I walked in my friends' home last night and saw they had already decorated for the holidays, and I felt the butterflies in my tummy because it's not December 3rd yet.
In a family of four kids, my parents tried their best to preserve the identity of each child and make sure they felt special and cared for individually. My brother Russ was born on December 2, so Mom and Dad would adamantly disallow any Christmas decorations to be up in the house or out in the yard until December 3rd. Until that day we were welcome to submit our wish lists to Santa and talk about what we wanted, even underscore our points with pictures we cut out from magazines, but under no circumstances were we allowed to put anything that was red, green, silver, gold, gold-plated, or in any way jingled and/or jangled in a manner fit for a holiday spectacle where the general public could see until the day after we celebrated Russ' birthday. Not the night of the 2nd. The morning of the 3rd.
Once our family started decorating, we also had mandated placements and decorations that were not up for deviation. Mom would arrange the cardboard cutouts of the Christmas ice skaters on the double closet doors in the main hallway, Matt and Russ would decorate the main pine tree in the front yard. I would put up the plastic stained glass cutouts on the big front window, and then we would all bring up the Christmas books and puzzles Mom kept on the ping pong table that served as the year-round groaning beast of burden for her holiday hoard.
Overnight, with a little help from the kids, Mom turned our ordinary house into a magical wonderland that was sure to make Santa blush. I lived for that time of year. I think Mom did too. She was so busy taking care of everyone else all year, whether they were her kids or her parents or siblings or husband, that I think this was a time she could call her own. She takes care with everything she does and Christmas calls for meticulous methods. She taught me how to hang tinsel one strand at a time to make the tree look like we harnessed a moment of winter and brought it inside to enjoy for ourselves. She could tell you every ornament she hangs on her miniature tree and where to find it. She not only believes in Santa, she makes sure others know he is real, too.
I still keep this tradition every year, though I've lived on my own for quite some time now. Even in the dorms when I was in undergrad, I explained it to my roommate who was completely understanding of this hold the 3rd still had on me and we waited until that day to set up our little tree and Christmas lights around the room we called home.
I haven't mentioned the family tree yet. I'll save that for another time. In the meantime, I'm going to make my wish list and wait with quiet anticipation until after we've wished Russ a very happy birthday to hang our stockings by the chimney with care.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Dog Bless You
I miss dogs. Dogs are funnier by trade. Even the jokes about dogs are funnier. We have three cats and they're cool. They're cool because they act like dogs. I don't tell them this because I don't want to hurt their little non-dog feelings. I do love them. I do. They are good inside friends. But they are not dogs.
I grew up with a dog who was the same age as me. His name was Ben and he was a beagle/basset. I really really hated him when we first got him. He scared the living shit out of me, to be accurate. I was six and I was teeny for my age. Skinny, short, slow kids make for awesome dog toys if you're wondering what to get your furry best friend this Christmas.
For the first two weeks of "adjustment" as Mom called it, I spent my time on the back of the couch with the coffee table pulled flush against the seat part so that it made it harder for Ben to scale to doggy victory. Every time I left the safety of the couch, he would chase me down and wrap his two front legs around mine and trip me. I'd lay there in a heap while he jumped around like a loon. I figured if I didn't move too obviously, he'd get bored and become distracted by something shiny or loud. No luck. He'd sit there while I cowered and listened to Mom say "Oh you don't have to be scared. He's just playing with you. He's not used to little girls." I may not have had to be scared, but I volunteered for it. His teeth were big and my hands were soft, yet crunchy and fun to chew if he were inclined to do so. After a while the jumping would stop and he'd lie down next to me. I liked him then. He was my level and I could look him in the eye.
We made peace on Halloween after weeks of trippage and couch anxiety. I don't know if it was my Lemon Meringue costume that made him see me as a force to be reckoned with, or if he just found more pleasure from my pets and lovins than from my fear and crying spells. I know I did. We lived in harmonious peace and mutual adoration until May 20, 1992 when he committed suicide. Yes, he killed himself. He laid down behind the truck so that a driver couldn't see him and then waited for someone to back over him. It was quick and he was 15, and while sad, it was how he wanted it. We had to respect his wishes.
I live next to a very busy main drag and still believe car + animals = suck. With that in mind, the kitties are inside only and we compensate with many many toys. J fashioned a virtual box city for Flikka out of different boxes we've collected from mailed packages and Costco visits. We have a fishing pole with a sock on the end of a shoelace that makes The Reverend literally jump for joy. We also have several toys in shapes that mostly please them, like a small cloth sandwich and a little burger. Madge only requires a secluded closet where no one will bother her. Especially if the someones aren't legally allowed to vote yet. She's very patriotic. And hates kids. One exception to that rule is The Pixie. Madge would allow K to throw her from the balcony if she wanted to. Madge worships her. She was so distraught when we took her back to Canada that she didn't come out of her closet for three days except to use the facilities. We brought her room service to see her through the ordeal. They are righteous familiars, the kitties.
But I still miss dogs.
I grew up with a dog who was the same age as me. His name was Ben and he was a beagle/basset. I really really hated him when we first got him. He scared the living shit out of me, to be accurate. I was six and I was teeny for my age. Skinny, short, slow kids make for awesome dog toys if you're wondering what to get your furry best friend this Christmas.
For the first two weeks of "adjustment" as Mom called it, I spent my time on the back of the couch with the coffee table pulled flush against the seat part so that it made it harder for Ben to scale to doggy victory. Every time I left the safety of the couch, he would chase me down and wrap his two front legs around mine and trip me. I'd lay there in a heap while he jumped around like a loon. I figured if I didn't move too obviously, he'd get bored and become distracted by something shiny or loud. No luck. He'd sit there while I cowered and listened to Mom say "Oh you don't have to be scared. He's just playing with you. He's not used to little girls." I may not have had to be scared, but I volunteered for it. His teeth were big and my hands were soft, yet crunchy and fun to chew if he were inclined to do so. After a while the jumping would stop and he'd lie down next to me. I liked him then. He was my level and I could look him in the eye.
We made peace on Halloween after weeks of trippage and couch anxiety. I don't know if it was my Lemon Meringue costume that made him see me as a force to be reckoned with, or if he just found more pleasure from my pets and lovins than from my fear and crying spells. I know I did. We lived in harmonious peace and mutual adoration until May 20, 1992 when he committed suicide. Yes, he killed himself. He laid down behind the truck so that a driver couldn't see him and then waited for someone to back over him. It was quick and he was 15, and while sad, it was how he wanted it. We had to respect his wishes.
I live next to a very busy main drag and still believe car + animals = suck. With that in mind, the kitties are inside only and we compensate with many many toys. J fashioned a virtual box city for Flikka out of different boxes we've collected from mailed packages and Costco visits. We have a fishing pole with a sock on the end of a shoelace that makes The Reverend literally jump for joy. We also have several toys in shapes that mostly please them, like a small cloth sandwich and a little burger. Madge only requires a secluded closet where no one will bother her. Especially if the someones aren't legally allowed to vote yet. She's very patriotic. And hates kids. One exception to that rule is The Pixie. Madge would allow K to throw her from the balcony if she wanted to. Madge worships her. She was so distraught when we took her back to Canada that she didn't come out of her closet for three days except to use the facilities. We brought her room service to see her through the ordeal. They are righteous familiars, the kitties.
But I still miss dogs.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Don't Name The Lambs
We grew up next to a farm, a few farms, really, and always looked forward to the Easter lambs--so named because they were born in the spring just in time to be a succulent feast to celebrate the big day. They knew it, too. I'd go to pet their fuzzy little heads and they'd look up at me with a hushed desperation that said "I heard them talking. They're going to eat me." Little did it know I was part of the treacherous They. By the time I was about 7 I'd learned not to name the baby animals on the farm, especially the lambs. Recipe for tears and teeth gnashing, that.
It was a lesson I'd carry into my adult life when I took a stab at the corporate world. I'd worked in restaurants from the time I could spell h-a-s-h s-l-i-n-g-i-n-g sleepily at 5:30 in the morning and had seen some mad staff turnover, but never could I have possibly predicted the revolving door of haggard, spent souls that make up this living compost heap of our industrial society. Every six months or so, they'd spritz us with poo water and turn us over for a whole new perspective on how we'd managed to take the path of the damned and had given the pretty path that was covered in flower petals and butterfly whispers the big throbbing finger when we accepted our position where the only benefit was that they weren't legally allowed to poke us with real pitchforks.
The jewel in this crown of thorns was a small company whose main (READ: only) client was a hulking bitch of the corporate master race. They had to have seven people sign off to decide what size the font would be on something the size of a cigarette box. Guess how many times all seven folks concurred on the first go. Go ahead. Guess. I'll wait. How did you know? Were you listening to the seventeen conference calls where you're huddled around one of those weird Trekkie reject tri-sided speaker phones next to the boss who makes you wish you were sliding down a banister made of buzz saws and ice cream headaches instead of sitting shoulder to shoulder with Screwella De Shrill and her Fawning Band of Seven Eejits?
We weren't allowed to talk to each other about anything other than the utterly meaningless task at hand. I sat next to a guy for four months before I knew he had a kid. The only way I found out his last name was from an errant e-mail he accidentally sent me. We weren't allowed to have any decorations at our desk, lest they distract us from our miserable sluggery. All of the desks faced the wall. They blocked the windows for "confidentiality" reasons so that no lurkers at our rat maze of an industrial park would get a glimpse of the newest box. Yes, box. We made boxes. BOXES. Not pacemakers or canes for small children who lost a limb sifting through candy shaped bombs, or even the little carts dogs scoot around on when their hind quarters give out. Nope. We made boxes for completely useless unnecessary shit that people lived millenia without ever having near them.
And to these owners, those boxes were where they kept our self respect and estimated worth. That is, until the day the employee would remember that boxes are wildly lame and that (s)he has an actual life to forge, unencumbered by unrealistic expectations and cheapened earthly dealings. On that day, without exception, the employee would have a "fuck this, fuck you, and fuck boxes" moment and make their future their present. It was a good day. It usually didn't take long either. In the nine months I worked there, seven different people in an office of nine total employees had that special moment. In the interim two weeks (if the departing employee hadn't just simply thrown their keys on the boss' desk and bolted), they'd bring in some poor unsuspecting bastard for an interview and short of the walls bleeding and a voice in the distance screeching "GEEEETTTTT OOOUUUUTTTT", the present employees would try to deter the fresh meat from taking the job for their own and their family's sake. But they needed the money just like we thought we needed it at the time of our acceptance of the offer and they would come to work. After about the third time of watching this cycle play out, I just stopped trying to learning anything about the newbies. I didn't want to get attached. Easter dinner was coming and I didn't want to call it by name.
In the ninth month of my frustration gestation, I had that moment. And it was delicious. I could feel the earth righting itself under my feet the second I said "I quit. I'm done. And now I'm even more done than I was a second ago. You have two weeks to find someone for me to train." I didn't have a job lined up. I hadn't even sent out one resume on the search. I just knew it was over. Done. Done. Done. So then I sent out about thirty resumes a night. The day before the two weeks was up I got the call from where I work now offering me more money, job security, peace of mind, and a benefits package straight out of the 1950s (100% health, dental, optical coverage). Things work out.
My heart still stops for a second when I hear a door slam, or if I see one of the boxes we built on a shelf in the store, but then I take a deep breath and revel in the knowledge that it's over for me. They're now down to five full time employees. Two originals from when I quit two years ago are still there. They must be going for some kind of record. But the giant corporate client has dropped the company like a dribble glass of syphilis. For the people who chose to stay there, I say a little prayer every night and wait for the echoes of the lambs to stop screaming...
It was a lesson I'd carry into my adult life when I took a stab at the corporate world. I'd worked in restaurants from the time I could spell h-a-s-h s-l-i-n-g-i-n-g sleepily at 5:30 in the morning and had seen some mad staff turnover, but never could I have possibly predicted the revolving door of haggard, spent souls that make up this living compost heap of our industrial society. Every six months or so, they'd spritz us with poo water and turn us over for a whole new perspective on how we'd managed to take the path of the damned and had given the pretty path that was covered in flower petals and butterfly whispers the big throbbing finger when we accepted our position where the only benefit was that they weren't legally allowed to poke us with real pitchforks.
The jewel in this crown of thorns was a small company whose main (READ: only) client was a hulking bitch of the corporate master race. They had to have seven people sign off to decide what size the font would be on something the size of a cigarette box. Guess how many times all seven folks concurred on the first go. Go ahead. Guess. I'll wait. How did you know? Were you listening to the seventeen conference calls where you're huddled around one of those weird Trekkie reject tri-sided speaker phones next to the boss who makes you wish you were sliding down a banister made of buzz saws and ice cream headaches instead of sitting shoulder to shoulder with Screwella De Shrill and her Fawning Band of Seven Eejits?
We weren't allowed to talk to each other about anything other than the utterly meaningless task at hand. I sat next to a guy for four months before I knew he had a kid. The only way I found out his last name was from an errant e-mail he accidentally sent me. We weren't allowed to have any decorations at our desk, lest they distract us from our miserable sluggery. All of the desks faced the wall. They blocked the windows for "confidentiality" reasons so that no lurkers at our rat maze of an industrial park would get a glimpse of the newest box. Yes, box. We made boxes. BOXES. Not pacemakers or canes for small children who lost a limb sifting through candy shaped bombs, or even the little carts dogs scoot around on when their hind quarters give out. Nope. We made boxes for completely useless unnecessary shit that people lived millenia without ever having near them.
And to these owners, those boxes were where they kept our self respect and estimated worth. That is, until the day the employee would remember that boxes are wildly lame and that (s)he has an actual life to forge, unencumbered by unrealistic expectations and cheapened earthly dealings. On that day, without exception, the employee would have a "fuck this, fuck you, and fuck boxes" moment and make their future their present. It was a good day. It usually didn't take long either. In the nine months I worked there, seven different people in an office of nine total employees had that special moment. In the interim two weeks (if the departing employee hadn't just simply thrown their keys on the boss' desk and bolted), they'd bring in some poor unsuspecting bastard for an interview and short of the walls bleeding and a voice in the distance screeching "GEEEETTTTT OOOUUUUTTTT", the present employees would try to deter the fresh meat from taking the job for their own and their family's sake. But they needed the money just like we thought we needed it at the time of our acceptance of the offer and they would come to work. After about the third time of watching this cycle play out, I just stopped trying to learning anything about the newbies. I didn't want to get attached. Easter dinner was coming and I didn't want to call it by name.
In the ninth month of my frustration gestation, I had that moment. And it was delicious. I could feel the earth righting itself under my feet the second I said "I quit. I'm done. And now I'm even more done than I was a second ago. You have two weeks to find someone for me to train." I didn't have a job lined up. I hadn't even sent out one resume on the search. I just knew it was over. Done. Done. Done. So then I sent out about thirty resumes a night. The day before the two weeks was up I got the call from where I work now offering me more money, job security, peace of mind, and a benefits package straight out of the 1950s (100% health, dental, optical coverage). Things work out.
My heart still stops for a second when I hear a door slam, or if I see one of the boxes we built on a shelf in the store, but then I take a deep breath and revel in the knowledge that it's over for me. They're now down to five full time employees. Two originals from when I quit two years ago are still there. They must be going for some kind of record. But the giant corporate client has dropped the company like a dribble glass of syphilis. For the people who chose to stay there, I say a little prayer every night and wait for the echoes of the lambs to stop screaming...
Friday, November 14, 2008
Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend Me Your Ears. Seriously. I'll give them back next week. Swear.
For the last week I've not been able to hear out of my left ear. At all. My doctor is working on it and it's more than likely not a permanent state, but in the meantime this unholy suckage is unpleasantness' ugly step-cousin. Fortunately, it's not my phone ear (yes, I have one), so I can still work with our clients without interruption or distraction. So there's that.
Since I was a little kid I've had a particular fondness for my sense of hearing. Maybe it's because my eyesight makes Mr. Magoo look like he has the optical precision of a Navy S.E.A.L. Or it could be that I have a weird affinity for the nuance of different voices. For instance, some people's words get sticky when their mouths are dry (just listen to NPR host Michele Norris on "The World" to hear what it sounds like when a person hasn't had a drink of water in six months), or that certain accents are most assuredly not the person's accent of origin (a friend of mine moved to place known for its distinct accent about a year ago and somehow adopted the region's dialect in the span of a week. NOT POSSIBLE)? Have you ever been talking to a person who's telling you something important and completely lost the meaning of their words due to your preoccupation with how their thin, tiny lips are forming the sounds you're hearing? Because I have.
So, this week has been an exercise in adjustment to say the least. I'm grateful that it's just the one ear and there's no pain or balance issue, though it's proved to be troublesome in that I tend to sleep on what has become my good ear, so this morning Jason had to come in the room to wake me up because I couldn't hear the alarm. That was...strange. All of my usual "things" are fixations that I can indulge at will, except with this one, I may have to accept that I'll move forward with only half the tools to fixate on voices and music and weird outbursts this town makes from time to time. I can usually tell you what key someone's laughter is in. Joyful laughter tends to be a major while wry or ironic chortles hang in the minors. I can still hear that, but I couldn't tell you when I'm a D-sharp or a B-flat right now.
Oh well. I guess the important thing here is that I'm still laughing.
Since I was a little kid I've had a particular fondness for my sense of hearing. Maybe it's because my eyesight makes Mr. Magoo look like he has the optical precision of a Navy S.E.A.L. Or it could be that I have a weird affinity for the nuance of different voices. For instance, some people's words get sticky when their mouths are dry (just listen to NPR host Michele Norris on "The World" to hear what it sounds like when a person hasn't had a drink of water in six months), or that certain accents are most assuredly not the person's accent of origin (a friend of mine moved to place known for its distinct accent about a year ago and somehow adopted the region's dialect in the span of a week. NOT POSSIBLE)? Have you ever been talking to a person who's telling you something important and completely lost the meaning of their words due to your preoccupation with how their thin, tiny lips are forming the sounds you're hearing? Because I have.
So, this week has been an exercise in adjustment to say the least. I'm grateful that it's just the one ear and there's no pain or balance issue, though it's proved to be troublesome in that I tend to sleep on what has become my good ear, so this morning Jason had to come in the room to wake me up because I couldn't hear the alarm. That was...strange. All of my usual "things" are fixations that I can indulge at will, except with this one, I may have to accept that I'll move forward with only half the tools to fixate on voices and music and weird outbursts this town makes from time to time. I can usually tell you what key someone's laughter is in. Joyful laughter tends to be a major while wry or ironic chortles hang in the minors. I can still hear that, but I couldn't tell you when I'm a D-sharp or a B-flat right now.
Oh well. I guess the important thing here is that I'm still laughing.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
"There's more of gravy than of grave about you"
I fought myself awake this morning. Literally. I have the skinned elbow and knuckles from decking/back-'bowing the wall to prove it. The subject matter is a familiar one to me. Apparently my subconscious isn't fed enough complaint material by J's kindness in my waking life, so it feels the need to compensate for this diligent lack of abuse with horrible nightmare scenarios where he's nothing but a dirty bastard whose sole purpose is to hurt and upset me. Dream Jason is a full on git who loves to see Dream Sheila crying and wounded by horrific words and underhanded actions. In essence, he's the culmination of the ungood characteristics of every selfish, scabby cockknocker I dated before I met him.
Dream Jason doesn't get lonely, though. One of my best friends lived with me for a while with my godson for about year while she pulled herself back on her feet after a divorce. We're very much like sisters in that we share everything and trust each other completely. Well, that just wasn't good enough for my dream generator gnome because that cranky fella turned Dream T into the most hurtful, conniving wench it could unleash in my dreams. I would wake up bitter and confused that I'd missed a key clue when I was awake that informed my dreams before anyone bothered to let my waking self in on the scoop. As I do with J, I tell her right away when it happens so that they could give me a little space to still the need to put together non-existent clues into a John Nash-style masterpiece of angsty delusion.
The only other person I've met who shared this flippy floppy phenomenon of creating alter-egos for their best friends was my old roommate/life brother Ron. And while it is true that he played host to a dream terrorist shaped like a confidante, the only person he manifested in this way was...me. He even named my evil dream doppelganger Esther so that we would have a reference point for his dreams.
I can't help but feel a little bothered by the fact that my psyche won't accept pure kindness, love and trust without exercising the need to use it against me by employing the face of the people with whom I've unquestionably bonded and then stuffing them full of cruelty like some sort of profane, grotesque animated scarecrow. It's also troublesome that in some way, a friend who only encouraged positivity in our friendship was plagued by angry Esther through no fault of his own.
The meaning is hidden to me. I do believe dreams mean something, but I don't know what, short of some sort of strange compensation. Maybe it's a reminder of what life could have been if I'd made different choices. Maybe it's part of the collective unconscious that demands balance. Or perhaps it's just a chemical process that will remain unknowable to me. Whatever it is, I'll continue to fight myself awake and thank God when I wake up that the negative compensation had to make itself known that way, instead of being forced to create an atmosphere of nurturing out of whole cloth only to be awakened not by my own violence, but by that of another.
Dream Jason doesn't get lonely, though. One of my best friends lived with me for a while with my godson for about year while she pulled herself back on her feet after a divorce. We're very much like sisters in that we share everything and trust each other completely. Well, that just wasn't good enough for my dream generator gnome because that cranky fella turned Dream T into the most hurtful, conniving wench it could unleash in my dreams. I would wake up bitter and confused that I'd missed a key clue when I was awake that informed my dreams before anyone bothered to let my waking self in on the scoop. As I do with J, I tell her right away when it happens so that they could give me a little space to still the need to put together non-existent clues into a John Nash-style masterpiece of angsty delusion.
The only other person I've met who shared this flippy floppy phenomenon of creating alter-egos for their best friends was my old roommate/life brother Ron. And while it is true that he played host to a dream terrorist shaped like a confidante, the only person he manifested in this way was...me. He even named my evil dream doppelganger Esther so that we would have a reference point for his dreams.
I can't help but feel a little bothered by the fact that my psyche won't accept pure kindness, love and trust without exercising the need to use it against me by employing the face of the people with whom I've unquestionably bonded and then stuffing them full of cruelty like some sort of profane, grotesque animated scarecrow. It's also troublesome that in some way, a friend who only encouraged positivity in our friendship was plagued by angry Esther through no fault of his own.
The meaning is hidden to me. I do believe dreams mean something, but I don't know what, short of some sort of strange compensation. Maybe it's a reminder of what life could have been if I'd made different choices. Maybe it's part of the collective unconscious that demands balance. Or perhaps it's just a chemical process that will remain unknowable to me. Whatever it is, I'll continue to fight myself awake and thank God when I wake up that the negative compensation had to make itself known that way, instead of being forced to create an atmosphere of nurturing out of whole cloth only to be awakened not by my own violence, but by that of another.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
A Rose Is A Rose
There are certain people I think of when I need to remind myself that not all of humanity is comprised of bottom-feeding scumpuppies. I have an entire mental library of good souls. Each one is unique and perfect in their own ways. Five years ago one of these bastions of goodness was bestowed on our family. Emma Rose is the kind of kid who shocks me with her intensity of wit and reassures me that the future of the family is securely fastened to a star-bound messenger.
If you haven't met her yet, you should. She's an experience gift wrapped as a small brilliant child. She chews the scenery and spits out a stage for herself. And God help you if you divert your attention for even a moment. You'll miss something, guaranteed.
Emma has a knack for getting her picture or quote in the local newspaper. In fact, one day she turned to her mom and said "I would like to be in the paper again." The next week, somehow, she was. I think it was her fourth go. She manages to be in just the right place at the right time when the paparazzi strike in order to keep her public abreast of the goings on of Emma Rose.
She has a tight bond with each of her parents in a way that works for them. When her mom takes Emma to the library each week, they make sure to choose a "Daddy book" that is usually about a kid and their parent/grandparent. Only my brother is allowed to read it to her. When she was super teeny, he and Emma would have Daddy/Daughter days when Matt would take her to the coast, or out to breakfast just them. Matt and Janel both make sure their time with the kids counts. Emma, fortunately, makes for a fun adventure partner and storyteller when the adventure comes to an end.
Above all, she knows her mind, and if you stand still long enough, so will you. Especially if you've done her wrong, in her critical estimation. She has a future in the FCC. She'll let you know if the words "hate, stupid," or any curse words make it through your internal censors and in to her earshot. The fines are steep, so it's best to think before you speak around Tiny Tina, the Anti-Swearing Hyena.
This little friend of mine makes it quite easy to Remember Remember the 5th of November, and I'm purely delighted that I'm related to this sweet 5-year-old darling of Oregon.
Have a very Merry Birthday and a Happy School Year, Emma Rose!
Have a very Merry Birthday and a Happy School Year, Emma Rose!
Saturday, November 1, 2008
He's got the silver, he's got the gold
I've never been a fan of traditionally defined romantic gestures. Roses and chocolates are great if that's your gig, and they've never hurt anyone, but I just don't respond to them the way I'm "supposed" to react. Fortunately, J shows his love and affection in ways that warm my cockles without feeling forced or prescribed. His overtures tend to be functional with a sweet crunchy coating. So, I'd like to thank him for his most endearing qualities and gestures that are cheese free and full of kindness. Or just plain funny.
He keeps the cars healthy, running, and registered even though he h-a-t-e-s that he was trained as a mechanic.
He volunteers to come with me on laundry trips (washer is still broken--it's a complete dick) even when he's tired after his shift so that I won't be bored.
He remembers what color game piece I like to use when we play Trivial Pursuit.
He talks to my mom and makes her laugh on the phone until I'm finished being up to my elbows in dinner preparation.
He makes my nieces giggle and lets the wee one pet his beard when she gets curious about it.
He always always always soothes the kitties after their monthly flea treatments, and sings to them. If they need to go to the doctor, he talks to them all the way there and all the way home when they're crying and scared.
He helps me remember the entire filmography for actors I can't quite place when we're watching a movie until we hit the character I saw them as.
He confuses Glenn Close with William Hurt without exception. No explanation has been identified for this phenomenon, but I love it.
He researches new movies that are coming out and takes his Netflix list order very seriously.
He loves his little girl much and shows his fatherly adoration sincerely and without pretense.
He doesn't make judgments about people unless they're actively trying to hurt him or his family.
His patience with my "things" knows no bounds.
He watches "America's Funniest Home Videos" and reads Umberto Eco at the same time.
He treats my friends and family with genuine respect.
He researched places for our first date.
He works overnights so that he can read his books when there's a break in the work activity without interruption from co-workers.
So, Babe, with Frank's help, this one's for you. Mwah.
He keeps the cars healthy, running, and registered even though he h-a-t-e-s that he was trained as a mechanic.
He volunteers to come with me on laundry trips (washer is still broken--it's a complete dick) even when he's tired after his shift so that I won't be bored.
He remembers what color game piece I like to use when we play Trivial Pursuit.
He talks to my mom and makes her laugh on the phone until I'm finished being up to my elbows in dinner preparation.
He makes my nieces giggle and lets the wee one pet his beard when she gets curious about it.
He always always always soothes the kitties after their monthly flea treatments, and sings to them. If they need to go to the doctor, he talks to them all the way there and all the way home when they're crying and scared.
He helps me remember the entire filmography for actors I can't quite place when we're watching a movie until we hit the character I saw them as.
He confuses Glenn Close with William Hurt without exception. No explanation has been identified for this phenomenon, but I love it.
He researches new movies that are coming out and takes his Netflix list order very seriously.
He loves his little girl much and shows his fatherly adoration sincerely and without pretense.
He doesn't make judgments about people unless they're actively trying to hurt him or his family.
His patience with my "things" knows no bounds.
He watches "America's Funniest Home Videos" and reads Umberto Eco at the same time.
He treats my friends and family with genuine respect.
He researched places for our first date.
He works overnights so that he can read his books when there's a break in the work activity without interruption from co-workers.
So, Babe, with Frank's help, this one's for you. Mwah.
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