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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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."

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 . . .

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.

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?