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It’s the end of the year as we know it

4 Oct

I noticed something on my walk the other day.  The leaves were falling and it felt great and I picked up my pace so that I could try to catch one falling.  I did, then tossed it behind me and kicked it from behind.  I felt good about fall.  That’s not a consistent feeling for me at this time of year, as I always mourn summer.  I cling to it with every fiber of my soul as Mother Nature, loving the Mississippi heat as she so obviously does, sloooowly and painfully pries it away from me and replaces it with bitter cold, wet, gray days.  But she softens the blow by inserting some crisp nights and pretty leaves in the short weeks between Stifling Hot and Depressingly Cold, and I appreciate her for this.  It’s really the least she could do.

She has fully activated her dying process of all things green, and my thoughts turned toward the end of this year, of 2009.  I suppose it isn’t just me because a friend began talking about it yesterday.  He was looking back on all the craziness of his year and wondering if it had any more surprises in store for him before its end.  I don’t mean to be self-centered, but I honestly don’t know anyone who has had a year as difficult as mine.  A divorce, job loss, TWO moves, leaving my city and my home, leaving all of my friends, another failed relationship post-divorce, unemployment for months on end, moving back in with my parents, coming back to LOUISVILLE… it’s been very hard.  I should want to say goodbye to 2009.

It’s bittersweet though.  I’ve seen more in this year alone than I have in all of the previous years combined.  I got wasted backstage at the Hi-Tone after deciding to go out alone, I lived completely alone for the first time ever, I found closure with an old love and completely feel over that for the first time in my life, I heard the wind whistling through the Grand Canyon, I had an extremely loud tequila-induced argument in the middle of a parking lot in Las Vegas, rode a train from San Diego to Los Angeles, spent all night in the sand watching the pelicans dive into the waves at Pismo Beach, and experienced delightful first kisses with three completely fabulous men (after nearly a decade of kissing the same man – though he used to be pretty damn fabulous himself).  I’ve been through countless hours of therapy, made some shitty decisions and some genius ones, learned to not be so hard on myself, and discovered the joy of creating my own affirmations to hang around my apartment.  This year was horrible and devastating and tear-laden.  And it was beautiful and exciting and filled with laughter.  It has been the most emotional year of my life – one of the absolute worst and absolute BEST.  I wouldn’t trade one second of all the joy I’ve had, even if it removed every bad time.  This was the most exciting year I’ve ever experienced and I am looking forward to the last three months of it.

It reminds me of a quote by Zora Neale Hurston, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”  I have thought about it a lot, what kind of year this has been.  Definitely the answers.  I cannot wait to discover how 2010 will awaken the questions lying dormant inside me.


Pet Peeve

27 Sep

Facebook has a chat feature.  There’s also google talk, aim, yahoo messaging, and hell there’s TEXT messaging on your phone, you know there is.

So why do some people sit at the same exact place and talk on each other’s facebook walls/statuses?  I mean, not just a comment or two but like ALL-NIGHT-LONG CONVERSATIONS with each other.

Well, it’s obvious why they do it.  They’re doing it to show you what an awesome time they’re having.  “Isn’t this fun?” “Oh yeah it’s fun it’s like the most fun evar omg!” “I know right I’m so drunk!” “I know I’m drunk too, these drinks are the best!” “No you’re the best, [insert inside joke]” and on and on it goes.

Here’s a message to the ones of you who do this:


Whew.  Got that out of my system.

Is there something/someone on facebook that annoys you like this?

Does she love you?

19 Sep

I think Pasha Malla is pretty damn good, and I liked his answer to this question.  The bold emphasis is mine.  The italics, his.

Q: How do I know if she loves me?

A: If one night you go out drinking and end up back at her place, pass out together on the bed with your shoes on, and wake up a few hours later only to discover that you’ve peed the bed, which she takes in stride, changes the sheets, and then the next morning has a laugh about it, later leaves some pamphlets from the local health clinic about child bedwetters in your mailbox, and eventually after a few weeks tells your friends but never, ever tells hers: She loves you.

If she knows what song is coming next on the mix CD you made her: She loves you.

If she hides your shoes when you’re late for work, and from a supine position on the couch plays “Hot/Cold,” and, finally, after 15 minutes of you ignoring her screaming, “Boiling! Burning up!” every time you stalk angrily by the dishwasher, gets up, flips it open to reveal the shoes, sitting there among the plates, and hands them over with a kiss and a giggle, and then laughs some more as you tie your laces in a silent rage: She loves you.

If she calls you at work that day to ask, “How are those shoes working out?”: She loves you.

If when you get home you try to hide something of hers, she finds it immediately, shaking her head, and when she pulls whatever it is—oven mitts or stretch pants—from behind the couch, she looks at you and without any attempt to hide her pity, says, “I love you”: She loves you.

If you’re Gael Garcia Bernal: She loves you.

If you’re not Gael Garcia Bernal, but you’re willing to sit through a “GGB” marathon and agree for 10 consecutive hours that he is indeed the most beautiful and talented man alive—and so down-to-earth, too!—and afterward agree that his portrayal of Che Guevara would have earned an Oscar nod were it not for the implicit politics, agree that taking Spanish classes is a great idea, or salsa, or tango, whatever, agree, agree, agree, and that night lying in bed after sex that ends with her screaming, “Si! Si!” wonder aloud, “But you’re happy with me, right?”: She loves you, man—no one can compete with that Latin bastard. Forget about it.

If she puts up with an entire Stars of the Lid album on a long-distance road trip: She loves you.

If she dances with your friends: She loves you.

If at Halloween you’re invited to a TV- and movie-themed party and she dresses up as Winnie Cooper and you dress up as Paul Pfeiffer, mainly because you already have the glasses, and at the party some guy who’s a dead ringer for Fred Savage saunters up, peels off his mole, and says, “Get lost, Paul, Winnie’s mine,” and you’re left standing there while the two of them go off dancing to the soundtrack from Forrest Gump, and when two hours later she finds you sitting by the punch bowl explaining for the umpteenth time that, no, you’re not supposed to be Woody Allen, she holds up a tie stolen from a passed-out Alex P. Keaton to her petticoat and redubs herself Annie Hall, and you Alvy Singer: She loves you. And, to be honest, I sort of love you, too.

If she’s a zombie: She loves you, but only for your brains.

If she says, “I love you” on the roller coaster, right after you’ve puked down your shirt: She loves you.

If you go to a karaoke bar with friends and do a duet of “Endless Love,” and she insists on doing the Lionel Richie part if only so she can really belt out a big “Ooh whoa” near the end, and when you’re done she announces you to the crowd as “Miss Diana Ross, everybody,” and then gives you a high-five: She loves you.

If she plays pointedly with strangers’ babies at the park, intermittently looking over to you with an expression that says, “See?”: She loves you.

If her parents love you: She loves you, probably.

If her parents hate you: She might love you, too.

If she’s the youngest of four sisters, two of whom are lesbians, the third a nun, and the first time you meet her father he pulls you away from his wife’s gingersnaps and homemade iced tea to check out the vintage “titty mags” he keeps hidden underneath a bench in the six-by-four corner of the basement he calls his workshop, the only place in the house not painted lavender and decorated with images of kittens and/or sunflowers, and every few pages he points out a particularly luxuriant pubis, and when you concur—“Sweet”—he smacks you heartily on the back and before you know it he’s calling you “Son” and have you ever fished for pike up north? Because he’s got a cabin. What of this? Well, her dad sure as hell loves you. Welcome to the family!

If she ever says the words, “I hate you”: She loves you. Or she did at one point, anyway.

If she loves you, if she really loves you, you’ll know it. If you can wake up to her staring at you and it’s not even mildly creepy, if you catch her smelling the shoulder of the hooded sweatshirt you lent her for an autumn walk at the beach, and not for B.O., if she makes you a pancake in the shape of a shark, if she calls you drunkenly at four in the morning “to talk,” if she laughs at your jokes when they’re funny and makes fun of you when they’re not, if she keeps her fridge stocked with Guinness tallboys for when you come over, if she tells you how she wishes she were closer to her sister and that her dad makes her sad: She loves you, of course she loves you.

And with a love like that, you know you should be glad.

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