One of the benefits of unemployment used to be that I could sleep in a bit before my daily trudge to the kitchen table/office to check out the job listings posted in the last 10 hours. But the ex-boyfriend decided that he wants to get in better shape, so we’re going to the gym now in the still-dark-no-hint-of-sunrise early morning.
This morning, a Tuesday, I took the pug out for a walk before we left, and it seems that one of my neighbors was having a …party? That’s all I can figure it was. All of the condo’s lights were on. People in jeans were milling around inside, and three or four girls were parked on the balcony’s loveseat chatting away. It was 5:20 a.m.
I can’t figure it out. Were they an early morning workout group? Unlikely given the attire. All I can think is that the party started last night (it was Columbus Day, so people around here get freaky) and kept raging until the sun came up.
Just the thought of being at a party until dawn makes me nauseated. I go to bed at 10 p.m. Maybe I’ll make it to 11 on a weekend. Who are these people? What else could they have been doing? So perplexed.
Compromise
Relationships are all about compromise. Like how sometimes you really wanna go on the Suze Orman show and talk about finances (and natty blazers!) and your partner’s all like, “Um. Hell, no.” And you’re like, “Harrumph.” And then you’re able to convince yourself that that’s a compromise. So you post about it on your blog that no one ever reads because you haven’t updated it in three years.
Lesser angels
I should have known the minute he approached me that he was trouble. That opening line — “Excuse me. Do you go to church?” — is a red flag on top of a shining beacon mounted on an orange traffic cone holding a bullhorn screaming at me to get away. And yet, I felt like I needed to be honest with the stranger at the bus stop.
“I do not,” I replied. Because lying to the man and saying “yes” seemed likely to elicit a series of questions about where and what kind and my favorite book of the Bible that I wasn’t prepared to answer. [Pretty sure it’s Leviticus, because I like rules.]
“Well then you should go to church. I want tell you about a book. It’s by a minister…
And here my mind started to wander. I looked at him, scuffed and careworn but clearly not on PCP or looking to cut out my spleen and wear it like a hat. And really, I was at the Pentagon. The only place with more guns in close proximity is a Secret Service happy hour.
So I wondered, as he kept talking, what I could get away with. I tried this:
“What if I told you I was Jewish?” [It’s not a lie. It’s a hypothetical. Different.]
God bless him, the man didn’t miss a beat. “Jews can go to church too! We love Jews!”
He won. I tuned back in, because, really, the man had earned my attention.
“…and so this minister, she died and went to heaven, and she saw an angel 13 feet tall!”
“Wow, that’s a tall angel.” [Really? 13 feet? Not really that tall. If I’m God and I’m making angels, or, for that matter, if I’m a minister and I’m making up angels to sell books, they’re going to be taller than 13 feet. They’re going to be, like, a million feet tall. Those would be impressive angels.]
“I know. That’s how you know they’re angels. Because, see, if they were professional basketball players, they might be seven feet tall. Those angels, they were even taller than pro basketball players!”
“…And this minister, when she went to heaven — You know how all those ladies who got pregnant and got abortions because they didn’t want their babies [Danger, Will Rodgers. Do not talk about abortion in public, crazy man. Do. Not.] ? Well this minister, she said when you get to heaven you get to hang out with those aborted babies.”
Dude. That’s just gross.
My bus showed up then, so I don’t know what else was coming down the pike, but the crazy man then shook my hand and toddled away. I never did get the title of that book. But I still have my spleen.
I’m not your content monkey!
This is not a post about how, hey, sorry. I haven’t posted for a while. ‘Cause those are lame.
But I will say that when weird things happen to me (or when I think weird things) I need a place to put them. But I have a job that demands that I put a certain number of words to page each and every month. So my desire to do that in my free time comes and goes. So no false promises about daily/weekly/monthly posts. I’m capricious.
Learn to love it.
Dopey statements by Olympics broadcasters (Part 2)
“That is a devastating look of devastation on his face.”
“90 percent of people in Canada live between their border and ours.” [I can’t even figure out what she was TRYING to say here. Because yes, most of the time people in a country live within that country’s borders.]
Dopey statements by Olympics broadcasters (Part 1)
The kind of extemporaneous speaking required of Olympics broadcasters, who are often asked to fill time between the actual doing of sports, lends itself to nonsensical — and occasionally hilarious — musings. I’m collecting them to remind myself that even professionals aren’t immune from butchering the language.
Saturday, Feb. 13:
“Before he died, Nodar Kumaritashvili called his parents…” [When else would he have called?] Continue reading
To do list for the snowbound weekend.
Having already been to the store for my supply of milk, eggs, and, in my own special twist, Nutella, all that remains in the face of the impending snowpocalypse is a to-do list I can consult when the cabin fever sets in.
1. Learn to make risotto.
2. Watch “The Cutting Edge” in preparation for the start of the Olympics. (Toe pick!)
3. Finally start writing that children’s book.
4. Clean bathtub.
5. Teach Douglas to play dead.
6. Try to get Douglas to wear his boots so we can go for a walk.
Go and do.
I rarely issue edicts, but here’s one: Go read Colum McCann’s “Let the Great World Spin.” Amazing. Devastating. And rad.
(Full disclosure: I haven’t finished it yet. Regardless, it’s that good.)
Next up: “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.”
Grrr. Argh. (Like a monster.)
I realized quite recently that I am a terrifying person.
I can even quantify my terrifyingness to the degree that I can say with virtual certainty that I am scarier than the Taliban.
I work best on deadline
That’s an understatement. I work best when the deadline is within the next hour. Just for example, and to keep myself honest, here’s how the last hour has gone.
Tweet: Settling in with a cup of tea to watch football (if that’s what you call what the Redskins are doing) and write a story for Shannon. Continue reading
BananaMath 