave, Dad asked us where we were going. And the following conversation ensued:
Mom: We're going to buy Sally's bridesmaid dress for Paula's wedding.
Dad: She has a closet full of perfectly good dresses. She doesn't need another dress.
Mom: This is for a wedding. She needs a specific dress for this wedding.
Dad: Why? What's wrong with the ones she has?
Mom: TOM. She cannot wear a dress she owns for someone else's wedding.
Dad: Why not?
Mom: That's just how it is. She is a bridesmaid. She has to wear what everyone else is wearing.
Dad: Wasn't she just in a wedding two years ago?
Mom: Yes.
Dad: So why isn't she wearing the dress she wore in that wedding?
Mom: You can't wear the same dress in every wedding.
Dad: That's a perfectly good dress. Of course she can.
Mom: She cannot wear the dress she wore in Chris's wedding to Paula's wedding. They're completely different dresses. They're completely different colors. She has to look like the rest of Paula's bridesmaids.
Dad: Well, why can't all of her bridesmaids wear the same dress she's wearing?
Mom: You're right, Tom. Paula and Willie can change their entire wedding color scheme just so we don't have to buy your daughter another dress. I'll call them right now.
Tom Evans, on Phone Etiquette:
My dad never, ever, ever answered the phone. He rarely talked on the phone. So you can imagine my surprise when I (his only child) called home one day and he answered the phone.
Dad: Hello?
Sally: . . . Uh . . . Hi, Dad!
Dad: Little Babe? Is that you?
Sally: Is there someone else who calls you Dad? Is there something you need to tell me and Mom?
Tom Evans, on Getting Dressed for Church:
One Sunday, Mom was on her way out the door for church, when she looked down and realized she'd put her shirt on incorrectly. Dad, by the way, was not attending that morning.
Mom: Well, would you look at that. My shirt's on backward.
Dad: (looks down) My shirt's on backward?
Mom: TOM. YOU AREN'T WEARING A SHIRT.
Tom Evans, on His Love of Cats:
My parents always had cats. They had a couple of dogs, but they loved cats. They had this one cat named Oreo (it was black and white, because my parents were not the most original name-bestowers), and Dad loved taunting this cat. He would get right in its face, wiggle his fingers right in front of its eyes, and yell at it. Later, rinse, repeat, until the cat had had enough and went after him. One of these interludes occurred while I was on the phone with Mom.
Mom: How are you, my sugar?
Sally: I'm fine!
Dad: [in background] Ooop!
Mom: How's work?
Sally: It's good.
Dad: [in background] Ooop!
Mom: Are you busy this week?
Sally: Not really, it's slow.
Dad: [in background] Oooop!
Mom: Tom!
Dad: [in background] Ooop!
Mom: Tom, leave the cat alone.
Dad: Ooop! He almost got me that time!
Mom: TOM!
Tom Evans, on Television Etiquette:
I called home one evening and was talking to Mom. In the background, there was the white noise of the TV, and Mom was getting more and more annoyed . . .
Mom: . . . so then I saw your aunt Connie, and then I
{TONIGHT ON WVVA}
. . . wait a second. [puts phone down]
Tom, turn down the television. [picks phone back up]
So she asked me if I wanted to go to the mall with her, and I said
{A MAN IN PRINCETON CLINGS TO LIFE}
. . . wait a second. [puts phone down]
TOM. Turn down the television. [picks phone back up]
Sorry. I told her I couldn't that day, but maybe we could go to Blacksburg next week. She said
{WHAT WILL HAPPEN IN THE UPCOMING MASSEY COAL STRIKE?}
. . . wait a second. [puts phone down]
TOM. TURN DOWN THE TELEVISION. [picks phone back up]
Anyway. Where was I? Right. Anyway, your aunt Connie can't go to Blacksburg next week, she's
{MCCANN FORD!}
. . . Dammit. Wait a second. [puts phone down. stomping a few feet]
TOM. TURN DOWN THE TELEVISION. I CAN'T HEAR. [stomping. picks phone back up]
. . . I swear to God, he's going deaf. So, no, Connie can't go to Blacksburg, but we think
{THIS WEEK IN SPORTS!}
. . . DAMN. IT. [slams phone down. stomping. television is still loud, then, suddenly, softer.]
Dad: What are you doing?
Mom: I was on the phone.
Dad: So you had to turn off the TV?
Mom: I couldn't hear anything Sally was saying because the television was too loud!
Dad: Well, you could've said something. I would've turned it down.
(By the way, you may have noticed the colors I used. They're in Dad's honor; he was a WVU grad, a lifetime WVU fan, and when he died in 2005, he donated his body to the WVU medical school.)
For example . . .
Tom Evans, on Wedding Attire:
In 1990, I was in my friend Paula's wedding. It took place 2 years after I was in my cousin's wedding, and my mother and I had to go buy my bridesmaid dress for Paula's wedding. Right before we were supposed to leave, Dad asked us where we were going. And the following conversation ensued:
Mom: We're going to buy Sally's bridesmaid dress for Paula's wedding.
Mom: This is for a wedding. She needs a specific dress for this wedding.
Dad: Why? What's wrong with the ones she has?
Mom: TOM. She cannot wear a dress she owns for someone else's wedding.
Dad: Why not?
Dad: Wasn't she just in a wedding two years ago?
Mom: Yes.
Dad: So why isn't she wearing the dress she wore in that wedding?
Mom: You can't wear the same dress in every wedding.
Dad: That's a perfectly good dress. Of course she can.
Mom: She cannot wear the dress she wore in Chris's wedding to Paula's wedding. They're completely different dresses. They're completely different colors. She has to look like the rest of Paula's bridesmaids.
Dad: Well, why can't all of her bridesmaids wear the same dress she's wearing?
Mom: You're right, Tom. Paula and Willie can change their entire wedding color scheme just so we don't have to buy your daughter another dress. I'll call them right now.
Tom Evans, on Phone Etiquette:
My dad never, ever, ever answered the phone. He rarely talked on the phone. So you can imagine my surprise when I (his only child) called home one day and he answered the phone.
Dad: Hello?
Sally: . . . Uh . . . Hi, Dad!
Sally: Is there someone else who calls you Dad? Is there something you need to tell me and Mom?
Tom Evans, on Getting Dressed for Church:
One Sunday, Mom was on her way out the door for church, when she looked down and realized she'd put her shirt on incorrectly. Dad, by the way, was not attending that morning.
Dad: (looks down) My shirt's on backward?
Mom: TOM. YOU AREN'T WEARING A SHIRT.
Tom Evans, on His Love of Cats:
My parents always had cats. They had a couple of dogs, but they loved cats. They had this one cat named Oreo (it was black and white, because my parents were not the most original name-bestowers), and Dad loved taunting this cat. He would get right in its face, wiggle his fingers right in front of its eyes, and yell at it. Later, rinse, repeat, until the cat had had enough and went after him. One of these interludes occurred while I was on the phone with Mom.
Mom: How are you, my sugar?
Sally: I'm fine!
Dad: [in background] Ooop!
Mom: How's work?
Sally: It's good.
Dad: [in background] Ooop!
Mom: Are you busy this week?
Sally: Not really, it's slow.
Dad: [in background] Oooop!
Mom: Tom!
Dad: [in background] Ooop!
Mom: Tom, leave the cat alone.
Dad: Ooop! He almost got me that time!
Mom: TOM!
Tom Evans, on Television Etiquette:
I called home one evening and was talking to Mom. In the background, there was the white noise of the TV, and Mom was getting more and more annoyed . . .
Mom: . . . so then I saw your aunt Connie, and then I
{TONIGHT ON WVVA}
. . . wait a second. [puts phone down]
Tom, turn down the television. [picks phone back up]
So she asked me if I wanted to go to the mall with her, and I said
{A MAN IN PRINCETON CLINGS TO LIFE}
. . . wait a second. [puts phone down]
TOM. Turn down the television. [picks phone back up]
Sorry. I told her I couldn't that day, but maybe we could go to Blacksburg next week. She said
{WHAT WILL HAPPEN IN THE UPCOMING MASSEY COAL STRIKE?}
. . . wait a second. [puts phone down]
TOM. TURN DOWN THE TELEVISION. [picks phone back up]
Anyway. Where was I? Right. Anyway, your aunt Connie can't go to Blacksburg next week, she's
{MCCANN FORD!}
. . . Dammit. Wait a second. [puts phone down. stomping a few feet]
TOM. TURN DOWN THE TELEVISION. I CAN'T HEAR. [stomping. picks phone back up]
. . . I swear to God, he's going deaf. So, no, Connie can't go to Blacksburg, but we think
{THIS WEEK IN SPORTS!}
. . . DAMN. IT. [slams phone down. stomping. television is still loud, then, suddenly, softer.]
Dad: What are you doing?
Mom: I was on the phone.
Dad: So you had to turn off the TV?
Mom: I couldn't hear anything Sally was saying because the television was too loud!
Dad: Well, you could've said something. I would've turned it down.
(By the way, you may have noticed the colors I used. They're in Dad's honor; he was a WVU grad, a lifetime WVU fan, and when he died in 2005, he donated his body to the WVU medical school.)
Ahead of its time
On the topic of technological advances, an episode of Small Interludes:
Jim: So how are you liking your DVR?
Sally: I like it, but I can't get this one thing to work. I can rewind live television, but I can't fast-forward it.
Jim: That's called time travel, and it hasn't been invented yet.
Jim: So how are you liking your DVR?
Sally: I like it, but I can't get this one thing to work. I can rewind live television, but I can't fast-forward it.
Jim: That's called time travel, and it hasn't been invented yet.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Small Interludes
Some of the most memorable conversations I've ever had occurred between me and my best friend, Jim Small. I was reminded of one tonight, so I'm starting a new special episode: Small Interludes.
Jim and I have many, many hours and years of conversation. There are the heartfelt conversations, the bitchfests, the arguments, the come-to-Jesuses, the Simpsons quote marathons, the Joan quotes (Curtis' very least favorite form of our shared communication, as we become quite loud), the TRL Whoo!, and, of course, No Pronouns.
I don't remember how No Pronouns came about, but at some point, he and I decided we were were going to talk to one another without using pronouns at all. This tortured form of conversation always concerns something inane, and it only goes on for a few sentences at a time, because it's really hard to keep it up for any extended period.
It goes something like this:
Sally: Would Jim Small like to go to the store with Sally Evans?
Jim: Jim Small would like that. Would Sally Evans like to pick Jim Small up?
Sally: Sally Evans can do that. What time would Jim Small like to go?
Jim: Does Sally Evans have an estimated departure time?
Sally: Sally Evans does not. Sally Evans can leave whenever Jim Small would like to. Would Jim Small also like to get something to eat while Jim Small and Sally Evans are out?
Jim: Jim Small would like that.
And so on, until we become weary of trying to keep up with all the pronouns.
TRL Whoo! is not something that can easily be explained, or illustrated in a blog. It was inspired by a Robot Chicken episode, and it consists of saying the last few things you did in a fast and hysterical fashion; then, at the end, you always shriek "Whooo!". Like so:
"OhmygodtodayItotallywenttoworkanddidabunchofstuffandthenIatelunchwithBobandthenIcamehomeand WHOOOOO!"
Finally, there is the String of Mommie Dearest Quotes, which frequently happen (usually with the help of Rhett Anders). We all say certain quotes, and Curtis HATES THIS. I mean HATES.
Rhett goes with either "Tina, get out of that bed" or "I'll tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna knock down that bitch of a retaining wall, and put a window where a window oughta be."
Jim always favors "Tinaaaaaa! BRING ME THE AXE!" or "You . . . will give me . . . the respect . . . that I am entitled to!"
And, of course, I love the speech she gives at the Pepsi Board of Directors meeting. Because, as we all know: this ain't my first time at the rodeo.
Jim and I have many, many hours and years of conversation. There are the heartfelt conversations, the bitchfests, the arguments, the come-to-Jesuses, the Simpsons quote marathons, the Joan quotes (Curtis' very least favorite form of our shared communication, as we become quite loud), the TRL Whoo!, and, of course, No Pronouns.
I don't remember how No Pronouns came about, but at some point, he and I decided we were were going to talk to one another without using pronouns at all. This tortured form of conversation always concerns something inane, and it only goes on for a few sentences at a time, because it's really hard to keep it up for any extended period.
It goes something like this:
Sally: Would Jim Small like to go to the store with Sally Evans?
Jim: Jim Small would like that. Would Sally Evans like to pick Jim Small up?
Sally: Sally Evans can do that. What time would Jim Small like to go?
Jim: Does Sally Evans have an estimated departure time?
Sally: Sally Evans does not. Sally Evans can leave whenever Jim Small would like to. Would Jim Small also like to get something to eat while Jim Small and Sally Evans are out?
Jim: Jim Small would like that.
And so on, until we become weary of trying to keep up with all the pronouns.
TRL Whoo! is not something that can easily be explained, or illustrated in a blog. It was inspired by a Robot Chicken episode, and it consists of saying the last few things you did in a fast and hysterical fashion; then, at the end, you always shriek "Whooo!". Like so:
"OhmygodtodayItotallywenttoworkanddidabunchofstuffandthenIatelunchwithBobandthenIcamehomeand WHOOOOO!"
Finally, there is the String of Mommie Dearest Quotes, which frequently happen (usually with the help of Rhett Anders). We all say certain quotes, and Curtis HATES THIS. I mean HATES.
Rhett goes with either "Tina, get out of that bed" or "I'll tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna knock down that bitch of a retaining wall, and put a window where a window oughta be."
Jim always favors "Tinaaaaaa! BRING ME THE AXE!" or "You . . . will give me . . . the respect . . . that I am entitled to!"
And, of course, I love the speech she gives at the Pepsi Board of Directors meeting. Because, as we all know: this ain't my first time at the rodeo.
Tonight's activity
On the topic of watching Louis C.K. and Zach Galifianakis this evening . . .
Curtis: Sorry that tonight has turned into "Fat White Guy Comedy Night."
Sally: That's okay. I like them. And not every night can be "British Transvestite Comedy Night." Unfortunately.
Curtis: Sorry that tonight has turned into "Fat White Guy Comedy Night."
Sally: That's okay. I like them. And not every night can be "British Transvestite Comedy Night." Unfortunately.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Apropos of nothing
On the subject of the World's Oldest Profession:
Curtis: You should see the hookers in Baltimore. They are Class. eee.
Sally: What?
Curtis: I'm telling you, they look like the Crazy Cat Lady on The Simpsons. Only no cats.
Sally: Where on EARTH did this come from?
Curtis: I saw a girl standing on a corner back there [in suburban Fairfax], and whenever I see girls standing on corners by themselves, I think of hookers.
Sally: So, when I'm by myself, standing on the corner in the morning, waiting for the bus--
Curtis: Yup. You're a hooker.
Curtis: You should see the hookers in Baltimore. They are Class. eee.
Sally: What?
Curtis: I'm telling you, they look like the Crazy Cat Lady on The Simpsons. Only no cats.
Sally: Where on EARTH did this come from?
Curtis: I saw a girl standing on a corner back there [in suburban Fairfax], and whenever I see girls standing on corners by themselves, I think of hookers.
Sally: So, when I'm by myself, standing on the corner in the morning, waiting for the bus--
Curtis: Yup. You're a hooker.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Derby time!
On making mint juleps . . .
Sally: Do we have any bourbon?
Curtis: No, do you want me to go buy some?
Sally: Yeah, I need it for mint juleps.
Curtis: What kind? Jim Beam? Jack Daniels? Maker's Mark? Evan Williams?
Sally: Shit, I don't know. I don't know anything about bourbon. Just go buy it.
Curtis: Okay.
Sally: But make sure it's from Kentucky.
Curtis: I think all bourbon is from Kentucky.
Sally: I don't think that's true.
Curtis: Well, then, where's it from?
Sally: I don't know. Look, just go buy it.
Curtis: Okay.
Sally: If one of them has a horse on the label, buy that. That seems festive and appropriate.
Curtis: Got it. Kentucky-based corn squeezins with a picture of a pony on it. Will do.
Sally: Do we have any bourbon?
Curtis: No, do you want me to go buy some?
Sally: Yeah, I need it for mint juleps.
Curtis: What kind? Jim Beam? Jack Daniels? Maker's Mark? Evan Williams?
Sally: Shit, I don't know. I don't know anything about bourbon. Just go buy it.
Curtis: Okay.
Sally: But make sure it's from Kentucky.
Curtis: I think all bourbon is from Kentucky.
Sally: I don't think that's true.
Curtis: Well, then, where's it from?
Sally: I don't know. Look, just go buy it.
Curtis: Okay.
Sally: If one of them has a horse on the label, buy that. That seems festive and appropriate.
Curtis: Got it. Kentucky-based corn squeezins with a picture of a pony on it. Will do.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Meep
On the subject of Mother's Day, as we write out cards for family members . . .
Curtis: I'm really sorry your mom's not here for us to celebrate Mother's Day with her. I loved her so much, and I'm so sad she's gone. But you have so much of her in you, that she'll always be alive.
Hugs, tears, and meeping ensue.
Curtis: I'm really sorry your mom's not here for us to celebrate Mother's Day with her. I loved her so much, and I'm so sad she's gone. But you have so much of her in you, that she'll always be alive.
Hugs, tears, and meeping ensue.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
They're everywhere! They're everywhere!
On meeting Curtises from around the globe . . .
Sally: So I met the Malaysian Curtis today.
Curtis: So there's a Mexican Curtis AND a Malaysian Curtis? Interesting.
Sally: I know. It was weird. He looks just like you.
Curtis: Don't have sex with him.
Sally: I'll try. No promises.
Curtis: Well, as long as you try.
Sally: So I met the Malaysian Curtis today.
Curtis: So there's a Mexican Curtis AND a Malaysian Curtis? Interesting.
Sally: I know. It was weird. He looks just like you.
Curtis: Don't have sex with him.
Sally: I'll try. No promises.
Curtis: Well, as long as you try.
Curtis is looking into other options for his commute
On advertising that matters:
Curtis: That was the second straight commercial with a donkey in it.
Sally: Oh yeah?
Curtis: Yeah. They're really selling donkeys hard. They're about to roll out the 2011 models. You need to buy your donkey now, while the prices are low.
Sally: Okay.
Curtis: I'm going outside for a second. Let me know if there are any more donkey commercials.
Curtis: That was the second straight commercial with a donkey in it.
Sally: Oh yeah?
Curtis: Yeah. They're really selling donkeys hard. They're about to roll out the 2011 models. You need to buy your donkey now, while the prices are low.
Sally: Okay.
Curtis: I'm going outside for a second. Let me know if there are any more donkey commercials.
He can pretend it isn't happening for NINE WHOLE MONTHS.
On my love for the terrible show 16 and Pregnant . . .
Moron on Show: Well, you know what they say: a woman becomes a mother when she gets pregnant. A man becomes a father when he sees the baby the first time.
Sally: God, I hate that saying. I really hate it. That is seriously the stupidest saying.
Curtis: (levels his gaze at me) EVERYTHING. About this show. Is stupid.
Moron on Show: Well, you know what they say: a woman becomes a mother when she gets pregnant. A man becomes a father when he sees the baby the first time.
Sally: God, I hate that saying. I really hate it. That is seriously the stupidest saying.
Curtis: (levels his gaze at me) EVERYTHING. About this show. Is stupid.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Wasn't this a movie in the 80s?
On watching True Crime shows, in which people find dead bodies . . .
Sally: What would you do if you were out in the woods, and you found a dead body?
Curtis: I don't know. I guess I'd call someone.
Sally: I'd poke it with a stick.
Curtis: Well, OBVIOUSLY. The calling happens after the poking.
Sally: What would you do if you were out in the woods, and you found a dead body?
Curtis: I don't know. I guess I'd call someone.
Sally: I'd poke it with a stick.
Curtis: Well, OBVIOUSLY. The calling happens after the poking.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Women generally live longer
On the lifetimes of men and women . . .
Sally: I don't know why, but the other day I thought of you dying. I thought about how awful it would be, and how empty my life would be once you were gone. I would be absolutely heartbroken, and I don't know how I'd go on without you. I can see why, sometimes, when one spouse dies, the other dies not long after.
Curtis: Yeah, it would be sad.
Sally: Do you think about that? About me dying, I mean?
Curtis: No, I don't need to think about it. I'll be dead first.
Sally: You don't know that.
Curtis: Sure I do. I'm stupid. I'll fall into a vat of acid long before you croak out.
Sally: I don't know why, but the other day I thought of you dying. I thought about how awful it would be, and how empty my life would be once you were gone. I would be absolutely heartbroken, and I don't know how I'd go on without you. I can see why, sometimes, when one spouse dies, the other dies not long after.
Curtis: Yeah, it would be sad.
Sally: Do you think about that? About me dying, I mean?
Curtis: No, I don't need to think about it. I'll be dead first.
Sally: You don't know that.
Curtis: Sure I do. I'm stupid. I'll fall into a vat of acid long before you croak out.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
One day, I'll get that ice cream truck.
On the Ice Cream Truck that regularly visits our neighborhood:
[the Murphy's Oil Soap commercial music plays in the background]
Sally: ooh, ice cream.
Curtis: Are you going to get ice cream?
Sally: Will you go buy me an ice cream?
Curtis: No, the point is that you go run after the Ice Cream Truck.
[Sally gets up and goes to the door.]
Sally: The Ice Cream Truck is gone. One day I'm going to get that Ice Cream Truck.
Curtis: Why? What's the point? All of their ice cream sucks, anyway.
Sally: Like what? What sucks?
Curtis: Well, for one thing, Rocket Pops--
Sally: Rocket Pops? Rocket Pops are fucking awesome.
Curtis: Okay, I'm going to just stop right here.
Sally: I love Rocket Pops. They're the best.
Curtis: You don't know from good. I'll bet you like Mickey Mouse-shaped ice cream.
Sally: No, those taste like cold, wet cardboard.
Curtis: But you like Rocket Pops.
Sally: Don't compare Rocket Pops to Mickey Mouse ice cream. That's not the same. Rocket Pops are three distinct flavors, in brilliant colors. Icky Mouse is not good. Icky Mouse tastes like a lot of nothing.
Curtis: I still wouldn't go buy Rocket Pops.
Sally: Okay, fine. What kind of ice cream would YOU run after?
Curtis: A big bucket of chocolate ice cream. That's it. That's the only ice cream that would inspire me to run down the street after a truck.
[the Murphy's Oil Soap commercial music plays in the background]
Sally: ooh, ice cream.
Curtis: Are you going to get ice cream?
Sally: Will you go buy me an ice cream?
Curtis: No, the point is that you go run after the Ice Cream Truck.
[Sally gets up and goes to the door.]
Sally: The Ice Cream Truck is gone. One day I'm going to get that Ice Cream Truck.
Curtis: Why? What's the point? All of their ice cream sucks, anyway.
Sally: Like what? What sucks?
Curtis: Well, for one thing, Rocket Pops--
Sally: Rocket Pops? Rocket Pops are fucking awesome.
Curtis: Okay, I'm going to just stop right here.
Sally: I love Rocket Pops. They're the best.
Curtis: You don't know from good. I'll bet you like Mickey Mouse-shaped ice cream.
Sally: No, those taste like cold, wet cardboard.
Curtis: But you like Rocket Pops.
Sally: Don't compare Rocket Pops to Mickey Mouse ice cream. That's not the same. Rocket Pops are three distinct flavors, in brilliant colors. Icky Mouse is not good. Icky Mouse tastes like a lot of nothing.
Curtis: I still wouldn't go buy Rocket Pops.
Sally: Okay, fine. What kind of ice cream would YOU run after?
Curtis: A big bucket of chocolate ice cream. That's it. That's the only ice cream that would inspire me to run down the street after a truck.
He's coming for you!
On bad weather:
Sally: Wow, it looks really bad outside. The sky's green. That can't be good.
Curtis: Yup, the 'nader's coming for you.
Sally: What?
Curtis: The nader. Ralph Nader. Ralph Nader is coming for you, and he's going to make you wear a seatbelt.
Sally: Wow, it looks really bad outside. The sky's green. That can't be good.
Curtis: Yup, the 'nader's coming for you.
Sally: What?
Curtis: The nader. Ralph Nader. Ralph Nader is coming for you, and he's going to make you wear a seatbelt.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Poor Old Mulie
When Carolyn came to visit last weekend, we had a grand time. Among them, she provided a delightful quote. So, a special appearance: Quotes from Qarolyn!
On the subject of decorating one's house, after buying a taxidermied capybara head: "I spend a lot of time on eBay, looking for taxidermied peacocks. But they're really expensive. Like $1,000.00."
Which reminds me of another Quote from Qarolyn, on the subject of eating: "Let's not go to the Greek Festival. Let's eat vegan food and get enemas instead."
And a Conversation with Carolyn, which evolved in strange and wonderful ways:
Sally: Curtis, what would your parents have named you if you'd've been a boy? Jordan?
Curtis: No, Brendon.
Carolyn: Oh, neat. I was always a Carolyn.
Sally: If I'd been a boy, I would have been named after John Wayne's character in The Searchers. I would've been Ethan Edward Evans.
Carolyn: eeeeee!
Sally: I know, seriously. My mother, God love her, was really not all that great with naming things. I think I'm lucky that I'm not "Female Baby" or something. I was named after my two grandmothers, which could've gone really badly. I mean, I could've been . . . I don't know, Maudrine Hildegarde or something. I got off pretty easy with "Sally Roxayn." [If she'd gone with middle names, I'd've been Lou Belle.] Seriously, we had a grey cat when I was a kid. Its name was Grey. And Mom had a cat named Oreo. Guess what color it was?
Carolyn: Black and white?
Sally: That's correct. And we had another cat that showed up in July, and Mom wanted to name it Julie. Because we got it in July. And we had a dog named Wags. One guess why.
Carolyn: Wagged its tail a lot?
Sally: Yup. I got to name Godiva, or her name would've been "Brownie," I'm sure.
The conversation then turned to funny family stories, in which Curtis related the following:
Curtis: We were out to dinner with my parents once, and we started talking about dreaming, and my dad said, "I don't dream anymore." I said, "Sure you do, Dad, everyone dreams." He said, "Nope, I don't dream anymore. Haven't since I was 16, and my mule choked to death on a corncob." I totally wasn't expecting that, and I started laughing, but my dad was dead serious, and I felt terrible.
Then Curtis began to do his impression of a choking mule, which was quite hilarious.
Sally: Poor old mule.
Carolyn: If that mule would've been in your family, Sally, he'd've been named "Mulie," wouldn't he?
On the subject of decorating one's house, after buying a taxidermied capybara head: "I spend a lot of time on eBay, looking for taxidermied peacocks. But they're really expensive. Like $1,000.00."
Which reminds me of another Quote from Qarolyn, on the subject of eating: "Let's not go to the Greek Festival. Let's eat vegan food and get enemas instead."
And a Conversation with Carolyn, which evolved in strange and wonderful ways:
Sally: Curtis, what would your parents have named you if you'd've been a boy? Jordan?
Curtis: No, Brendon.
Carolyn: Oh, neat. I was always a Carolyn.
Sally: If I'd been a boy, I would have been named after John Wayne's character in The Searchers. I would've been Ethan Edward Evans.
Carolyn: eeeeee!
Sally: I know, seriously. My mother, God love her, was really not all that great with naming things. I think I'm lucky that I'm not "Female Baby" or something. I was named after my two grandmothers, which could've gone really badly. I mean, I could've been . . . I don't know, Maudrine Hildegarde or something. I got off pretty easy with "Sally Roxayn." [If she'd gone with middle names, I'd've been Lou Belle.] Seriously, we had a grey cat when I was a kid. Its name was Grey. And Mom had a cat named Oreo. Guess what color it was?
Carolyn: Black and white?
Sally: That's correct. And we had another cat that showed up in July, and Mom wanted to name it Julie. Because we got it in July. And we had a dog named Wags. One guess why.
Carolyn: Wagged its tail a lot?
Sally: Yup. I got to name Godiva, or her name would've been "Brownie," I'm sure.
The conversation then turned to funny family stories, in which Curtis related the following:
Curtis: We were out to dinner with my parents once, and we started talking about dreaming, and my dad said, "I don't dream anymore." I said, "Sure you do, Dad, everyone dreams." He said, "Nope, I don't dream anymore. Haven't since I was 16, and my mule choked to death on a corncob." I totally wasn't expecting that, and I started laughing, but my dad was dead serious, and I felt terrible.
Then Curtis began to do his impression of a choking mule, which was quite hilarious.
Sally: Poor old mule.
Carolyn: If that mule would've been in your family, Sally, he'd've been named "Mulie," wouldn't he?
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Who ARE you?
Before I relate these two conversations, some necessary background:
First: I was named after my two grandmothers. Sally and Roxanne. Almost everyone who knows me well knows this. One of those grandmothers was an amazing gardener; she had the most beautiful yard, full of flowers.
Second: Curtis loves sugar. He regularly gets into fights over it with our friend Tracy. I have a major sweet tooth, but I put sugar in and on very few things. I'm all about pastries, confections, etc.
So, with that in mind . . .
On the subject of not knowing your spouse . . .
Sally: I just love forsythia. It always reminds me of my grandmother.
Curtis: Was her name Forsythia?
Sally: Seriously?
Curtis: Well?
Sally: Yes. Her name was Forsythia, but it's pronounced "Sally." No, her name was Sally! Forsythia's a plant.
Curtis: Oh. Right.
Not 5 minutes later:
Curtis: I haven't been feeling well lately. I'm afraid I might have diabetes.
Sally: I can't imagine that you'd have diabetes, baby.
Curtis: Why?
Sally: You don't eat that much sugar.
Curtis: Have you MET me?
Sally: Oh. Duh. Ha!
First: I was named after my two grandmothers. Sally and Roxanne. Almost everyone who knows me well knows this. One of those grandmothers was an amazing gardener; she had the most beautiful yard, full of flowers.
Second: Curtis loves sugar. He regularly gets into fights over it with our friend Tracy. I have a major sweet tooth, but I put sugar in and on very few things. I'm all about pastries, confections, etc.
So, with that in mind . . .
On the subject of not knowing your spouse . . .
Sally: I just love forsythia. It always reminds me of my grandmother.
Curtis: Was her name Forsythia?
Sally: Seriously?
Curtis: Well?
Sally: Yes. Her name was Forsythia, but it's pronounced "Sally." No, her name was Sally! Forsythia's a plant.
Curtis: Oh. Right.
Not 5 minutes later:
Curtis: I haven't been feeling well lately. I'm afraid I might have diabetes.
Sally: I can't imagine that you'd have diabetes, baby.
Curtis: Why?
Sally: You don't eat that much sugar.
Curtis: Have you MET me?
Sally: Oh. Duh. Ha!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
NOM, or the Lack Thereof
On the subject of my taste in food . . .
C: Are you going to eat the rest of your cauliflower?
S: No, you can have it.
C: Why? I thought you liked cauliflower.
S: I like raw cauliflower. I hate cooked cauliflower, I think it tastes like butt-flavored feet.
C: What are you, stupid? Butt-flavored feet are delicious. Also cauliflower.
C: Are you going to eat the rest of your cauliflower?
S: No, you can have it.
C: Why? I thought you liked cauliflower.
S: I like raw cauliflower. I hate cooked cauliflower, I think it tastes like butt-flavored feet.
C: What are you, stupid? Butt-flavored feet are delicious. Also cauliflower.
It's Rainin' Death!
On the subject of being outside this coming weekend, with a callback to a conversation we had with Shannon on the subject of Native Americans in New Jersey being cautioned to keep down their squirrel intake, due to radioactivity . . .
S: It's supposed to rain.
C: Yeah, and it's probably going to be radioactive Japanese death rain, too. You know that VA officials issued a statement that people shouldn't drink rainwater?
S: Is that a problem here? Are a lot of people drinking rainwater?
C: That's what I said. Next thing you know, they'll be telling me not to eat any radioactive squirrels.
S: We don't live in New Jersey, honey. You can still safely eat squirrels here.
C: Just don't wash them down with radioactive Japanese death rain.
S: It's supposed to rain.
C: Yeah, and it's probably going to be radioactive Japanese death rain, too. You know that VA officials issued a statement that people shouldn't drink rainwater?
S: Is that a problem here? Are a lot of people drinking rainwater?
C: That's what I said. Next thing you know, they'll be telling me not to eat any radioactive squirrels.
S: We don't live in New Jersey, honey. You can still safely eat squirrels here.
C: Just don't wash them down with radioactive Japanese death rain.
Friday, April 1, 2011
KANEDAAAAAA! Er, I mean, um, Kevin. Or something.
On Hollywood ruining something I love:
Curtis: So they're making a live-action version of Akira.
Sally: Oh, that will be AWFUL. Who's doing it?
C: Albert Hughes. And Robert Pattinson is starring in it.
S: What? Why? Oh GOD nooooooo . . .
C: And it's in New York, not Tokyo.
S: Please just stop talking.
Curtis: So they're making a live-action version of Akira.
Sally: Oh, that will be AWFUL. Who's doing it?
C: Albert Hughes. And Robert Pattinson is starring in it.
S: What? Why? Oh GOD nooooooo . . .
C: And it's in New York, not Tokyo.
S: Please just stop talking.
Ain't No Party Like a Sally R Party Cause a Sally R Party Don't Start
On celebrating milestones:
Sally: What do you want to do for your birthday?
Curtis: Nothing.
S: Well, what are we doing for mine?
C: Nothing.
S: Nothing?
C: So we agree! Nothing it is.
Sally: What do you want to do for your birthday?
Curtis: Nothing.
S: Well, what are we doing for mine?
C: Nothing.
S: Nothing?
C: So we agree! Nothing it is.
What We Talk about When We Talk about Love
Once, our friend Crystal, having bemusedly listened to a conversation between my husband Curtis and me, said, "You all have the funniest conversations."
She meant this in a variety of ways. "Funny," as it refers to the conversation topic."Funny," as in humorous. "Funny," as in strangely syntaxed. "Funny," as in absurdly arranged. "Funny," as in hyperbolically and insensibly argued.
And she wasn't the first to say this.
Once, after an especially odd, and terribly enjoyable, conversation, I said to Curtis, "What do you think other people talk about?"
He paused and said, "I don't know. I really don't."
We have serious conversations, about religion and politics.
We have sweet conversations, about our chinchillas, and corgis, and pomeranians, and other cute things.
We have funny conversations, about pop culture.
We have sad conversations, about things that hurt us, both personal and universal.
I don't know that other people don't talk about the things we talk about. Maybe everyone does, and I just don't know it.
Either way, when our friend said, utterly unprompted, that we had funny conversations, I started sharing them on Facebook.
Then other friends began to comment on our conversations, and two of our friends, Erica and Kim, suggested I start a blog featuring our exchanges. I'm going to start with recent conversations, and work backward. I'll also be interspersing conversations I have with friends.
So here we go.
On seeing a compelling music video . . .
Curtis: Who's ripping off Duran Duran?
Sally: I don't know. I don't know who that is. I never know who anyone is anymore.
C: Is it Duran Duran?
S: . . . No. No, I don't think so.
[pause]
S: Wait, no, there's a sign. It's Duran Duran. You're right. But who's the fat guy singing?
C: That's Simon Le Bon.
S: Oh. Oh God.
She meant this in a variety of ways. "Funny," as it refers to the conversation topic."Funny," as in humorous. "Funny," as in strangely syntaxed. "Funny," as in absurdly arranged. "Funny," as in hyperbolically and insensibly argued.
And she wasn't the first to say this.
Once, after an especially odd, and terribly enjoyable, conversation, I said to Curtis, "What do you think other people talk about?"
He paused and said, "I don't know. I really don't."
We have serious conversations, about religion and politics.
We have sweet conversations, about our chinchillas, and corgis, and pomeranians, and other cute things.
We have funny conversations, about pop culture.
We have sad conversations, about things that hurt us, both personal and universal.
I don't know that other people don't talk about the things we talk about. Maybe everyone does, and I just don't know it.
Either way, when our friend said, utterly unprompted, that we had funny conversations, I started sharing them on Facebook.
Then other friends began to comment on our conversations, and two of our friends, Erica and Kim, suggested I start a blog featuring our exchanges. I'm going to start with recent conversations, and work backward. I'll also be interspersing conversations I have with friends.
So here we go.
On seeing a compelling music video . . .
Curtis: Who's ripping off Duran Duran?
Sally: I don't know. I don't know who that is. I never know who anyone is anymore.
C: Is it Duran Duran?
S: . . . No. No, I don't think so.
[pause]
S: Wait, no, there's a sign. It's Duran Duran. You're right. But who's the fat guy singing?
C: That's Simon Le Bon.
S: Oh. Oh God.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
