The day that never deserved to exist in the first place
MONDAY, 13 FEBRUARY 2006
Last night at about 3:30 a.m Brandon and I (and the puppy, who got very freaked out) were awakened by the sound of loud pounding on a door down the hall and a man with a very fabulous voice saying, "Chriss-tian! Christian, open the doo-oor" and "Chriss-tian, I'll stay here all night if I have to" and "I know you're in there, just let me in." Needless to say, this alarmed our terrier quite a bit, so much so that he could not sleep the rest of the night. Finally, upset at the ridiculousness of it all, Brandon called down to the lobby where we have a 24-hour doorman (oh the fabulousness of it all) to complain that a guest who clearly isn't welcome here is keeping our whole floor up and for crying out loud PLEASE do something about it. Well, that's how I would have sounded, which is why I didn't call, but Brandon called and was very mature and asked if something couldn't be done, and the doorman let us know that somebody had already called the cops and that as they spoke those cops were on their way up to our floor. If I hadn't been groggy with exhaustion (Husband and I happened to have been up late having a semi-argument so already I was completely pooped and drooling on my pillow)I would have found this entirely interesting and would have watched it all unfold through the peep-hole in the door, but as it was, I was too sleep drunk to care about anything other than the sleep that was quickly evading me.
This morning I woke up late, sat up, nearly fell asleep in the sitting position, took a shower, where I nearly fell asleep twice, and then stumbled bleary-eyed into work. Brandon, who got up a little earlier than me and then planted himself in front of the T.V., found curling on the Olympics coverage and sat transfixed, unable to move, and decided to scrap going into the office for the day. By the time I was running to catch the elevator, he was sitting comfy with the dog, a blanket, and Fruity Pebbles.
What unfolded thereafter was one of the worst days in my recent history of time at work. Of course I'm not going to go into it, 1. for your sanity and 2. for the sake of me not being a retard, but I will say this: I am an ornery person who has severe problems with authority. I don't know why or when this developed, but I am unable to withstand people speaking to me in a derrogatory manner and will defend myself even in the most inappropriate circumstances. And though I didn't cross the professional-line today or risk my job in any way (I hope!), I sure did act in a manner I'm not proud of, and I'd even go so far as to say I'm disappointed in myself.
But, like I said, I'm ornery, really really ornery. I'm also very warm and full of so much love that I expose my vulnerabilities for all the world, but look down on me in disdain and you will incur a self-righteousness like you've never seen. And if I feel like I'm not being treated with the appropriate level of respect (and who's to say I even deserve this respect you say? Well, I don't know, and I agree, you're right, I don't know where I get off being this way and it's terrible) I get really, really defensive and really ugly.
So, it was a bad day. I came home and ate a candy bar through the tears and the frustrated flailing of arms and the high-pitched warbling of my grievances to my husband. And now that I'm sufficiently sugared-out and in my pajamas life is looking a little better. After a few good cuddles with my blonde bombshell of a husband, I'm sure things will be right rosy indeed.
Lately Brandon has developed an obscene addiction to Jeopardy! and watches it daily, along with the rest of the Geritol community. This is, I might add, when I would normally be watching such high-brow entertainment as E! News Daily and EXTRA! EXTRA! And since we have only one T.V. and Brandon is notoriously better at such things as arm wrestling and thumb wars, we inevitably watch what he wants to watch, which these days means not JUST King of the Hill, but now also Jeopardy! but I draw the line at Wheel of Fortune because, as my Granny Goose used to say, Wheel of Fortune is for ninnies. And it's true.
*Just as soon as I finished typing that sentence the dog pooped on his puppy pad. Brandon has a weird sixth sense when it comes to pooping and announced from across the living room, "The dog is pooping. You wanna get that?" I tried explaining that I had ordered the takeout that night AND threw away the takeout boxes, thus it was his turn to get up off his ass, but like I said earlier about the arm wrestles and the thumb wars (and, might I add, longer legs for kicking bottoms) he eventually won out and I had to attend to doggie droppings while he sat on the couch and yelled out answers at Jeopardy! (such excitement with Jeopardy! Like E! News. You can't say it and not perk up a bit!) What happened next went something like this:
Run to the bathroom to get some toilet paper.
Ok, the roll is empty.
Try to distract the puppy from playing with his feces while I open a new roll of paper, throw away the old roll, put up the new roll (because unlike some husbands named Brandon* I am not a lazy tard), and grab no less than 10 squares off the roll because let us face it, what I'm about to do is disgusuting.
Pick up the poopies, throw in the toilet, flush.
Light a match, one over the toilet and another over the puppy pad. Cliched, yes, but somehow through the miracle of science it works, and man you should smell the crap this dog puts out, I mean it is horrifying.
While I'm lighting a match I notice the puppy has peed in a corner of the pad and it has, shall we say, had some run-off.
Run to the paper towels, grab the cleanser.
Return to the pad to find the puppy pooping. Again. Damn hell, dog, are you serious?
More toilet paper, more matches, finally with the cleanser and paper towels to the pee, change the pad.
Wash hands thoroughly. Twice.
Meanwhile, Brandon has been yelling things like, "Byzantine Empire!" "The Louvre!" and "Landscapes!"
*My brother, who has a birthday on Monday and will be 11 (11!) has rechristened Brandon as "Bean dip." He nonchalantly threw it out there one day while he was visiting for Christmas and it is the awesomest nickname for anybody EVER. Much better than Nat-the-fat-Rat, my nickname which I earned from an uncle by being a tubby baby. And I tell you this why?
The point of all this is that we're watching a lot of Jeopardy!, right? And, well, we are. And Brandon has gotten quite good at it (especially when it's College Students week and the questions are mind-numbingly stupid. That's about the only time we ever get any answers right). But what I want to know and what drives me to distraction every time we watch is this: What happened to Alex Trebek's mustache? He looks like a giant thumb. Didn't he have a mustache before? How long has it been gone? I mean I admit the last time I rememebr noticing Alex Trebek was sometime maybe in the 80s. Maybe someone should tell him to grow it back? And also that his French pronunciation sucks.
AND THAT'S WHAT I SET OUT HERE TO SAY IN THE FIRST PLACE, 5 pages and about 10 lost readers later. Daaaang.
I realized the other day that I am now at the child-bearing age I determined for myself when I was 13 years old. This age, I reasoned at the time, would be old enough that I'd have had time to enjoy being young and childless, and a time at which if I had a baby every 3.5 years thereafter I would have the amount of children I wanted to have by the time I hit my early 30s. It's strange to think of how insanely intune with my body I was at 13, because lately I have become baby-freaking-crazy.
All of the sudden and completely out of nowhere I have found myself with a ticking time bomb of a biological clock. I see a baby, I want it. I want to cuddle it and change it's diaper. I even had a dream the other night about breastfeeding. Lately I've taken to holding Peter Pan like a child, rocking him back and forth while the husband looks at me like I'm crazy. I can't explain it really, but it just feels nice to rock the dog.
Peter Pan, surprisingly, eats it up and will even put his head lovingly on my shoulder while I sway. He instinctively knows when I do this that I am feeling emotionally fragile and that any wrong move could force me into having a baby that will inevitably take his place in the family heirarchy. He's no fool.
The hard fact of life is that the puppy doesn't smell anywhere near as good as a baby, and furthermore, babies don't have those nasty fangs either. So he's a short-term fix. And with Brandon just finishing his law school applications, I know the timing could not be worse for bringing a life into this world because I won't have the cash from a husband's job to fully decorate a nursery and outfit the kid like I'd want to. And really, that's like 90% of the fun, isn't it?
So, we wait. And we wait. The other day I told Brandon that Summer of 2006 was the summer of love and of knocking-upage and, after a minute of thoughtful reflection, he agreed to my terms. Then he mused that by then I may have spontaneously impregnated due to sheer overwhelming desire alone. I've checked with my ovaries and they assure me that this is, in fact, possible.
In the meantime, the puppy looks sleepy, so I think I'll take advantage of this by dusting him in baby powder and rocking him to sleep.
My husband has a more than mild crush on Lisa Loeb. You know Lisa Loeb? Stay? Do you eat sleep do you breathe me anymore? Do you count sheep anymore? Yeah. I like Lisa Loeb. But Brandon LOVES Lisa Loeb.
We watch her show "#1 Single" on E! (E!!!!) and Brandon's face lights up and he grins like a fat kid at a birthday party getting a gift bag at the end stuffed with candy.
He tries to play it smooth, but lets little things slip like, "Don't you like this show?" and, "Isn't she cute?" And just recently, "You should do your hair like that."
Always, after he's let a few of these revealing comments fly he'll counter with, "You know, you sort of look like her, when you wear your glasses."
See, I have a pair of Clark Kent glasses I wore in college because I'm a back row lurker and can't see more than 15 feet in front of me. I don't wear them much anymore except when we're at the movies and then Brandon will be very sly and say something like, "You look very cute, very nerd chic." Nerd chic is a term I made up when I went through my argyle phase this summer, and now he's using it and this makes me want to kiss him all over, but that's another story.
Just now, this escaped out my husband's lips: "I know what Lisa Loeb needs in a man. She needs someone not intimidated by her fame and very strong, and..." I must confess here that I completely tuned him out at this point, because I could tell he was just describing himself and I knew any more of it would send me to giggling, and that wouldn't have been very nice at all, seeing as he was being all sly and not trying to let on that secretly when it's dark and we're going to bed he pretends I'm Lisa Loeb while he cuddles up to me. But you know, I'm okay with this. Cause Lisa Loeb is darn cute. And if he can believe I look like her, more power to me I suppose. And really, he's just adorable, huh.
I'm not in the habit of posting on the weekends but today in my endless reading of other people's blogs I came across Patatomic's website wherein he tagged me for a Meme. First of all, I really have no idea how to pronounce that (is it mee-mee or may-may?) and secondly, this fills me with excitement because! I really like Pat's blog! and! this means the Internet realizes that little old me (meme) exists! Fabulous! So, let's get to the gettin', shall we?
FOUR JOBS I'VE HAD 1. I owned my own dog walking business. I called it Good Dog, and to this day it was my favorite job. 2. I was a Nordstrom girl once. Yeah, I took home my paychecks in clothing form, I'm not ashamed to admit it. 3. Leasing agent at apartment complex. That job, as you can imagine, SUCKED. 4. I sang jazz a capella at a little cafe on 23rd street in Portland. I made a woman cry on her anniversary once with "Till There Was You." I also sang non-jazz numbers, like "My Heart Will Go On" on request of the owner's wife (that was the moment I officially sold out), and Faith Hill's "Breathe" for a lesbian couple on their anniversary. You can't make this stuff up, people.
FOUR MOVIES I CAN WATCH OVER AND OVER 1. You've Got Mail 2. When Harry Met Sally 3. Edward Scizzorhands 4. Lost in Translation
FOUR PLACES I HAVE LIVED 1. Mesa, Arizona, where I was born and raised. 2. Seoul, Korea. I lived there when I was seven and it's one of those things where I'll have completely forgotten all about it until something sparks my memory (usually the smell of cigarette smoke and plastic)and I'll go, "That's right! I lived in Korea! No kidding!" 3. Provo, Utah as a swinging single and Sandy, Utah with my husband. I'm counting these as the same here, although for anyone who's ever lived south of the point of the mountain and then moved north of the point of the mountain, you know it is a whole other country up there. And gratefully so. 4. Brooklyn, NY. And it rocks here.
FOUR TV SHOWS I LOVE 1. Project Runway. I heart Santino. 2. Desperate Housewives because it's the only time we get to hang out with people who aren't each other or a dog. 3. The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I have a little geek crush on him. 4. Sex and the City and Felicity on reruns every time they're on. Go Team Noel!
FOUR PLACES I'VE VACATIONED 1. Paris, France 2. The Phillippines 3. Disneyland more times than you'd care to hear. 4. This summer, the Bahamas!
FOUR OF MY FAVORITE DISHES 1. Eggs Benedict 2. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes a la Julie Lovin. 3. Creme Brulee 4. Fish Tacos at Baja Fresh!
FOUR SITES I VISIT DAILY 1. Pink is the New Blog becuase I'm a gossip whore. Yeah! 2. Loobylu 3. Dooce 4. New York Times *Mimi Smartypants, though she only updates maybe once a week, I'm there! Just in case!
FOUR PLACES I WOULD RATHER BE RIGHT NOW 1. In a home I owned and thereby could paint whatever color I wanted (in Portland I had a purple kitchen). 2. Portland, OR, cause there's a place there where I can get sample Coach shoes in size 6 for $45. Here, they cost a WHOLE lot more. 3. Somewhere hot and sunny and preferably with a beach. 4. At my parents' house, camped on the couch with popcorn, One-Eyed Monty and my dad, watching some old spaghetti western.
I used to speak spanish, in another lifetime. Brandon spoke spanish, and lived in Chile for two years. He speaks the language far better than I could ever have hoped to but sometimes, just for fun and becuase I'm a competitive little brat, I like to pretend I'm just as good as he and we have sort of nonsensical conversations where he says something enlightening and I screw up tenses and conjugations and think I am simply brilliant.
As we were laying in bed last night, playing with the puppy and avoiding his razor sharp teeth which are falling out at an alarming rate (and yes, this is normal), we started singing random songs we knew in spanish and being clever (well, he was clever, I was just butchering a perfectly beautiful language) and changing the words.
After one such pathetic song involving the puppy and his hell mouth of pain, the puppy sneezed a big, tired sneeze. And I said, "Bless you."
"Gesundheit," Brandon countered.
"Salud!" I said back.
Then Brandon said something that sounded like "Khtajk" and I looked at him funny and told him that making up languages was cheap, and if you run out of ways to say "Bless you" you should just give up and let me win.
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FRIDAY, 03 FEBRUARY 2006
Watched Dr. Strangelove with Brandon tonight, a movie that surprisingly he'd never seen and not so surprisingly he loved. We took the dog on a nice long walk through Cadman Park, a nice stretch of dead grass in the middle of two very big and very busy roads which is filled with dog poop, hobos and shards of blue glass. I call it Deadman Park, and it is located in the heights of Brooklyn Heights, a place Brandon and I have taken to calling Brooklyn Whites, because, well, because there's lots of white people here and not a lot of white people anywhere else. There are also a lot of dogs and a woman who walks dogs for a living, big dogs and just like in the movies, she always has at least 5 or 6 attached to her hand by a bundle of leashes. Peter Pan sees this moving mass of dog hair and paws from across the street and he does what he's taken to doing when he sees a buddy or a treat: he stands upright on his back two legs like a human and his tongue flops out of his mouth so far he could almost mop the floor with it. And then there is much touching of noses and sniffing of bottoms, and one puppy flopped entirely on her back exposing her underside, and Peter in turn responded by getting way freaked out and hiding behind my legs.
Anyway, today turned out to be a pretty great day despite the fact that I woke up with more than a small trace of the migraine that attacked at random yesterday afternoon and I went to work all under-eye bags and greasy hair and swollen-nosed out. The turning point came when I decided to skip the Excedrine (nearly 100% caffiene) and opt instead for caffiene in tasty iced-tea form. Now, I don't drink iced-tea, so this caffiene is a wonderful foriegn substance to my caffiene-virgin body. Unless you count the 3-4 Diet Cokes I consume in a day. Which, of course, don't count. Anyway, the point of all this is to let you know that bottled black tea with lemon is my new cocaine and I will forever be remembering the day when I had a migraine and tasted for the first time the sweet nectar of the tea leaves. From Sri Lanka. How exotic.
My weekend plans involve sleeping, napping and eating, and may or may not involve showering and brushing of teeth. They most certainly do not involve the wearing of restrictive clothing of any kind and will undoubtably include a LOT of Chinese take out. Hallelujah, amen.
