It has been a longer time between posts than I had anticipated or desired, but I have been dealing with a personal problem that has snuck up on me and taken me quite by surprise.
I feel it best to go public with this right away in hopes that getting it out into the light will help me to more quickly tackle this problem with therapy, support groups and — hopefully — some good... ehrm... effective drugs.
What I have developed, dear readers, is an insidious psychological dependence upon an artificial crutch, something which I find I must take in ever increasing doses to help me get through my day with a sense of sanity, yet I know the more I rely upon this crutch the more truly insane I become.
I have an addiction, dear readers. I am addicted to Facebook.
As an alcoholic unwittingly starts down his path of madness with the first sip of the nectar of his undoing, it all started innocently enough about a year ago. I signed up just to see what the Facebook hubbub was all about. A couple of my friends from the internet radio station Flashback Alternatives were on it, and I “friended” some of them, and was inundated with silly apps, which I mostly ignored. And then it was all I could do to remember that I had an account, and about once every month or so I would log in and see that nobody had really tried to reach me, but rather I had accumulated dozens of movie quiz requests, snowball fights, pillow fights and pokes.
Then one day I checked online and ran across a woman whose husband had been a casual friend of mine about whom I had not heard a peep in the 29 years since I last saw him, right before he was graduated from high school, two years before I reached my senior year. I received a friend request from her, which I accepted, and from then on names of other people I had not seen in more than 20 years began popping up on her friends list and in my friends request box!
I quickly became fairly adept at creating clever status updates. I played along with the memes. I actively looked up people with whom I wanted to reconnect. I furtively logged on at work, making sure to keep the office e-mail page ready — or, even better, some photographic work — easily accessed with the click of a tab in case a supervisor or the company owner happened to walk past my very public cubicle, and I clicked over many times in an hour just to see if anyone commented on my latest status update or on my comment to theirs.
And, once an obsession now managed with balance and care, Farrago suffered. Many times did I sit at the computer, thinking of the post I wanted to write while my fingers danced out my Facebook login and password across the keyboard, and I would be once again sucked into the network vortex of status updates and comments, random memes and Super Pokes.
And now Farrago looks like a forlorn, neglected child, both the object of my pity as an abandoned waif, and of my derision as an unwanted responsibility, as I repeatedly turn my back on it in favor of logging in to Facebook and feeling the warmth of all those fingers reaching out to me, and I lie in the corner tucked into the fetal position, drooling on the floor.
But I must fight this unnatural draw to the nefarious Facebook. Yes, she has her claws in me now, but I know her grip will loosen when she believes I am hers alone. I must remain aware, within my electronically assisted nostalgic stupor, of that grip, and of when it loosens, so that I can wrest my mind free and run to the light of day-to-day responsibility, of balanced and diverse free-time activities, and when I can resist the lesser memes and concentrate on only the really cool ones, like the “Your Album” meme, where you go to Wikipedia and click on “Random Article,” and the title of that articled becomes the name of your band, and then you click on “Random Quotes, and you go to the bottom of that page and take the last four or five words of the last quote on the page, and that becomes your first album’s title, and then you go to Flickr, click on “Explore the last 7 days,” choose the third photo on the page, and that becomes your album cover art, and then you create the album cover with Photoshop or another graphics program, and...
Oh, dear god.... This is going to take a while....
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Lifestyle All Fluxed Up
In July of 2007, my employer bought a new building and we moved into it immediately afterward. We increased our square footage by at least double, which afforded the owner — and his employees — some opportunities impossible at the other place. Among them was enough space to create a workout room, where he has installed a gym-quality elliptical trainer and a recumbent cycle trainer. He also had a large shower room built in at the rear of the building. Since sometime in the summer the owner and my former boss have been making good use of the workout room.
Since I began working out with a personal trainer, I've had to alter my morning routine. At first it was just Mondays and Wednesdays, as I have early workout times (6:00am and 6:30am, respectively), and since the office is approximately mid-way between the workout office and my home, I've just been driving to work from my workouts and showering and dressing there.
George, the Personal Trainer, has recommended that I get in some cardio in the days between workouts. There's a small gym here at my apartment complex (it turns out I picked a really nice apartment complex!), but it doesn't open until 8:00, it seems, so working out here and getting to work at a decent time are not possible. So now I've started going to the office early on my non-George, the Personal Trainer, days!
I'm not showering at home, any more, except on the weekends! Not only that, but I'm unable to eat breakfast at home, either. Oh, by George's suggestion, I nibble on some cottage cheese and sip some fruit juice in the morning before I head to my workout, but I don't want too much on my stomach for that. This morning (Tuesday) I brought a bag of Kashi Heart To Heart cereal and a half gallon of my milk (which does not bode well...see below) to the office, where I had a proper breakfast after my 30-minute cardio session on the elliptical trainer.
I feel like I'm living at the office, these days. I don't like that feeling.
LD Hell
I got some sorta bad news Monday morning. The doctor with fingers the size of elbows, who insisted on giving me a prostate exam Saturday (for the entire 42 minutes he was probing around in there, I kept saying to myself, "Some people actually ENJOY this?!"), called me to tell me that my lab results from my physical and blood work had come in.
My cholesterol is high. My good cholesterol level (HDL) is below the point it's supposed to be above, and my bad cholesterol level (LDL) (Why don't they just change them to GCL and BCL?) is above the point it should be below. For the first time in my life, I'm not average!! My total cholesterol is 984 or something.
Maybe more like 238.
Crap.
So it would seem that I've chosen the right time — perhaps a little behind the curve — to start working out.
And once I get this tingling sensation all up and down the left side of my body to stop, then I'll really hit it!
°
Since I began working out with a personal trainer, I've had to alter my morning routine. At first it was just Mondays and Wednesdays, as I have early workout times (6:00am and 6:30am, respectively), and since the office is approximately mid-way between the workout office and my home, I've just been driving to work from my workouts and showering and dressing there.
George, the Personal Trainer, has recommended that I get in some cardio in the days between workouts. There's a small gym here at my apartment complex (it turns out I picked a really nice apartment complex!), but it doesn't open until 8:00, it seems, so working out here and getting to work at a decent time are not possible. So now I've started going to the office early on my non-George, the Personal Trainer, days!
I'm not showering at home, any more, except on the weekends! Not only that, but I'm unable to eat breakfast at home, either. Oh, by George's suggestion, I nibble on some cottage cheese and sip some fruit juice in the morning before I head to my workout, but I don't want too much on my stomach for that. This morning (Tuesday) I brought a bag of Kashi Heart To Heart cereal and a half gallon of my milk (which does not bode well...see below) to the office, where I had a proper breakfast after my 30-minute cardio session on the elliptical trainer.
I feel like I'm living at the office, these days. I don't like that feeling.
LD Hell
I got some sorta bad news Monday morning. The doctor with fingers the size of elbows, who insisted on giving me a prostate exam Saturday (for the entire 42 minutes he was probing around in there, I kept saying to myself, "Some people actually ENJOY this?!"), called me to tell me that my lab results from my physical and blood work had come in.
My cholesterol is high. My good cholesterol level (HDL) is below the point it's supposed to be above, and my bad cholesterol level (LDL) (Why don't they just change them to GCL and BCL?) is above the point it should be below. For the first time in my life, I'm not average!! My total cholesterol is 984 or something.
Maybe more like 238.
Crap.
So it would seem that I've chosen the right time — perhaps a little behind the curve — to start working out.
And once I get this tingling sensation all up and down the left side of my body to stop, then I'll really hit it!
°
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Some of My Stuff
As a sister post to What I Do, here's a link to follow to the LIFE Foundation website, where you can find some examples of my work...if you care to look.
On the left side of the page look for the topic "LIFE Programs," and under that "realLIFEstories." You'll find them there, under the sub-sub-headers of "Life Insurance," "Insurance For Business," et.al. I only shot the video, which means I lit the interviews, shot the interviews and the secondary footage, monitored the audio, and did all the traveling to get to those people. I didn't do any editing or picking what to use out of what everyone said.
I didn't do all of those that are to be found there. Mine are:
Custead
Danduran
Hecker
Junk (the follow-up)
Lewis
Rowe
Bloomer
Cunard
Howell
Mentz
Hines
Geistler
Prier
Shore
Wrenn
Moore
Striepe
Sweborg
On the left side of the page look for the topic "LIFE Programs," and under that "realLIFEstories." You'll find them there, under the sub-sub-headers of "Life Insurance," "Insurance For Business," et.al. I only shot the video, which means I lit the interviews, shot the interviews and the secondary footage, monitored the audio, and did all the traveling to get to those people. I didn't do any editing or picking what to use out of what everyone said.
I didn't do all of those that are to be found there. Mine are:
Custead
Danduran
Hecker
Junk (the follow-up)
Lewis
Rowe
Bloomer
Cunard
Howell
Mentz
Hines
Geistler
Prier
Shore
Wrenn
Moore
Striepe
Sweborg
Phoning It In
Satan — in the earthly form of George, the Personal Trainer — had me work the back muscles this morning, and so now I can't sit up straight without crying for my mommy. Instead of putting forth some real thought tonight, I'll transcribe some thought I put forth a couple nights ago for my Facebook page.
Consider yourself tagged. Every. Last. One. Of. You! (except kenju. She already done did it.)
25 Random Things About Me
Rules:
Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.
(To do this on your Facebook page, go to "notes" under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)
1. I usually have no clue what I'm going to write when I start one of these things, and then when I'm done I feel I've barely scratched the surface.
2. It's been a slow progression, but I have come to prefer dots to separate the area code and prefix from the extension when I write or type telephone numbers. I like 312.867.5309 instead of 312-867-5309.
3. Whenever I get a hole in a sock, I throw the sock away and keep the good one, because I usually have another pair like it, and one of those is eventually going to get a hole in it, so then I'll still have at least one good pair.
4. It really pisses me off when filling out contact information on a website, and the web form doesn't allow dots to separate the area code and prefix from the extension when entering telephone numbers.
5. It has taken me more than a year to "move in" completely to my apartment. I still have a bunch of junk in boxes taking up prime space in my living room. I just NOW, finally, rented a small storage space to put that crap in.
6. Karaoke no longer scares me.
7. Sometimes I fear that my coworkers think I'm a fraud.
8. Sometimes I think I'm a fraud.
9. My preference in underwear (my own) is evolving.
10. I pay someone else to do my laundry, and I think it's well worth having that time to myself.
11. I have no secret talents...at least none that I'm aware of.
12. I originated the conundrum, "If I told you I was a chronic liar, would you believe me?"
13. I love bananas, but I hate anything "banana-flavored."
14. I love green peppers raw, but will not go near them cooked.
15. I have never tasted tequila. I can't get past the smell making me feel that I would puke if I drank it.
16. I have never been so drunk that I've puked.
17. I have been drunk enough that I licked spilled liquor off the floor...and then been subsequently lifted off that floor by my hair in an effort to prevent me from licking the booze off the floor. ...when I had hair.
18. I am a Mayflower Descendant. William Brewster, who was the leader of the Puritan church, and the pilgrims' elder, was my 11th great grandfather. The first governor of the Territory of Montana was my 1st cousin-five-times-removed. The guy who is credited with the invention of the photo-strobe and, hence, stop-motion photography, was my 8th cousin, and has a building named after him at MIT. And I may be related to one of the two guys who established the Burger King enterprise.
19. I have always liked to dig lint out of crevices, and the fuzz out of the 'hook' side of velcro. It's probably what I'll do all day when I lose my faculties and am a walking vegetable...but preferably not a cooked pepper.
20. I am about one-third of the way through writing a novel, but life and a lack of self-discipline are keeping me from it.
21. When I was younger I used to be able to crack more than 65 joints in my body, and did so regularly: 28 in my feet, both knees, six in my arms, 30 in my hands and four or five in my neck and lower back. Now it's all I can do to reach my toes.
22. In 1993 I went blind in my left eye due to an occurrence called "Central Retinal Vein Occlusion." What that means is that the vein carrying blood from my left eye was somehow blocked, which caused the blood to back up into my eye, causing the retina to hemorrhage, resulting in rendering the eye effectively sightless. An orbit surgeon performed a Retinal Vein Decompression procedure, opening the optic nerve sheath which houses the optic nerve, the retinal artery and the retinal vein, to relieve a possible over-pressure of spinal fluid in the sheath, as that was the only thing he could figure it was after all the tests came up negative. Knowing it was too late to save any vision, the doctor's only concern with the surgery was to stop the hemorrhage in the eye. The center core of sight is gone, but I do have peripheral vision in the eye...so don't be thinking you can sneak up on me from my left.
23. I can't stand cigarette smoke and, therefore, don't smoke 'em. However I do like the smell of cigars on fire. I'm not allowed to smoke in my apartment, but, now that I have a nice deck chair, this spring and summer I will partake of cigars on my balcony.
24. I love movies, but, with rare exception, I can't, for the life of me, quote dialogue from even the most well-known of them like just about everyone else around me can.
25. I lead a very boring life. How do I know this? It has taken me two days to come up with stuff for this list, and I keep falling asleep while trying to think of what to write about.
Consider yourself tagged. Every. Last. One. Of. You! (except kenju. She already done did it.)
25 Random Things About Me
Rules:
Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.
(To do this on your Facebook page, go to "notes" under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)
1. I usually have no clue what I'm going to write when I start one of these things, and then when I'm done I feel I've barely scratched the surface.
2. It's been a slow progression, but I have come to prefer dots to separate the area code and prefix from the extension when I write or type telephone numbers. I like 312.867.5309 instead of 312-867-5309.
3. Whenever I get a hole in a sock, I throw the sock away and keep the good one, because I usually have another pair like it, and one of those is eventually going to get a hole in it, so then I'll still have at least one good pair.
4. It really pisses me off when filling out contact information on a website, and the web form doesn't allow dots to separate the area code and prefix from the extension when entering telephone numbers.
5. It has taken me more than a year to "move in" completely to my apartment. I still have a bunch of junk in boxes taking up prime space in my living room. I just NOW, finally, rented a small storage space to put that crap in.
6. Karaoke no longer scares me.
7. Sometimes I fear that my coworkers think I'm a fraud.
8. Sometimes I think I'm a fraud.
9. My preference in underwear (my own) is evolving.
10. I pay someone else to do my laundry, and I think it's well worth having that time to myself.
11. I have no secret talents...at least none that I'm aware of.
12. I originated the conundrum, "If I told you I was a chronic liar, would you believe me?"
13. I love bananas, but I hate anything "banana-flavored."
14. I love green peppers raw, but will not go near them cooked.
15. I have never tasted tequila. I can't get past the smell making me feel that I would puke if I drank it.
16. I have never been so drunk that I've puked.
17. I have been drunk enough that I licked spilled liquor off the floor...and then been subsequently lifted off that floor by my hair in an effort to prevent me from licking the booze off the floor. ...when I had hair.
18. I am a Mayflower Descendant. William Brewster, who was the leader of the Puritan church, and the pilgrims' elder, was my 11th great grandfather. The first governor of the Territory of Montana was my 1st cousin-five-times-removed. The guy who is credited with the invention of the photo-strobe and, hence, stop-motion photography, was my 8th cousin, and has a building named after him at MIT. And I may be related to one of the two guys who established the Burger King enterprise.
19. I have always liked to dig lint out of crevices, and the fuzz out of the 'hook' side of velcro. It's probably what I'll do all day when I lose my faculties and am a walking vegetable...but preferably not a cooked pepper.
20. I am about one-third of the way through writing a novel, but life and a lack of self-discipline are keeping me from it.
21. When I was younger I used to be able to crack more than 65 joints in my body, and did so regularly: 28 in my feet, both knees, six in my arms, 30 in my hands and four or five in my neck and lower back. Now it's all I can do to reach my toes.
22. In 1993 I went blind in my left eye due to an occurrence called "Central Retinal Vein Occlusion." What that means is that the vein carrying blood from my left eye was somehow blocked, which caused the blood to back up into my eye, causing the retina to hemorrhage, resulting in rendering the eye effectively sightless. An orbit surgeon performed a Retinal Vein Decompression procedure, opening the optic nerve sheath which houses the optic nerve, the retinal artery and the retinal vein, to relieve a possible over-pressure of spinal fluid in the sheath, as that was the only thing he could figure it was after all the tests came up negative. Knowing it was too late to save any vision, the doctor's only concern with the surgery was to stop the hemorrhage in the eye. The center core of sight is gone, but I do have peripheral vision in the eye...so don't be thinking you can sneak up on me from my left.
23. I can't stand cigarette smoke and, therefore, don't smoke 'em. However I do like the smell of cigars on fire. I'm not allowed to smoke in my apartment, but, now that I have a nice deck chair, this spring and summer I will partake of cigars on my balcony.
24. I love movies, but, with rare exception, I can't, for the life of me, quote dialogue from even the most well-known of them like just about everyone else around me can.
25. I lead a very boring life. How do I know this? It has taken me two days to come up with stuff for this list, and I keep falling asleep while trying to think of what to write about.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Ugh
OR:The Not Yet, But Soon To Be, New and Improved Farrago Follow-Up
Well, George didn't kill me, after all. But he did make me very aware of what a huge wimp I am. He's a big believer in the "pure" physical arts, those that require no machinery to work the body. So I was doing squats and lunges and something he called a "body row," which sorta did use a piece of machinery, but it was just a rack-suspended weight bar I swung my legs under, with my feet on the floor and the rest of my body hanging by my arms and facing up at the bar. Then, using my arms and my shoulder muscles (what shoulder muscles?!), I had to raise my chest to the bar. It was pretty easy… the first three reps. Suddenly my upper arms and my shoulders started protesting, and suddenly I was no longer happy that I spent so much goddamn money on this lark.
To give me a little break, George switched me to an inclined pushup. He apparently could tell that I would never make it through a regular pushup, so he put me on the same bar, only a little lower, and I drew my feet back and did pushups on the bar. That proved to be only slightly easier than the body row.
After all that embarrassment, George gave me what looked sorta like a black basketball with handles carved into it. He demonstrated this exercise where he spread his feet shoulder width apart and held the "ball" down by his ankles with both hands. Then he raised the "ball" up over his head, extending his torso as tall as he could, and raising up on his toes.
It was the gayest looking thing I've ever seen in a gym.
Then he handed the "ball" to me to do it, because I'm not paying him to let me watch him do my exercises…and DAMN if I couldn't do that one, either, without wobbling and teetering and thinking I must have looked like I just came straight to the gym from an all night bar!
And today? I. am. sore. everywhere. But, especially sore are the man-boobs. Holy Cheeses Chrysler! I've been sore there before, but that wasn't after 20 solid years of lying motionless on a couch! And I'm sore on the inside of my thighs under my butt, right behind the jewels.
I'VE NEVER BEEN SORE THERE IN MY LIFE!
Sorry for the TMI.
And when I push with my arms to get out of a chair, I feel my triceps muscles — all five or eight or twelve of them…whatever — and they're a little pissed at me right now.
Today is Thursday, as I write. Wednesday morning was my first workout with George; my next one is Saturday. Yesterday, as I was wheezing after my breath following the second set of body rows, and anticipating the sore muscles, I said to George, "I'm gonna hate you tomorrow."
He said, "That's okay. I'm used to it. You're gonna hate me even more on Friday."
Oh, god.
°
Well, George didn't kill me, after all. But he did make me very aware of what a huge wimp I am. He's a big believer in the "pure" physical arts, those that require no machinery to work the body. So I was doing squats and lunges and something he called a "body row," which sorta did use a piece of machinery, but it was just a rack-suspended weight bar I swung my legs under, with my feet on the floor and the rest of my body hanging by my arms and facing up at the bar. Then, using my arms and my shoulder muscles (what shoulder muscles?!), I had to raise my chest to the bar. It was pretty easy… the first three reps. Suddenly my upper arms and my shoulders started protesting, and suddenly I was no longer happy that I spent so much goddamn money on this lark.
To give me a little break, George switched me to an inclined pushup. He apparently could tell that I would never make it through a regular pushup, so he put me on the same bar, only a little lower, and I drew my feet back and did pushups on the bar. That proved to be only slightly easier than the body row.
After all that embarrassment, George gave me what looked sorta like a black basketball with handles carved into it. He demonstrated this exercise where he spread his feet shoulder width apart and held the "ball" down by his ankles with both hands. Then he raised the "ball" up over his head, extending his torso as tall as he could, and raising up on his toes.
It was the gayest looking thing I've ever seen in a gym.
Then he handed the "ball" to me to do it, because I'm not paying him to let me watch him do my exercises…and DAMN if I couldn't do that one, either, without wobbling and teetering and thinking I must have looked like I just came straight to the gym from an all night bar!
And today? I. am. sore. everywhere. But, especially sore are the man-boobs. Holy Cheeses Chrysler! I've been sore there before, but that wasn't after 20 solid years of lying motionless on a couch! And I'm sore on the inside of my thighs under my butt, right behind the jewels.
I'VE NEVER BEEN SORE THERE IN MY LIFE!
Sorry for the TMI.
And when I push with my arms to get out of a chair, I feel my triceps muscles — all five or eight or twelve of them…whatever — and they're a little pissed at me right now.
Today is Thursday, as I write. Wednesday morning was my first workout with George; my next one is Saturday. Yesterday, as I was wheezing after my breath following the second set of body rows, and anticipating the sore muscles, I said to George, "I'm gonna hate you tomorrow."
He said, "That's okay. I'm used to it. You're gonna hate me even more on Friday."
Oh, god.
°
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
The Not Yet, But Soon To Be, New and Improved Farrago
Well, I've gone and done it. Last Saturday I found a facility closer to home than the one I had been planning on using. I spoke with a man there and underwent a brief assessment, and then I paid the fee. Wednesday morning is my first session with George, the Personal Trainer.
ZOINKS!! What have I done?!
This guy is gonna kill me! He's tall, he's big, he's buff (not huge body-builder buff, but really really fit and muscular), and he lets out sort of an evil laugh every time I comment about how out of shape I am.
And, as a guy, I can't tell you how unnerving it is to be told to stand there, immobile, while a tall, big, buff dude is eyeing you up and down. He called it a general fitness assessment, but I felt like I was the poor farmer girl's pitiful cow before the judge at the state fair!
But, seriously, I'm finally putting my money where my mouth is, and I gotta tell you, it tastes like crap! Have you ever stuck money in your mouth? PHTHEEWWW! And then George wouldn't take it because it was all slobbery, so I had to pay with my debit card. Good thing he doesn't know where I've been sticking that!
Okay, but really seriously, I am finally doing what I've been saying since last summer that I was going to do, that I wanted to do. I know from some 35 years of experience being me in such a situation, that I won't do this on my own. I need someone standing over me or behind me telling me what to do and to keep doing it, at least to start. Hopefully I'll move into that zone where I feel I must work out in order to feel that my day is complete. Otherwise, Push Fitness is gonna make a lot of money off of me…or I'll wind up like this guy.
°
ZOINKS!! What have I done?!
This guy is gonna kill me! He's tall, he's big, he's buff (not huge body-builder buff, but really really fit and muscular), and he lets out sort of an evil laugh every time I comment about how out of shape I am.
And, as a guy, I can't tell you how unnerving it is to be told to stand there, immobile, while a tall, big, buff dude is eyeing you up and down. He called it a general fitness assessment, but I felt like I was the poor farmer girl's pitiful cow before the judge at the state fair!
But, seriously, I'm finally putting my money where my mouth is, and I gotta tell you, it tastes like crap! Have you ever stuck money in your mouth? PHTHEEWWW! And then George wouldn't take it because it was all slobbery, so I had to pay with my debit card. Good thing he doesn't know where I've been sticking that!
Okay, but really seriously, I am finally doing what I've been saying since last summer that I was going to do, that I wanted to do. I know from some 35 years of experience being me in such a situation, that I won't do this on my own. I need someone standing over me or behind me telling me what to do and to keep doing it, at least to start. Hopefully I'll move into that zone where I feel I must work out in order to feel that my day is complete. Otherwise, Push Fitness is gonna make a lot of money off of me…or I'll wind up like this guy.
°
Making the Bunnies Laugh
I imagine there are a lot of guys like me, who consider themselves witty and, therefore, like to try to make people laugh. Some of us are pretty good at it, others of us really need to stick to the day job.
Despite where I'd like to believe I am in that crowd, I'm probably somewhere in the middle, toward the lower end.
But I have my moments.
In New Orleans last week, in conjunction with the client's convention meeting, there was a huge exposition hall stuffed to the gills with cars, gadgets for cars, gadgets for dealerships and garages and lending companies, gadgets for gadget distributors… you name it: if it was designed for use in, on, about or around cars or car dealerships, it was probably there.
One notion some of this particular client's exhibitors can't seem to shed is that it is an all male industry. So, in accordance with that ignorant belief, some of them continue to staff their booths with relatively scantily clad female model types. Don't get me wrong... I like the scantily clad model types, but they're hardly appropriate anymore for an increasingly "co-ed" industry.
One booth I passed by many times had arranged to have recent Playboy® Centerfold™ models on hand to sign autographs on their photos (fully dressed) for anybody who wanted one (a photo). Naturally, I, being single and relatively horny, naturally I made my way over there. At that particular time of the day, the 'Playboy® booth' was staffed by two women — twins — who had been featured in the December 2008 issue of the magazine.
While I stood there gawking because — despite the fact that they actually looked and sounded a little 'white trash' — these were real, live Playboy® Playmates™ who, at some point in the past, had actually been naked, and though they were dressed fairly conservatively in long, fluffy dresses with school-marm-ish heels, their cleavage was on display, my mind was racing to figure out some way to talk to them. …the girls, not their cleavage….
I looked down and noticed the big betacam that was dangling at the end of my right arm. Holy SHIT! I'm working! PERFECT!!
So, knowing full well that our client contact who is in charge of approving the video would never allow two cleavage-forward white-trash bimbos to jiggle their way into her highlights video and, further, knowing that, despite my apparently wasted effort, the editors would appreciate a brief little eye massage, I hoisted the camera up onto my shoulder and instructed the young ladies to wait for my cue and then to look at the camera and smile when I said so (that being my cue).
I put my eye to the viewfinder, and then I stopped as an idea hit me. I pulled my eye away from the viewfinder and looked at the two young beauties sitting there waiting for me to do my thing.
And I smiled at them and said, "But keep your clothes on."
And they laughed!
With the possible exception of a wild night of debauched threesome action with twenty-something twin sisters, nothing warms the heart of a divorced, 40s, bald, fat man more than the lilting laughter of two nymphs giggling at his jokes.
About two hours and about eight miles of convention center walking later, I returned to the booth where the twins still sat signing autographs. Producer was in tow this time, and his eyes read shock and pleasure alternately as he took in their shapely forms. We chatted briefly with one of the guys running the booth who has a real job related to the auto industry. And then I got another idea.
There was a momentary lull in the autograph seekers, so I sauntered over to the two young women and asked, "Do you have a copy of the magazine issue you appeared in?"
One of them said, somewhat apologetically, "No."
And then, almost as if we had rehearsed it, Producer said, "Why? You want them to sign the magazine?"
"No," I replied. "I just want to see what they look like nak—" I darted my eyes to the girls in mock alarm, and then I darted them all over as I "lied." "Um, er, ah …articles… I wanted to ch-check out the articles!"
And they laughed!
Yup. I have my moments.
°
Despite where I'd like to believe I am in that crowd, I'm probably somewhere in the middle, toward the lower end.
But I have my moments.
In New Orleans last week, in conjunction with the client's convention meeting, there was a huge exposition hall stuffed to the gills with cars, gadgets for cars, gadgets for dealerships and garages and lending companies, gadgets for gadget distributors… you name it: if it was designed for use in, on, about or around cars or car dealerships, it was probably there.
One notion some of this particular client's exhibitors can't seem to shed is that it is an all male industry. So, in accordance with that ignorant belief, some of them continue to staff their booths with relatively scantily clad female model types. Don't get me wrong... I like the scantily clad model types, but they're hardly appropriate anymore for an increasingly "co-ed" industry.
One booth I passed by many times had arranged to have recent Playboy® Centerfold™ models on hand to sign autographs on their photos (fully dressed) for anybody who wanted one (a photo). Naturally, I, being single and relatively horny, naturally I made my way over there. At that particular time of the day, the 'Playboy® booth' was staffed by two women — twins — who had been featured in the December 2008 issue of the magazine.
While I stood there gawking because — despite the fact that they actually looked and sounded a little 'white trash' — these were real, live Playboy® Playmates™ who, at some point in the past, had actually been naked, and though they were dressed fairly conservatively in long, fluffy dresses with school-marm-ish heels, their cleavage was on display, my mind was racing to figure out some way to talk to them. …the girls, not their cleavage….
I looked down and noticed the big betacam that was dangling at the end of my right arm. Holy SHIT! I'm working! PERFECT!!
So, knowing full well that our client contact who is in charge of approving the video would never allow two cleavage-forward white-trash bimbos to jiggle their way into her highlights video and, further, knowing that, despite my apparently wasted effort, the editors would appreciate a brief little eye massage, I hoisted the camera up onto my shoulder and instructed the young ladies to wait for my cue and then to look at the camera and smile when I said so (that being my cue).
I put my eye to the viewfinder, and then I stopped as an idea hit me. I pulled my eye away from the viewfinder and looked at the two young beauties sitting there waiting for me to do my thing.
And I smiled at them and said, "But keep your clothes on."
And they laughed!
With the possible exception of a wild night of debauched threesome action with twenty-something twin sisters, nothing warms the heart of a divorced, 40s, bald, fat man more than the lilting laughter of two nymphs giggling at his jokes.
About two hours and about eight miles of convention center walking later, I returned to the booth where the twins still sat signing autographs. Producer was in tow this time, and his eyes read shock and pleasure alternately as he took in their shapely forms. We chatted briefly with one of the guys running the booth who has a real job related to the auto industry. And then I got another idea.
There was a momentary lull in the autograph seekers, so I sauntered over to the two young women and asked, "Do you have a copy of the magazine issue you appeared in?"
One of them said, somewhat apologetically, "No."
And then, almost as if we had rehearsed it, Producer said, "Why? You want them to sign the magazine?"
"No," I replied. "I just want to see what they look like nak—" I darted my eyes to the girls in mock alarm, and then I darted them all over as I "lied." "Um, er, ah …articles… I wanted to ch-check out the articles!"
And they laughed!
Yup. I have my moments.
°
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Another Word For "Happy"
It’s funny how life occasionally brings us classic moments. I sit in my New Orleans hotel room after a long day on my feet (it was a long day on the rest of me, too!), and I am compelled by an incident that happened to me here in this city back in 2002 to share a story that begs to be told.
As part of my job, I had to capture video footage of New Orleans's most popular tourist attraction, Bourbon Street. The stupid part of it was that I was sent out in the afternoon to do it. My producer — who I usually refer to here as Producer, so as to avoid any confusion — went along with me to “help.”
We had worked a long morning, and we were both pretty hungry, so Producer suggested we stop for a bite to eat before we hit the strip. As is his usual, he’ll say something like that, and then say, “So what do you want?”
To which I usually reply, “I don’t care, whatever you want is fine with me.”
And he usually replies, “I don’t care, either…you pick.”
And usually, after I suppress the urge to kick him in the groin, I’ll make a suggestion, which he will reject because of any number of reasons: the place looks dirty (have you ever been to New Orleans before?!); it looks like they only serve seafood; he heard somebody say they didn’t care for their salad… you name it, he’ll find a reason not to go in there.
Out of necessity, we fairly quickly decided on a place on Convention Center Rd., called Mulate’s. As I recall, they seemed to specialize in Po’ Boy sandwiches, and, being fairly new to the New Orleans kitsch, I decided I would try me a shrimp Po’ Boy.
I don’t recall that the sandwich was anything to write about, but the food had come quickly enough. After the meal we scuttled back across the street to our designated edit room in the convention center and grabbed the camera. We hailed a cab and directed the driver to take us to the point where Bourbon Street Begins…or ends, depending on which side of your binge you’re on….
About twenty to thirty minutes into getting the various shots of anything interesting that we could shoot on a Sunday afternoon, I started getting bad abdominal cramps. I’ll never be certain if there was something wrong with the food we had at lunch or if the unseasonably warm temperatures caused my stomach upset, but after one of the shots I told Producer, “I’m gonna have to hit a bathroom soon.” We were about halfway down the “interesting” part of Bourbon Street.
With each establishment that we passed, Producer asked me if I wanted to go in there. I was holding off pretty well because I wasn’t too keen on using the facilities at any of the places along Bourbon Street (have you ever been to New Orleans before?!), but as we got to the end of the bars and souvenir shops, I said, “Okay, I cant wait any longer." We were steps away from the wide open doors of a bar, and we stepped inside. The air conditioning was on, and there were ceiling fans moving the cooled air around nicely. Producer took the camera from me, said he was dying for a beer, and asked me if I wanted something to drink. I said, “Coke,” and headed off toward the bathroom. On my way, I glanced up at the TV over the bar and noticed that it must have been tuned to HBO or some other movie channel, because a Julie Andrews musical number from the film Victor, Victoria was playing.
I stepped into the men’s room and was immediately dismayed that none of the toilet stalls had doors on them. If I have a true mental hang-up, it’s the absence of a door on any toilet stall I need to use. It stems from all the way back in kindergarten, when, at our school in which the bathroom toilet stalls did not have doors on them, two kids, Matt and Mark, used to torment me in the bathroom because, at age five, I still sat on the toilet to pee. That is the stuff that hang-ups are made of. You can imagine the hell that Air force basic training was for me…. but I digress.
There was no decision to make, as I was about to soil my underwear. I simply stepped to the nearest stall and went about my business. Sitting there after the first wave of “joy” passed, I saw a man enter the bathroom. He walked slowly and turned his head slightly in my direction, but turned left, away from me. Just before he turned to enter the side of the men’s room where the urinals were, he turned his head full-on and looked at me. HELLO! Do you mind? I'm poopin', here!
That was weird.
After the second wave passed, I noticed that the sound from the TV had changed, and Victor, Victoria had now been replaced with the goofy little musical number in the scene in Mrs. Doubtfire where Harvey Fierstein is giving make-up pointers to Robin Williams. Little things started falling into place in my head. The door-less toilet stalls; the lingering look from the guy who entered the bathroom after I had gotten down to business; two movies with cross-dressing as their major themes…. “Is this a gay bar?” I heard the voice in my head ask me. “Nah, must just be a coincidence,” the other voice answered. “Kill all of your co-workers,” said the third voice, but I’m usually able to tune that one out….
Meanwhile, out in the bar, Producer was sipping at his ice-cold bottle of beer, and he was just as perplexed when the Mrs. Doubtfire clip started up. Then he looked around and noticed that most of the bar patrons were men, and they all seemed to be paired off with each other, as were the only two women in the place. The other thing he noticed was that, to a person, everyone in the establishment was staring at him.
The weird guy in the bathroom (other than I) finished his business and stepped back around into my view. As he stepped toward the doorway out to the bar he gave me another lingering look. I had already instinctively covered up my privates, but in that moment, two thoughts formed very clearly in my head: I wish I had a third hand to help cover me; and this MUST be a gay bar!
Such a suspicion causes most straight men to pucker down below, and whether I felt I was finished or not, any further voiding was impossible. I quickly cleaned up, put myself back together, washed up and headed back out into the bar. Producer — who rarely carries anything for me — stood at the end of the bar holding my camera and a to-go cup of my Coke. A guy who really likes to savor his beer, Producer had already set his bottle on the bar, empty and still glistening with condensation. “Ready?” he asked me with odd strain in his voice.
“Yes!” I said, I’m certain with as much strain in mine.
I took the cup and the camera from his hands, and we both headed out the door. No more than five steps past the place, I said confidentially to Producer out of the corner of my mouth, “Was that a gay bar?”
With nervous exasperation, Producer said, “Yes!”
About five steps later we were both so doubled over in laughter and practically rolling in the gutter that passers-by must have thought we were still reveling from the night before…or starting early for the night to come! Talk about a couple of fish out of water!
°
As part of my job, I had to capture video footage of New Orleans's most popular tourist attraction, Bourbon Street. The stupid part of it was that I was sent out in the afternoon to do it. My producer — who I usually refer to here as Producer, so as to avoid any confusion — went along with me to “help.”
We had worked a long morning, and we were both pretty hungry, so Producer suggested we stop for a bite to eat before we hit the strip. As is his usual, he’ll say something like that, and then say, “So what do you want?”
To which I usually reply, “I don’t care, whatever you want is fine with me.”
And he usually replies, “I don’t care, either…you pick.”
And usually, after I suppress the urge to kick him in the groin, I’ll make a suggestion, which he will reject because of any number of reasons: the place looks dirty (have you ever been to New Orleans before?!); it looks like they only serve seafood; he heard somebody say they didn’t care for their salad… you name it, he’ll find a reason not to go in there.
Out of necessity, we fairly quickly decided on a place on Convention Center Rd., called Mulate’s. As I recall, they seemed to specialize in Po’ Boy sandwiches, and, being fairly new to the New Orleans kitsch, I decided I would try me a shrimp Po’ Boy.
I don’t recall that the sandwich was anything to write about, but the food had come quickly enough. After the meal we scuttled back across the street to our designated edit room in the convention center and grabbed the camera. We hailed a cab and directed the driver to take us to the point where Bourbon Street Begins…or ends, depending on which side of your binge you’re on….
About twenty to thirty minutes into getting the various shots of anything interesting that we could shoot on a Sunday afternoon, I started getting bad abdominal cramps. I’ll never be certain if there was something wrong with the food we had at lunch or if the unseasonably warm temperatures caused my stomach upset, but after one of the shots I told Producer, “I’m gonna have to hit a bathroom soon.” We were about halfway down the “interesting” part of Bourbon Street.
With each establishment that we passed, Producer asked me if I wanted to go in there. I was holding off pretty well because I wasn’t too keen on using the facilities at any of the places along Bourbon Street (have you ever been to New Orleans before?!), but as we got to the end of the bars and souvenir shops, I said, “Okay, I cant wait any longer." We were steps away from the wide open doors of a bar, and we stepped inside. The air conditioning was on, and there were ceiling fans moving the cooled air around nicely. Producer took the camera from me, said he was dying for a beer, and asked me if I wanted something to drink. I said, “Coke,” and headed off toward the bathroom. On my way, I glanced up at the TV over the bar and noticed that it must have been tuned to HBO or some other movie channel, because a Julie Andrews musical number from the film Victor, Victoria was playing.
I stepped into the men’s room and was immediately dismayed that none of the toilet stalls had doors on them. If I have a true mental hang-up, it’s the absence of a door on any toilet stall I need to use. It stems from all the way back in kindergarten, when, at our school in which the bathroom toilet stalls did not have doors on them, two kids, Matt and Mark, used to torment me in the bathroom because, at age five, I still sat on the toilet to pee. That is the stuff that hang-ups are made of. You can imagine the hell that Air force basic training was for me…. but I digress.
There was no decision to make, as I was about to soil my underwear. I simply stepped to the nearest stall and went about my business. Sitting there after the first wave of “joy” passed, I saw a man enter the bathroom. He walked slowly and turned his head slightly in my direction, but turned left, away from me. Just before he turned to enter the side of the men’s room where the urinals were, he turned his head full-on and looked at me. HELLO! Do you mind? I'm poopin', here!
That was weird.
After the second wave passed, I noticed that the sound from the TV had changed, and Victor, Victoria had now been replaced with the goofy little musical number in the scene in Mrs. Doubtfire where Harvey Fierstein is giving make-up pointers to Robin Williams. Little things started falling into place in my head. The door-less toilet stalls; the lingering look from the guy who entered the bathroom after I had gotten down to business; two movies with cross-dressing as their major themes…. “Is this a gay bar?” I heard the voice in my head ask me. “Nah, must just be a coincidence,” the other voice answered. “Kill all of your co-workers,” said the third voice, but I’m usually able to tune that one out….
Meanwhile, out in the bar, Producer was sipping at his ice-cold bottle of beer, and he was just as perplexed when the Mrs. Doubtfire clip started up. Then he looked around and noticed that most of the bar patrons were men, and they all seemed to be paired off with each other, as were the only two women in the place. The other thing he noticed was that, to a person, everyone in the establishment was staring at him.
The weird guy in the bathroom (other than I) finished his business and stepped back around into my view. As he stepped toward the doorway out to the bar he gave me another lingering look. I had already instinctively covered up my privates, but in that moment, two thoughts formed very clearly in my head: I wish I had a third hand to help cover me; and this MUST be a gay bar!
Such a suspicion causes most straight men to pucker down below, and whether I felt I was finished or not, any further voiding was impossible. I quickly cleaned up, put myself back together, washed up and headed back out into the bar. Producer — who rarely carries anything for me — stood at the end of the bar holding my camera and a to-go cup of my Coke. A guy who really likes to savor his beer, Producer had already set his bottle on the bar, empty and still glistening with condensation. “Ready?” he asked me with odd strain in his voice.
“Yes!” I said, I’m certain with as much strain in mine.
I took the cup and the camera from his hands, and we both headed out the door. No more than five steps past the place, I said confidentially to Producer out of the corner of my mouth, “Was that a gay bar?”
With nervous exasperation, Producer said, “Yes!”
About five steps later we were both so doubled over in laughter and practically rolling in the gutter that passers-by must have thought we were still reveling from the night before…or starting early for the night to come! Talk about a couple of fish out of water!
°
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Thematic Photgraphic 33-Surprise
Carmi’s theme this week over at Written, Inc., is surprise. He challenges us to post a photo of something that wasn’t the intended subject, or something that turned up in the photo we hadn’t noticed was there.
It was the end of December, 2004, and we were on the trip to Maui that the owner of the company I work for had surprised the staff with for New Year’s. The ex-Mrs. Farrago and I went on a whale watching tour, and the whales weren’t in much of a mood to be watched. We had seen a couple of tail flukes and a couple of spouts up close, but no full breaches.
I manned the video camera while xMrs. Farrago wielded the trusty Nikon D70 we had purchased just a few months earlier. The boat captain tried several different viewing sites, but we were witnessing lethargic whales.
Then a whale near the boat broke the surface, first with a spout, and then with a roll of its massive body at the surface. It was really the same as all the others, just offering us a glimpse of its black body slipping along the surface. At the sound of the spout I had spun the video camera around and had barely caught the glimpse of the whale’s body as it slid barely into view. Just as I was pressing the record button to stop recording, I saw in the viewfinder, in the distance beyond the whale-bit that was still peeking above the water’s surface, a full breach by another whale! Everyone else on the boat who saw it let out a cheer at having seen it. I said to xMrs. Farrago, “Did you see that?”
She said, “Yeah, I saw it…and I think I captured it!!”
She didn’t know how to view the shot, so I helped her scroll back to it in the camera's playback mode. She had been shooting multiple exposure bursts, so there were a few shots to go through to get to it.
She had indeed captured the breach! Because the lens is a fairly wide-angle, 18-70mm zoom, the breaching whale is very tiny in the shot. When we got back to the hotel room, xMrs. Farrago enlarged the shot and, thanks to the good resolution of the Nikon D70, even enlarged, the shot looks pretty good! Click either photo to see it whale-sized.
Take a gander over at Written, Inc., and follow the links to his other readers.
And thanks for spending some time here.
°
It was the end of December, 2004, and we were on the trip to Maui that the owner of the company I work for had surprised the staff with for New Year’s. The ex-Mrs. Farrago and I went on a whale watching tour, and the whales weren’t in much of a mood to be watched. We had seen a couple of tail flukes and a couple of spouts up close, but no full breaches.
I manned the video camera while xMrs. Farrago wielded the trusty Nikon D70 we had purchased just a few months earlier. The boat captain tried several different viewing sites, but we were witnessing lethargic whales.
Then a whale near the boat broke the surface, first with a spout, and then with a roll of its massive body at the surface. It was really the same as all the others, just offering us a glimpse of its black body slipping along the surface. At the sound of the spout I had spun the video camera around and had barely caught the glimpse of the whale’s body as it slid barely into view. Just as I was pressing the record button to stop recording, I saw in the viewfinder, in the distance beyond the whale-bit that was still peeking above the water’s surface, a full breach by another whale! Everyone else on the boat who saw it let out a cheer at having seen it. I said to xMrs. Farrago, “Did you see that?”
She said, “Yeah, I saw it…and I think I captured it!!”
She didn’t know how to view the shot, so I helped her scroll back to it in the camera's playback mode. She had been shooting multiple exposure bursts, so there were a few shots to go through to get to it.
She had indeed captured the breach! Because the lens is a fairly wide-angle, 18-70mm zoom, the breaching whale is very tiny in the shot. When we got back to the hotel room, xMrs. Farrago enlarged the shot and, thanks to the good resolution of the Nikon D70, even enlarged, the shot looks pretty good! Click either photo to see it whale-sized.
Take a gander over at Written, Inc., and follow the links to his other readers.
And thanks for spending some time here.
°
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
BUI
I had a couple of glasses of wine this evening while watching a couple installments of America's Funniest Home Videos that I had on TiVo™, and I made a few observations:
• While I like America's Funniest Home Videos just fine, that show is freakin DAMN funny when I'm drinking wine.
• When I'm drinking wine and watching America's Funniest Home Videos, I will laugh so hard that I'll almost wet myself. In another 25 years or so, I'll probably be able to achieve wetness…maybe even without laughing.
• In the run-up to Thanksgiving, did anyone else grow tired of the media's and advertisers' use of the term "Black Friday?" It was driving me bananas! I first heard the term used about 10 years ago to describe how most retailers operate in the red all year until the busiest shopping day of the year, the day after Thanksgiving, when they finally see a profit. They go from the red to the black, hence the name the media coined: Black Friday. Isn't it wrong for a retailer to basically say to the customer, "In the next month, you're going to spend so much on Christmas gifts for your family and friends that we're finally gonna start making money off your ass?" Is it wronger that we do it anyway? Even moreso that advertisers have hijacked the word and made it into a marketing catch-phrase?
• Jessica Simpson: Would someone tell me how it's possible that I can simultaneously despise the very core of the woman, and yet lust so hotfully after her?
• If any of my readers has a "6 Degrees To Jessica Simpson" thing going on, could you please stroke your network and see to it that she somehow stumbles across my blog? …And this post…?
• I leave Thursday for New Orleans. Hasn't that city been there for like a couple dozen hundred years? Hasn't the "new" worn off by now?
• It's strange how you can doze off and sleep for what feels like hours, and it turns out only to be minutes, and how you can be out for two hours and your wine-induced dream of Jessica Simpson wearing a black leather jumpsuit unzipped down to there and straddling a huge, steamy, couch-sized Ball Park® frank, with the wind blowing through her hair while she's whispering your name through glistening, ruby red lips, lasts mere seconds.
• Anybody know how to get purple-tinted drool out of a computer keyboard?
• It's probably best not to write down your wine-induced observations while still on your wine-induced buzz.
°
• While I like America's Funniest Home Videos just fine, that show is freakin DAMN funny when I'm drinking wine.
• When I'm drinking wine and watching America's Funniest Home Videos, I will laugh so hard that I'll almost wet myself. In another 25 years or so, I'll probably be able to achieve wetness…maybe even without laughing.
• In the run-up to Thanksgiving, did anyone else grow tired of the media's and advertisers' use of the term "Black Friday?" It was driving me bananas! I first heard the term used about 10 years ago to describe how most retailers operate in the red all year until the busiest shopping day of the year, the day after Thanksgiving, when they finally see a profit. They go from the red to the black, hence the name the media coined: Black Friday. Isn't it wrong for a retailer to basically say to the customer, "In the next month, you're going to spend so much on Christmas gifts for your family and friends that we're finally gonna start making money off your ass?" Is it wronger that we do it anyway? Even moreso that advertisers have hijacked the word and made it into a marketing catch-phrase?
• Jessica Simpson: Would someone tell me how it's possible that I can simultaneously despise the very core of the woman, and yet lust so hotfully after her?
• If any of my readers has a "6 Degrees To Jessica Simpson" thing going on, could you please stroke your network and see to it that she somehow stumbles across my blog? …And this post…?
• I leave Thursday for New Orleans. Hasn't that city been there for like a couple dozen hundred years? Hasn't the "new" worn off by now?
• It's strange how you can doze off and sleep for what feels like hours, and it turns out only to be minutes, and how you can be out for two hours and your wine-induced dream of Jessica Simpson wearing a black leather jumpsuit unzipped down to there and straddling a huge, steamy, couch-sized Ball Park® frank, with the wind blowing through her hair while she's whispering your name through glistening, ruby red lips, lasts mere seconds.
• Anybody know how to get purple-tinted drool out of a computer keyboard?
• It's probably best not to write down your wine-induced observations while still on your wine-induced buzz.
°
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Exhale To The Chief
Many people, some of them the owners of "Better Blogs Than Mine," have weighed in today with their thoughts and feelings about the inauguration of our new president. Having read several accounts and, therefore, believing my thoughts influenced by them, I feel I am incapable of giving spontaneous, original breath to the telling of my experience.
I did watch, however, the live CNN stream from the comfort of my desk at work, shooting the stink-eye back at my former supervisor (who was kicked upstairs and still has weight to throw around the office) when he shot me the stink-eye for sitting at my desk doing nothing. Everybody else was gaping at the inauguration, so why can't I?
But I digress… I watched. I teared up. I was moved by President Barack Obama's words and by the almost audible sound of the shifting weight of American History. But, strangely, the President's words didn't fill me with the urge to cheer.
Instead, my heartbeat steadily increased as CNN dragged out the heavily inflected "drama" of the day with a nearly turn-by-turn account of the former president's departure from the White House. My emotions reached their zenith when the commentators finally shut their yaps for nearly a full minute while a solitary TV camera captured the lonely image of the helicopter, its rotor spinning, its blades invisible, as Marine One's pilot throttled up the engine and cranked the collective, beating the air firmly into submission, and the helicopter lifted off, carrying Mr. Bush away to the rest of his life.
As the aircraft grew smaller in the grey Washington, D.C., sky, very few words could express my emotions:
Good. Fucking. Riddance.
°
I did watch, however, the live CNN stream from the comfort of my desk at work, shooting the stink-eye back at my former supervisor (who was kicked upstairs and still has weight to throw around the office) when he shot me the stink-eye for sitting at my desk doing nothing. Everybody else was gaping at the inauguration, so why can't I?
But I digress… I watched. I teared up. I was moved by President Barack Obama's words and by the almost audible sound of the shifting weight of American History. But, strangely, the President's words didn't fill me with the urge to cheer.
Instead, my heartbeat steadily increased as CNN dragged out the heavily inflected "drama" of the day with a nearly turn-by-turn account of the former president's departure from the White House. My emotions reached their zenith when the commentators finally shut their yaps for nearly a full minute while a solitary TV camera captured the lonely image of the helicopter, its rotor spinning, its blades invisible, as Marine One's pilot throttled up the engine and cranked the collective, beating the air firmly into submission, and the helicopter lifted off, carrying Mr. Bush away to the rest of his life.
As the aircraft grew smaller in the grey Washington, D.C., sky, very few words could express my emotions:
Good. Fucking. Riddance.
°
Monday, January 19, 2009
Whimper
Well, despite best efforts, Lisa and I are no more…again. We went at the second wind with an eye toward allowing each other a little more space and toward not trying to spend every last minute together. With most of the weekend left to ourselves, we had made plans to have dinner Sunday evening, but then, by Sunday afternoon, Lisa was unreachable.
She had accidentally washed her phone with the laundry, and had apparently spent much of the day getting her old phone back on the grid. During that time I called several times, but she wasn't even able to get the messages.
On Friday she had gotten back some test results from blood work done as part of a routine exam. Her family has a history of heart trouble, as both her father and grandfather died in their sleep relatively young. As one can imagine, this is cause for Lisa's great concern, as she already has high cholesterol thanks to her heredity. The news from her doctor was not good: she is at a heightened risk for a heart attack, and he instructed her immediately to take some baby aspirin and to begin taking a prescription medication.
So, all of this information, plus the prior week of our breakup and subsequent reconciliation, and her concerns for the future, weighed on her mind all weekend, according to what she told me this afternoon.
She got her old phone working again and, despite my voice- and text messages, did not call me. Unable to reach her by phone, I had gone to her apartment in the late Sunday afternoon, assuming that we were still on for dinner, but she was not home. I didn't want her to think I had forgotten about our plans, so I stopped by her place several more times, finally giving up on her around 7:30 when she still had not gotten home.
Late Sunday evening I sent her an e-mail (she has no computer at home, so she has sent me e-mails from her work computer) and let her know that I was a little pissed off that she had forgotten about our plans for the evening, upset that I couldn't reach her, and worried that I hadn't heard anything from her all evening.
By 2:00 Monday afternoon I still had not heard back from her. Certain that the prolonged silence between us didn't bode well for our relationship, I tried calling her once again. She answered and, after some small-talk, told me that with all that's going on, she didn't think she should be in a relationship with anyone until she got her shit together.
Despite harboring a suspicion that she was getting revenge for my dumping her and leaving her at that party last weekend, and that she was "not one to be dumped" but rather preferred to do the dumping, and therefore made up with me just so she could dump me, I accepted her explanation. She said she wants to remain friends with me.
Well, as anyone who has read my most recent posts may surmise, this has been one fairly tumultuous month — even tumuluouser (yeah, I know) over the past two weeks! I had had just about all the tumult I could stomach, so, alone with my thoughts all throughout Sunday's communication blackout, I had actually prepared for this as one potential (and the most likely) outcome. I had anticipated it being more adversarial, but, fortunately, it was merely somewhat cold.
And so, I belly-flop back into the dating pool with only a few regrets: I really enjoyed Lisa's company for the greater majority of our time together, and so will truly miss that; we had blue-skyed about all sorts of things we thought we would like to do together in the future, but those things probably will never happen. And I doubt, despite our presumably continuing friendship, that we'll have any more sex.
She had accidentally washed her phone with the laundry, and had apparently spent much of the day getting her old phone back on the grid. During that time I called several times, but she wasn't even able to get the messages.
On Friday she had gotten back some test results from blood work done as part of a routine exam. Her family has a history of heart trouble, as both her father and grandfather died in their sleep relatively young. As one can imagine, this is cause for Lisa's great concern, as she already has high cholesterol thanks to her heredity. The news from her doctor was not good: she is at a heightened risk for a heart attack, and he instructed her immediately to take some baby aspirin and to begin taking a prescription medication.
So, all of this information, plus the prior week of our breakup and subsequent reconciliation, and her concerns for the future, weighed on her mind all weekend, according to what she told me this afternoon.
She got her old phone working again and, despite my voice- and text messages, did not call me. Unable to reach her by phone, I had gone to her apartment in the late Sunday afternoon, assuming that we were still on for dinner, but she was not home. I didn't want her to think I had forgotten about our plans, so I stopped by her place several more times, finally giving up on her around 7:30 when she still had not gotten home.
Late Sunday evening I sent her an e-mail (she has no computer at home, so she has sent me e-mails from her work computer) and let her know that I was a little pissed off that she had forgotten about our plans for the evening, upset that I couldn't reach her, and worried that I hadn't heard anything from her all evening.
By 2:00 Monday afternoon I still had not heard back from her. Certain that the prolonged silence between us didn't bode well for our relationship, I tried calling her once again. She answered and, after some small-talk, told me that with all that's going on, she didn't think she should be in a relationship with anyone until she got her shit together.
Despite harboring a suspicion that she was getting revenge for my dumping her and leaving her at that party last weekend, and that she was "not one to be dumped" but rather preferred to do the dumping, and therefore made up with me just so she could dump me, I accepted her explanation. She said she wants to remain friends with me.
Well, as anyone who has read my most recent posts may surmise, this has been one fairly tumultuous month — even tumuluouser (yeah, I know) over the past two weeks! I had had just about all the tumult I could stomach, so, alone with my thoughts all throughout Sunday's communication blackout, I had actually prepared for this as one potential (and the most likely) outcome. I had anticipated it being more adversarial, but, fortunately, it was merely somewhat cold.
And so, I belly-flop back into the dating pool with only a few regrets: I really enjoyed Lisa's company for the greater majority of our time together, and so will truly miss that; we had blue-skyed about all sorts of things we thought we would like to do together in the future, but those things probably will never happen. And I doubt, despite our presumably continuing friendship, that we'll have any more sex.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Call Me What You Will
Call Me Crazy…
Lisa and I are back together. On Monday, after the weekend of the breakup, I e-mailed her to make sure she was okay, and to let her know that I didn't hate her and didn't want to be her enemy. There were a few hard words back and forth, her disbelief that I had treated her that way, my anger at being accused of fooling around and then being dismissed when I tried to proclaim my innocence.
But, through it all she was generally contrite, laying the blame — rightfully so — on her own shoulders. She admitted that she has a problem and, promising to keep it in check, asked me for another chance. I used the opportunity to suggest that she needed help, and to suggest that she get help. And I told her that if it happened, then I would be willing to try again. Over a matter of a couple days, she convinced me, first, that she was willing to get help, and then that she had contacted an office within her company that would help her find a counselor who can help her sort out the reasons for her insecurity. She told me she's holding out for a Ph.D., as she doesn't want to mess around with social workers.
So she seems to be serious about it. I made her a promise with one serious condition. She's meeting that condition, so we're tentatively back together, and we're taking things a little more slowly.
Call Me Lonely…
It bothered me through the week that my relationship with Lisa could be over because of only one negative aspect, but I was fully aware that the one aspect was a major issue by which I could not abide, not in the dosages she was handing it out. In the short time we were together, we did share some fun times. She has a great sense of humor and a cute, sexy laugh and, best of all, she laughs at my often dry humor. She's very affectionate and loves to talk, so there is always something for us to talk about, or at least for me to listen to. And she likes to go out and do things with her many friends. Granted, that seems to be the feeding ground for some of her irritation and insecurity, but hopefully she'll be able to get that sorted out.
So it's not like she's a one-dimensional person that was easy for me to simply toss from my life. I had seen potential with her for a long-term, loving relationship that would be fun and exciting and deep. I found myself truly missing those aspects of her in those days after I told her it wasn't in the cards for us. I didn't seek to get back with her, but I wanted to let her know that it wasn't just about sex with me, that I do care about her well-being and that I found real traits about her that I enjoyed exploring. That she's getting help for her deep insecurity issues tells me that she really wants me in her life, and is willing to make fundamental changes to a learned negative behavior in order to keep me there.
Call Me Horny…
Forgive me the kiss-and-tell, but she's pretty damn good in the bedroom (and the living room, and the kitchen…) and, despite the whole "taking things a little more slowly," we consummated our reconciliation Thursday with a spirited little romp!
Yeah. Go ahead. Call me a slut, too…
If anything, my eyes are wide open in this relationship. They opened with that first jealous flare-up and have remained open. I will hold her to the counseling and will ensure that she sees it through. While during that time I will tolerate other jealous flare-ups, they will not go unnoticed or un-noted or undiscussed. She needs to fix this problem, or — and she is very aware of this — our time together will be brief.
Lisa and I are back together. On Monday, after the weekend of the breakup, I e-mailed her to make sure she was okay, and to let her know that I didn't hate her and didn't want to be her enemy. There were a few hard words back and forth, her disbelief that I had treated her that way, my anger at being accused of fooling around and then being dismissed when I tried to proclaim my innocence.
But, through it all she was generally contrite, laying the blame — rightfully so — on her own shoulders. She admitted that she has a problem and, promising to keep it in check, asked me for another chance. I used the opportunity to suggest that she needed help, and to suggest that she get help. And I told her that if it happened, then I would be willing to try again. Over a matter of a couple days, she convinced me, first, that she was willing to get help, and then that she had contacted an office within her company that would help her find a counselor who can help her sort out the reasons for her insecurity. She told me she's holding out for a Ph.D., as she doesn't want to mess around with social workers.
So she seems to be serious about it. I made her a promise with one serious condition. She's meeting that condition, so we're tentatively back together, and we're taking things a little more slowly.
Call Me Lonely…
It bothered me through the week that my relationship with Lisa could be over because of only one negative aspect, but I was fully aware that the one aspect was a major issue by which I could not abide, not in the dosages she was handing it out. In the short time we were together, we did share some fun times. She has a great sense of humor and a cute, sexy laugh and, best of all, she laughs at my often dry humor. She's very affectionate and loves to talk, so there is always something for us to talk about, or at least for me to listen to. And she likes to go out and do things with her many friends. Granted, that seems to be the feeding ground for some of her irritation and insecurity, but hopefully she'll be able to get that sorted out.
So it's not like she's a one-dimensional person that was easy for me to simply toss from my life. I had seen potential with her for a long-term, loving relationship that would be fun and exciting and deep. I found myself truly missing those aspects of her in those days after I told her it wasn't in the cards for us. I didn't seek to get back with her, but I wanted to let her know that it wasn't just about sex with me, that I do care about her well-being and that I found real traits about her that I enjoyed exploring. That she's getting help for her deep insecurity issues tells me that she really wants me in her life, and is willing to make fundamental changes to a learned negative behavior in order to keep me there.
Call Me Horny…
Forgive me the kiss-and-tell, but she's pretty damn good in the bedroom (and the living room, and the kitchen…) and, despite the whole "taking things a little more slowly," we consummated our reconciliation Thursday with a spirited little romp!
Yeah. Go ahead. Call me a slut, too…
If anything, my eyes are wide open in this relationship. They opened with that first jealous flare-up and have remained open. I will hold her to the counseling and will ensure that she sees it through. While during that time I will tolerate other jealous flare-ups, they will not go unnoticed or un-noted or undiscussed. She needs to fix this problem, or — and she is very aware of this — our time together will be brief.
Monday, January 12, 2009
A Farm Owl, Darkly
While I was enjoying the peaks and valleys of my recent fling, I was quite aware of my absence from these here interwebz. During that time I discovered that a great friend of mine has started a blog. Upon this discovery I paid a visit to him, electronically (there had been plans to do so in person, but that fell through), and I promised him that I would shill… er… ahm… tell everyone what a great personality, sharp wit and wonderful writer that he is.
So may I introduce to you the one and only Dark Farm Owl! As of this writing he has only one post under his belt, but don't let that lead you into the false impression that he can't write. I've been corresponding with him for years, and he has been responsible for more than a few sprays of the beverage-of-choice-of-the-moment all over my computer screen, or my dear, departed dog, or my ex. He hails from the British Midlands of Great … ehrm… Britain, somewhere near Birmingham. As a matter of fact, just prior to the maiden post of this blog (Farrago if you had forgotten already), I did visit him in his homeland! He has a great love of his country, the countryside, his sweet, beautiful wife, and their recently adopted greyhounds, but especially of his daughters and one grandson. Did I mention that DFO is only 28? Been that way for about 20 years.
Please drop by over at his blog. He says it's his online journal to track his progress getting in shape for, and the execution of a big hike he's planning in the late summer, but if he gets enough people over to check him out and encourage him to write some more, I'm certain he'll find other stuff to talk about, like cigars and wine…or cigars with wine…or cigars in wine (depends on how much wine he's had…).
And be sure to give him a proper welcome to this electronic wasteland we've all come to call …um… this.
Oh, and be sure to tell him who sent you. (It's Farrago, by the way...)
So may I introduce to you the one and only Dark Farm Owl! As of this writing he has only one post under his belt, but don't let that lead you into the false impression that he can't write. I've been corresponding with him for years, and he has been responsible for more than a few sprays of the beverage-of-choice-of-the-moment all over my computer screen, or my dear, departed dog, or my ex. He hails from the British Midlands of Great … ehrm… Britain, somewhere near Birmingham. As a matter of fact, just prior to the maiden post of this blog (Farrago if you had forgotten already), I did visit him in his homeland! He has a great love of his country, the countryside, his sweet, beautiful wife, and their recently adopted greyhounds, but especially of his daughters and one grandson. Did I mention that DFO is only 28? Been that way for about 20 years.
Please drop by over at his blog. He says it's his online journal to track his progress getting in shape for, and the execution of a big hike he's planning in the late summer, but if he gets enough people over to check him out and encourage him to write some more, I'm certain he'll find other stuff to talk about, like cigars and wine…or cigars with wine…or cigars in wine (depends on how much wine he's had…).
And be sure to give him a proper welcome to this electronic wasteland we've all come to call …um… this.
Oh, and be sure to tell him who sent you. (It's Farrago, by the way...)
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Dodgy Oaf Forced Rings
Please play this clip and listen to it (don't watch!) while reading, if you are able. And thank you for reading!
Despite the fact that I wound up going alone when, just the night before, I had a sure date for the event, I spent Sunday late afternoon at the Chicago Symphony.
Way back more than a year ago I bought season tickets to the "Sunday A Series" of subscription concerts. I described in this blog the events around and including the first concert of the series, and when I glanced earlier this week at the slate of pieces selected for Sunday's performance, I felt my breath whisked away: there was to be a performance of Samuel Barber's Adagio For Strings!
This adagio has become my favorite orchestral piece, which has been used in several films in the past few years. If you're listening to it as you read, and as I suggested, you no doubt instantly recognized it. It truly is a beautiful piece of music and, in my opinion, perhaps the most beautiful piece of music ever written or performed. It seldom fails to bring tears to my eyes, and today was no exception.
An added treat was most unexpected, however. Not being too savvy about the world of symphonic music, I am largely unfamiliar with the names of the genre's contemporary notables. Sunday introduced me to one of them. The guest conductor for today's performances was a surprisingly young man (age 28 this month) named Gustavo Dudamel. With his unruly mop of hair and wildly expressive face, Dudamel was entertainment all on his own. My season's seat is in the terrace, above and behind the orchestra, so I had an unfettered view of Dudamel's countenance for nearly two hours.
During Adagio For Strings he conducted without a score in front of him, demonstrating a knowledge of the piece so intimate that he knows every note and nuance as if he had written it himself. He slowly raised and lowered his arms as if to coax the emotions of the players out through their instruments, and he accentuated the subtle notes and chord changes throughout the languorous piece with little pulsing motions of his hands.
After the piece reaches a crescendo, screeching to a halt, it finishes with a mellowing return to the original theme and quietly, gently falls to its end. Dudamel closed the last note with his fingers and then stood quietly for nearly a full minute with his eyes closed and his hands clasped at his waist. I have always thought Barber's Adagio an incredibly powerful piece, but to see and hear it performed live, and with Dudamel at the helm, was truly magical. When he finally relaxed his arms and opened his eyes, a cheer went up in the house that seemed to exceed the rules of concert decorum.
Next on the program was a performance of Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21 in C Major, K 467. I didn't know I was familiar with this piece until the second movement, when a theme presented itself that I've heard many times before, undoubtedly in films or on television. As Mozart's music is usually lighter-hearted and more melodic than that of his peers, Dudamel was equally light-hearted, as he bounced his shoulders and smiled at his players while pointing at them when it was their turn to shine. The pianist, Stephen Hough, was amazingly dexterous, playing without one unintended note that I could detect.
After the intermission was a performance of Brahms Symphony No. 2 in D major, Op. 73. I was completely unfamiliar with this piece, and I found it fairly uninteresting at first. As usual, I am most impressed with the orchestra players' abilities whenever the music becomes fast or incredibly intricate, and as this piece moves forward, the music becomes more frenetic. The final movement is loud and boisterous and almost violent. Watching Dudamel's face during this movement brought a laugh to me several times. When the score brought little, flitting flute passages, Dudamel flipped his head to the side, sending his hair bouncing, and he made goofy faces as if to accentuate the whimsy of the notes. The movement ends with a frenzied flourish and a big, loud, long blast of notes, which was followed by more uproarious applause. Even though I had never heard this symphony before, I was moved to tears as it ended.
I wish I could share the sounds of Sunday's performances with you, as it was a most incredible day. If you'll bear with me, below are a couple more clips, one of them perhaps my favorite version of Adagio For Strings, arranged for a choir.
In the other clip is a taste of the visual wonder of Gustavo Dudamel at work, conducting the Simón Bolivar Youth Orchestra of Venezuela in the Shostakovich Symphony 10, second movement. To watch Dudamel, it almost seems as if he's operating a machine, pulling out of it and being the source of every sound you hear. He looks as though he feels every last note within him, and it must come out!
I have never been a fan of an orchestra conductor before. But I am now a fan of Gustavo Dudamel!
I hope you took time to enjoy this partial recreation of my day. Even if you don't appreciate the music, at least you know some more of the things that make me tick.
Despite the fact that I wound up going alone when, just the night before, I had a sure date for the event, I spent Sunday late afternoon at the Chicago Symphony.
Way back more than a year ago I bought season tickets to the "Sunday A Series" of subscription concerts. I described in this blog the events around and including the first concert of the series, and when I glanced earlier this week at the slate of pieces selected for Sunday's performance, I felt my breath whisked away: there was to be a performance of Samuel Barber's Adagio For Strings!
This adagio has become my favorite orchestral piece, which has been used in several films in the past few years. If you're listening to it as you read, and as I suggested, you no doubt instantly recognized it. It truly is a beautiful piece of music and, in my opinion, perhaps the most beautiful piece of music ever written or performed. It seldom fails to bring tears to my eyes, and today was no exception.
An added treat was most unexpected, however. Not being too savvy about the world of symphonic music, I am largely unfamiliar with the names of the genre's contemporary notables. Sunday introduced me to one of them. The guest conductor for today's performances was a surprisingly young man (age 28 this month) named Gustavo Dudamel. With his unruly mop of hair and wildly expressive face, Dudamel was entertainment all on his own. My season's seat is in the terrace, above and behind the orchestra, so I had an unfettered view of Dudamel's countenance for nearly two hours.
During Adagio For Strings he conducted without a score in front of him, demonstrating a knowledge of the piece so intimate that he knows every note and nuance as if he had written it himself. He slowly raised and lowered his arms as if to coax the emotions of the players out through their instruments, and he accentuated the subtle notes and chord changes throughout the languorous piece with little pulsing motions of his hands.
After the piece reaches a crescendo, screeching to a halt, it finishes with a mellowing return to the original theme and quietly, gently falls to its end. Dudamel closed the last note with his fingers and then stood quietly for nearly a full minute with his eyes closed and his hands clasped at his waist. I have always thought Barber's Adagio an incredibly powerful piece, but to see and hear it performed live, and with Dudamel at the helm, was truly magical. When he finally relaxed his arms and opened his eyes, a cheer went up in the house that seemed to exceed the rules of concert decorum.
Next on the program was a performance of Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21 in C Major, K 467. I didn't know I was familiar with this piece until the second movement, when a theme presented itself that I've heard many times before, undoubtedly in films or on television. As Mozart's music is usually lighter-hearted and more melodic than that of his peers, Dudamel was equally light-hearted, as he bounced his shoulders and smiled at his players while pointing at them when it was their turn to shine. The pianist, Stephen Hough, was amazingly dexterous, playing without one unintended note that I could detect.
After the intermission was a performance of Brahms Symphony No. 2 in D major, Op. 73. I was completely unfamiliar with this piece, and I found it fairly uninteresting at first. As usual, I am most impressed with the orchestra players' abilities whenever the music becomes fast or incredibly intricate, and as this piece moves forward, the music becomes more frenetic. The final movement is loud and boisterous and almost violent. Watching Dudamel's face during this movement brought a laugh to me several times. When the score brought little, flitting flute passages, Dudamel flipped his head to the side, sending his hair bouncing, and he made goofy faces as if to accentuate the whimsy of the notes. The movement ends with a frenzied flourish and a big, loud, long blast of notes, which was followed by more uproarious applause. Even though I had never heard this symphony before, I was moved to tears as it ended.
I wish I could share the sounds of Sunday's performances with you, as it was a most incredible day. If you'll bear with me, below are a couple more clips, one of them perhaps my favorite version of Adagio For Strings, arranged for a choir.
In the other clip is a taste of the visual wonder of Gustavo Dudamel at work, conducting the Simón Bolivar Youth Orchestra of Venezuela in the Shostakovich Symphony 10, second movement. To watch Dudamel, it almost seems as if he's operating a machine, pulling out of it and being the source of every sound you hear. He looks as though he feels every last note within him, and it must come out!
I have never been a fan of an orchestra conductor before. But I am now a fan of Gustavo Dudamel!
I hope you took time to enjoy this partial recreation of my day. Even if you don't appreciate the music, at least you know some more of the things that make me tick.
Crash and Burn
Or: Fling, Ain't No Thing!
OR: Wow! That Was Fast! part deux
Lisa, it turns out, is beyond jealous. It's a fucking neurosis with her.
Last week we had a fight over my looking at the ass of a woman who Lisa had, prior to our ever meeting, determined was a slut, a woman who sat across the table from us and had attempted to engage us in small talk like everyone else around us. To Lisa, this woman was hitting on me. Never mind all the other men around the table that she talked to, but when she talked to me, I was the next target for her lustful machinations.
Still, with all this happening in Lisa's head alone, I nonchalantly looked at the woman's ass when she got up from the table to go to the bathroom. Hence the fight, and Lisa's statement that, if I'd rather be with the other woman, then I should just go with her.
??!
We made up, at which point Lisa seemed to accept that the hanky-panky was going on only in her head and said that it would "never happen again." I nursed tender wounds to my psyche for a few days, but it had seemed like a breakthrough in our understanding of each other, and I was confident that she finally believed that I wasn't using her until something better came along.
Fast forward to Saturday night. It was Lisa's birthday, and the organizer of the Wine meetup group had invited us over to his place for a few celebratory drinks before the scheduled group Wine Crawl. We all had a buzz on by the time we got to the first place, a wine shop with a small party room. There, among many people — many of them men who gave Lisa hugs and kisses hello, and then hugs and kisses for her birthday — I was introduced to an interracial couple.
(It is here that I have to interject with an aside: Several times in the early days of our relationship, Lisa had mentioned certain co-workers of hers, past and present, who are African-American. The ones she didn't like she referred to as "nigs." She justified this by telling me that, due to her own slightly darker complexion in comparison to her Cuban and Spanish family, her relatives affectionately call her negrita, or "little black one." Regardless, her use of the term "nig" never sat right with me.)
The woman in this couple is black, and is very outgoing and gregarious, and she and Lisa hugged like long, lost sisters when they saw each other. After the introductions I immediately fell into comfortable conversation with both in the couple. They seem to be really neat people.
The crawl moved on to a Tapas restaurant. Lisa and I shared a shrimp dish and wine, and lots of kisses. The interracial couple stopped by our table for a few minutes and the woman and Lisa were hugging and seemed to be having a great time. So, using Lisa's camera, I took a bunch of photos. When the couple left, Lisa leaned in to me and said, "You like the black chickies, don't you?"
I replied, "Not as a 'thing,' but she seems pretty cool."
After an hour and a half or so at the tapas place we moved on to a bar that was way too overcrowded, so the organizer moved the festivities back to his condo. After another glass of wine — and another shot or two of tequila for Lisa — I walked up to Lisa and the black woman where they were talking. I put my arm around Lisa and joined the conversation. After a few minutes the black woman left, and Lisa said to me, "She came here with her man. She don't need to be hanging around getting in our business."
I said, "I don't think she was getting into anybody's business. She's just engaging in conversation."
Lisa said, "You don't know her like I do. She's bisexual. Believe me. I know what she's up to."
??!
Finally, one of the women that Lisa counts as her friend, — also single, also unattached, though apparently in a friends-with-benefits relationship with her younger male roommate — had a little too much to drink throughout the evening, and had made a dash for the bathroom to puke. Later on she was passed out or semi-passed out on the host's couch. The organizer-host had tuned his cable TV to the salsa music station, and Lisa was dancing up a storm in front of the TV. After a few songs' worth of dancing solo, dancing with me (if you can call what I was doing dancing), and dancing with a couple of the other women, Lisa ducked into the bathroom. A little concerned, I sat in the armchair next to the couch where Lisa's friend was passed out. I read the little information blurbs at the bottom of the stationary graphic screens on the TV until the bathroom door opened. I jumped up to see if Lisa was okay.
"Were you over there making sure [passed-out friend] is okay?" she asked me. She had that familiar suspicious look in her eyes.
I replied, "No, I was reading the stuff on the TV."
Lisa then placed her hands on my chest and gently pushed me. "Go back to her if you want to be with her."
I said. "I wasn't even looking at her! She's asleep. I was reading the stuff on TV."
Lisa said, "If you weren't talking to her, then why are you being all defensive?"
I lost it. I grabbed Lisa by the waist and yelled, "I was watching TV. She's passed out on the couch. I couldn't even talk to her if I wanted to."
Lisa then said "What-ever," dismissing me and stepping away from me. I grabbed her again and shouted, "Do you want to go home alone tonight?"
She replied, "That's fine. I'll call a cab, or someone will take me home."
So I went and started putting on my snowboots. She came up to me and said, "Are you leaving?"
"Yes."
At first she started to gather her things, but then the group organizer-host came up wanting to know what was going on. I tried to explain all of the above in a breath, and then Lisa was saying, "Let him go, I'll make it home somehow."
And I left. I was one minute down the road when Lisa called me and asked if I would drive her home. Being the nice guy that I am, and her ride to the event, I turned around and said that I would. Just as I got to the door of the organizer-host's building, my phone rang. When I answered it, I heard Lisa talking to someone near her. "…no, if he doesn't want to be with me then…"
"Hello?" I said.
"Never mind," she said to me. "Someone will give me a ride home."
Shortly after I got to my apartment I received a text message from Lisa, presumably at her apartment: "Wow. I can't believe how you over reacted in front of my friends on my bday."
After much thought, I texted her back: "You pushed me away and said, go back to her. You believed a whole scenario that didn't even happen. I don't need that kind of drama every time we r in a room where there r other single women u feel threatened by. It was u who overreacted. I simply got angry. And fed up. Sorry u chose your own bday 2 screw up a good thing."
That was followed up with "When r u coming 2 get ur stuff?"
Sunday morning I drove to her place to pick up my things. I had spent the night there Friday and had brought extra clothes because we had planned to go to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra Sunday afternoon performance, and my backpack with my laptop computer was there as well.
She buzzed me in to her apartment building, and when I got to her door she was putting my things out in the hallway. We exchanged hellos and I asked a question to make sure everything was there (some clothes had been folded and not put in my bag the day before). Then she kissed her fingers and waved to me. And I left.
I was through with the relationship when I left her at the party. After the first blowup over her belief that I wanted to fuck someone else she asked my forgiveness, and I gave it. It was a mistake she said would never happen again. The second time established a pattern. That she was drunk changes nothing. Being so removes any filters; you say what's really on your mind. The suspicion, the neurotic belief that I was talking up her friend, on her birthday, while she was in the room, is only proof that no amount of talking about it, no amount of proving my trustworthiness, no application to my eyes of the biggest fucking pair of blinders on the planet, is going to make her believe that I don't want to fuck every woman she mistrusts or dislikes, or that every woman she mistrusts or dislikes doesn't want me.
But she asked me first when I was coming for my stuff. So I don't know if she just figured I had dumped her, or if she feels she dumped me. But all day Sunday I was in the dumps.
Well, either way, it's bye-bye Lisa.
--------------------------
I thought it had been clear that it was over, but this evening, as I was composing this post, I received a text message from Lisa: "I miss u."
It took a lot of thinking, a lot of fighting the desire to keep it going because it would be the easier — that is, less unpleasant — path to take. But finally I called her and told her that I wasn't going to play this game. I will not accept her pathological jealousy. She kept saying that I overreacted and embarrassed her in front of her friends. And maybe I did overreact, but when someone repeatedly accuses me of doing something I didn't do, and then dismisses me as I try to defend myself, well, I get a little upset. Apparently some of the others there saw it as it really happened, and one of Lisa's friends told her that I "didn't even do anything" at the party to deserve Lisa's suspicion. She even admitted that she has a problem with the jealousy issue.
Despite Lisa's contrition, and my super-nice-guy urge to pick up where we left off, I definitively broke it off. I told her that I enjoyed spending time with her, even with our clothes on, but I will not put up with her constant suspicion that I'd rather be with someone else. I told her that if she deals with this problem and still wants to be with me, then we can try again later, but as for now, we'll just be friends.
S I G H !
OR: Wow! That Was Fast! part deux
Lisa, it turns out, is beyond jealous. It's a fucking neurosis with her.
Last week we had a fight over my looking at the ass of a woman who Lisa had, prior to our ever meeting, determined was a slut, a woman who sat across the table from us and had attempted to engage us in small talk like everyone else around us. To Lisa, this woman was hitting on me. Never mind all the other men around the table that she talked to, but when she talked to me, I was the next target for her lustful machinations.
Still, with all this happening in Lisa's head alone, I nonchalantly looked at the woman's ass when she got up from the table to go to the bathroom. Hence the fight, and Lisa's statement that, if I'd rather be with the other woman, then I should just go with her.
??!
We made up, at which point Lisa seemed to accept that the hanky-panky was going on only in her head and said that it would "never happen again." I nursed tender wounds to my psyche for a few days, but it had seemed like a breakthrough in our understanding of each other, and I was confident that she finally believed that I wasn't using her until something better came along.
Fast forward to Saturday night. It was Lisa's birthday, and the organizer of the Wine meetup group had invited us over to his place for a few celebratory drinks before the scheduled group Wine Crawl. We all had a buzz on by the time we got to the first place, a wine shop with a small party room. There, among many people — many of them men who gave Lisa hugs and kisses hello, and then hugs and kisses for her birthday — I was introduced to an interracial couple.
(It is here that I have to interject with an aside: Several times in the early days of our relationship, Lisa had mentioned certain co-workers of hers, past and present, who are African-American. The ones she didn't like she referred to as "nigs." She justified this by telling me that, due to her own slightly darker complexion in comparison to her Cuban and Spanish family, her relatives affectionately call her negrita, or "little black one." Regardless, her use of the term "nig" never sat right with me.)
The woman in this couple is black, and is very outgoing and gregarious, and she and Lisa hugged like long, lost sisters when they saw each other. After the introductions I immediately fell into comfortable conversation with both in the couple. They seem to be really neat people.
The crawl moved on to a Tapas restaurant. Lisa and I shared a shrimp dish and wine, and lots of kisses. The interracial couple stopped by our table for a few minutes and the woman and Lisa were hugging and seemed to be having a great time. So, using Lisa's camera, I took a bunch of photos. When the couple left, Lisa leaned in to me and said, "You like the black chickies, don't you?"
I replied, "Not as a 'thing,' but she seems pretty cool."
After an hour and a half or so at the tapas place we moved on to a bar that was way too overcrowded, so the organizer moved the festivities back to his condo. After another glass of wine — and another shot or two of tequila for Lisa — I walked up to Lisa and the black woman where they were talking. I put my arm around Lisa and joined the conversation. After a few minutes the black woman left, and Lisa said to me, "She came here with her man. She don't need to be hanging around getting in our business."
I said, "I don't think she was getting into anybody's business. She's just engaging in conversation."
Lisa said, "You don't know her like I do. She's bisexual. Believe me. I know what she's up to."
??!
Finally, one of the women that Lisa counts as her friend, — also single, also unattached, though apparently in a friends-with-benefits relationship with her younger male roommate — had a little too much to drink throughout the evening, and had made a dash for the bathroom to puke. Later on she was passed out or semi-passed out on the host's couch. The organizer-host had tuned his cable TV to the salsa music station, and Lisa was dancing up a storm in front of the TV. After a few songs' worth of dancing solo, dancing with me (if you can call what I was doing dancing), and dancing with a couple of the other women, Lisa ducked into the bathroom. A little concerned, I sat in the armchair next to the couch where Lisa's friend was passed out. I read the little information blurbs at the bottom of the stationary graphic screens on the TV until the bathroom door opened. I jumped up to see if Lisa was okay.
"Were you over there making sure [passed-out friend] is okay?" she asked me. She had that familiar suspicious look in her eyes.
I replied, "No, I was reading the stuff on the TV."
Lisa then placed her hands on my chest and gently pushed me. "Go back to her if you want to be with her."
I said. "I wasn't even looking at her! She's asleep. I was reading the stuff on TV."
Lisa said, "If you weren't talking to her, then why are you being all defensive?"
I lost it. I grabbed Lisa by the waist and yelled, "I was watching TV. She's passed out on the couch. I couldn't even talk to her if I wanted to."
Lisa then said "What-ever," dismissing me and stepping away from me. I grabbed her again and shouted, "Do you want to go home alone tonight?"
She replied, "That's fine. I'll call a cab, or someone will take me home."
So I went and started putting on my snowboots. She came up to me and said, "Are you leaving?"
"Yes."
At first she started to gather her things, but then the group organizer-host came up wanting to know what was going on. I tried to explain all of the above in a breath, and then Lisa was saying, "Let him go, I'll make it home somehow."
And I left. I was one minute down the road when Lisa called me and asked if I would drive her home. Being the nice guy that I am, and her ride to the event, I turned around and said that I would. Just as I got to the door of the organizer-host's building, my phone rang. When I answered it, I heard Lisa talking to someone near her. "…no, if he doesn't want to be with me then…"
"Hello?" I said.
"Never mind," she said to me. "Someone will give me a ride home."
Shortly after I got to my apartment I received a text message from Lisa, presumably at her apartment: "Wow. I can't believe how you over reacted in front of my friends on my bday."
After much thought, I texted her back: "You pushed me away and said, go back to her. You believed a whole scenario that didn't even happen. I don't need that kind of drama every time we r in a room where there r other single women u feel threatened by. It was u who overreacted. I simply got angry. And fed up. Sorry u chose your own bday 2 screw up a good thing."
That was followed up with "When r u coming 2 get ur stuff?"
Sunday morning I drove to her place to pick up my things. I had spent the night there Friday and had brought extra clothes because we had planned to go to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra Sunday afternoon performance, and my backpack with my laptop computer was there as well.
She buzzed me in to her apartment building, and when I got to her door she was putting my things out in the hallway. We exchanged hellos and I asked a question to make sure everything was there (some clothes had been folded and not put in my bag the day before). Then she kissed her fingers and waved to me. And I left.
I was through with the relationship when I left her at the party. After the first blowup over her belief that I wanted to fuck someone else she asked my forgiveness, and I gave it. It was a mistake she said would never happen again. The second time established a pattern. That she was drunk changes nothing. Being so removes any filters; you say what's really on your mind. The suspicion, the neurotic belief that I was talking up her friend, on her birthday, while she was in the room, is only proof that no amount of talking about it, no amount of proving my trustworthiness, no application to my eyes of the biggest fucking pair of blinders on the planet, is going to make her believe that I don't want to fuck every woman she mistrusts or dislikes, or that every woman she mistrusts or dislikes doesn't want me.
But she asked me first when I was coming for my stuff. So I don't know if she just figured I had dumped her, or if she feels she dumped me. But all day Sunday I was in the dumps.
Well, either way, it's bye-bye Lisa.
--------------------------
I thought it had been clear that it was over, but this evening, as I was composing this post, I received a text message from Lisa: "I miss u."
It took a lot of thinking, a lot of fighting the desire to keep it going because it would be the easier — that is, less unpleasant — path to take. But finally I called her and told her that I wasn't going to play this game. I will not accept her pathological jealousy. She kept saying that I overreacted and embarrassed her in front of her friends. And maybe I did overreact, but when someone repeatedly accuses me of doing something I didn't do, and then dismisses me as I try to defend myself, well, I get a little upset. Apparently some of the others there saw it as it really happened, and one of Lisa's friends told her that I "didn't even do anything" at the party to deserve Lisa's suspicion. She even admitted that she has a problem with the jealousy issue.
Despite Lisa's contrition, and my super-nice-guy urge to pick up where we left off, I definitively broke it off. I told her that I enjoyed spending time with her, even with our clothes on, but I will not put up with her constant suspicion that I'd rather be with someone else. I told her that if she deals with this problem and still wants to be with me, then we can try again later, but as for now, we'll just be friends.
S I G H !
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Unresolved
I blew my New Year's resolution pretty much as the words came out of my mouth. I resolved not to make any New Year's resolutions.
Oops.
Oops.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
2009 - A Banner Year Already
I know… four days into the new year and I've not posted a thang. There hasn't been much to write about lately. Christmas was fine, fun, and spent with family. Lisa was with me, as she originally had to work Friday, the day after Christmas, and was unable to get home to her family in Michigan. She liked my family, and they her, so all was swell.
New Years Eve was spent at a Meetup event, a New Year's Eve dinner-dance with 350 of my closest friends. That was swell, too.
I've been dealing with my own fears regarding a serious relationship — my first since the breakup of my marriage — especially one that took off like a rocket bound for Neptune, and working at knocking down those barriers. But the fantasy is over. Reality stepped in.
I looked at another woman's ass.
Actually, I looked where another woman's ass would be were it not covered up by her heavy winter coat. I didn't even find her attractive. It's just that she has an ass, and I have eyes, and the two are inevitably going to meet. But that matters not, as we are early enough into a relationship that a woman admittedly prone to jealousy was willing to end.
Yes. We had a fight. And make-up sex.
And now I'm struggling with feelings about whether or not I'm willing to put up with that kind of roller-coaster experience every time I absently demonstrate that I am merely human.
And how has your year been?
New Years Eve was spent at a Meetup event, a New Year's Eve dinner-dance with 350 of my closest friends. That was swell, too.
I've been dealing with my own fears regarding a serious relationship — my first since the breakup of my marriage — especially one that took off like a rocket bound for Neptune, and working at knocking down those barriers. But the fantasy is over. Reality stepped in.
I looked at another woman's ass.
Actually, I looked where another woman's ass would be were it not covered up by her heavy winter coat. I didn't even find her attractive. It's just that she has an ass, and I have eyes, and the two are inevitably going to meet. But that matters not, as we are early enough into a relationship that a woman admittedly prone to jealousy was willing to end.
Yes. We had a fight. And make-up sex.
And now I'm struggling with feelings about whether or not I'm willing to put up with that kind of roller-coaster experience every time I absently demonstrate that I am merely human.
And how has your year been?
Sunday, December 21, 2008
A Date Which Will Live in Infamy
WARNING! The following, somewhat hilarious, post contains graphic details of an unpleasant, however somewhat hilarious, nature. Read at your own risk.
Wednesday morning at 5:15, Producer and I left our hotel in Overland Park, Kansas for the Kansas City, Missouri, airport. There didn't appear to be a decent restaurant within sight of our gate, so we broke fast on Cinnabon and coffee. (Um… yuck!) Save for a minor delay, the flight was uneventful. Knowing that I had plans for the evening with Lisa, and how we both seemed to click quickly, I was eager to see her again. The more I thought about her, the more nervous and excited I got. I actually had butterflies in my tummy!
Since it was so early, Producer and I went back to our office. I planned to get out of there at 1:30, seeing as how I would have already worked an eight-hour day by that point. At first it didn't seem likely that I would succeed; the boss wanted me to do a shoot in our studio mid-day. Fortunately it was only about a half-hour, and after I packed up the gear I had little else to do, so I left. I hadn't eaten anything substantial all day except sugar and bread (in that order!), so on my way home I stopped at McDonald's and brought home a Big Mac combo for a quick meal.
Lisa gets out of work at 3:30, so we planned on meeting at her place for a glass of wine before heading off to Big Bowl for a nice dinner. Since I had eaten so little all day, I didn't think the Mickey D's would fill me up too much and spoil my appetite by the time we were heading out for dinner, which I would have guessed would be around 6:00. However, I felt awfully darn full for quite a while after eating and, on top of the butterflies, I felt uncomfortable and was struggling to burp out the insistent gas. I feared an embarrassing date.
On the drive over to Lisa's apartment the discomfort only got worse with the increased anticipation of seeing her again. My hope was that when I did see her, my nerves would calm and I would feel better. She let me in, we kissed and she poured me a glass of wine. Maybe it was the kissing, but her apartment seemed awfully warm, so I took off my sweater. She expressed to me that she was experiencing the butterflies sensation, too, so I felt a little less self-conscious about that, but I didn't feel any better.
After several minutes of small talk, and her concern about how I was feeling, I felt a burp coming on, but then it didn't exactly feel like a burp. I suppressed it, but a few minutes later I felt the same sensation coming on. I feared I was going to vomit, so I got up to head for the bathroom. Suddenly my mouth filled from behind and I dashed to the kitchen sink. I will go into no further detail about that, but suffice it to say that I spent the next several minutes with my face hovering over the drain… Also… you know how when that happens, sometimes something comes out the other end? Well, yeah, that happened too.
After that wave passed I excused myself to the bathroom where I removed the bottom half of my clothing, rinsed my underpants under the bathtub faucet and cleaned myself up down there. Lisa gave me a plastic grocery bag in which to store my undies, I put my pants back on and I went back into the living room, commando-style. My hope was that the butterflies had gotten the better of me, but that it was all over and downhill from there.
It was not.
We decided that Big Bowl was most definitely out of the question for the evening, and we decided to just relax at her place. After about a half-hour of feeling just dandy, I started feeling overly warm once more. When I thought I was definitely going to hurl again, I excused myself to the bathroom where I took off my pants! Sure enough, moments later I found myself on all fours filling Lisa's toilet from one end, and from the other christening her floor and wall in a most disgusting manner!
I cleaned everything up (after which, I'm sure, Lisa pressure-washed and acid-scrubbed!), and we both determined that it was indeed not butterflies that were my undoing, but more likely a peculiarly timed bout of food poisoning.
So I donned my coat and hat, collected my defiled, wet undies and left. I hit the cold winter air outside and was consumed with a case of the chills so severe I thought I would rattle my teeth loose, and I thought I was going to have to stop before I got home to hurl on the side of the road (imagine that scene: bottomless man beside the road, puking and shitting in counter-directional streams!). But I arrived home feeling critically embarrassed and physically miserable, but mostly embarrassed. I undressed and climbed into bed and awaited the worst.
I didn't barf again after the last time Wednesday night at Lisa's, but I was up every hour through the night doing the other thing. I took the day off from work and spent the morning watching my new Blu-Ray disc copy of Bullitt, as well as the three hours of other features on the disc!
I had plans to go to a Dining Out meetup Thursday evening, as did Lisa, so, trooper that she is, we agreed to try again. I felt somewhat human again by the afternoon, so I picked her up at her apartment and we went to the restaurant. My appetite was non-existent (though I didn't find out until the steak arrived), but I still felt better. We had a nice time and said good-bye to our friends, and we headed back to her place.
Despite the unpropitious start to our young relationship, Lisa seems totally unfazed by Wednesday's events. I won't go into any details as to why I feel that way, nor will I divulge where I woke up Friday morning.
But it's all good.
Wednesday morning at 5:15, Producer and I left our hotel in Overland Park, Kansas for the Kansas City, Missouri, airport. There didn't appear to be a decent restaurant within sight of our gate, so we broke fast on Cinnabon and coffee. (Um… yuck!) Save for a minor delay, the flight was uneventful. Knowing that I had plans for the evening with Lisa, and how we both seemed to click quickly, I was eager to see her again. The more I thought about her, the more nervous and excited I got. I actually had butterflies in my tummy!
Since it was so early, Producer and I went back to our office. I planned to get out of there at 1:30, seeing as how I would have already worked an eight-hour day by that point. At first it didn't seem likely that I would succeed; the boss wanted me to do a shoot in our studio mid-day. Fortunately it was only about a half-hour, and after I packed up the gear I had little else to do, so I left. I hadn't eaten anything substantial all day except sugar and bread (in that order!), so on my way home I stopped at McDonald's and brought home a Big Mac combo for a quick meal.
Lisa gets out of work at 3:30, so we planned on meeting at her place for a glass of wine before heading off to Big Bowl for a nice dinner. Since I had eaten so little all day, I didn't think the Mickey D's would fill me up too much and spoil my appetite by the time we were heading out for dinner, which I would have guessed would be around 6:00. However, I felt awfully darn full for quite a while after eating and, on top of the butterflies, I felt uncomfortable and was struggling to burp out the insistent gas. I feared an embarrassing date.
On the drive over to Lisa's apartment the discomfort only got worse with the increased anticipation of seeing her again. My hope was that when I did see her, my nerves would calm and I would feel better. She let me in, we kissed and she poured me a glass of wine. Maybe it was the kissing, but her apartment seemed awfully warm, so I took off my sweater. She expressed to me that she was experiencing the butterflies sensation, too, so I felt a little less self-conscious about that, but I didn't feel any better.
After several minutes of small talk, and her concern about how I was feeling, I felt a burp coming on, but then it didn't exactly feel like a burp. I suppressed it, but a few minutes later I felt the same sensation coming on. I feared I was going to vomit, so I got up to head for the bathroom. Suddenly my mouth filled from behind and I dashed to the kitchen sink. I will go into no further detail about that, but suffice it to say that I spent the next several minutes with my face hovering over the drain… Also… you know how when that happens, sometimes something comes out the other end? Well, yeah, that happened too.
After that wave passed I excused myself to the bathroom where I removed the bottom half of my clothing, rinsed my underpants under the bathtub faucet and cleaned myself up down there. Lisa gave me a plastic grocery bag in which to store my undies, I put my pants back on and I went back into the living room, commando-style. My hope was that the butterflies had gotten the better of me, but that it was all over and downhill from there.
It was not.
We decided that Big Bowl was most definitely out of the question for the evening, and we decided to just relax at her place. After about a half-hour of feeling just dandy, I started feeling overly warm once more. When I thought I was definitely going to hurl again, I excused myself to the bathroom where I took off my pants! Sure enough, moments later I found myself on all fours filling Lisa's toilet from one end, and from the other christening her floor and wall in a most disgusting manner!
I cleaned everything up (after which, I'm sure, Lisa pressure-washed and acid-scrubbed!), and we both determined that it was indeed not butterflies that were my undoing, but more likely a peculiarly timed bout of food poisoning.
So I donned my coat and hat, collected my defiled, wet undies and left. I hit the cold winter air outside and was consumed with a case of the chills so severe I thought I would rattle my teeth loose, and I thought I was going to have to stop before I got home to hurl on the side of the road (imagine that scene: bottomless man beside the road, puking and shitting in counter-directional streams!). But I arrived home feeling critically embarrassed and physically miserable, but mostly embarrassed. I undressed and climbed into bed and awaited the worst.
I didn't barf again after the last time Wednesday night at Lisa's, but I was up every hour through the night doing the other thing. I took the day off from work and spent the morning watching my new Blu-Ray disc copy of Bullitt, as well as the three hours of other features on the disc!
I had plans to go to a Dining Out meetup Thursday evening, as did Lisa, so, trooper that she is, we agreed to try again. I felt somewhat human again by the afternoon, so I picked her up at her apartment and we went to the restaurant. My appetite was non-existent (though I didn't find out until the steak arrived), but I still felt better. We had a nice time and said good-bye to our friends, and we headed back to her place.
Despite the unpropitious start to our young relationship, Lisa seems totally unfazed by Wednesday's events. I won't go into any details as to why I feel that way, nor will I divulge where I woke up Friday morning.
But it's all good.
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