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The short of it: The apartment is more decorated and mostly clean. The Boy is in for a surprise when he sees it.
The long of it...
You know that law of physics--the one that says energy can be conserved or changed, but never destroyed? Apparently, it also applies to house-cleaning.
I am officially old.
Mere hours after assuring a friend that she has not, in fact, turned into an old fuddy-duddy (she hasn’t), I’m cursing the injustice of having to attend a birthday party at a bar at 9 PM on a Saturday. When it’s raining. Like they planned it that way. See--I’m old. And wandering around the house, muttering things like, “Who goes out at 9 PM on a Saturday night? In the rain? People have better things to do.”
I always hated the Democrats' underdog stance. "We're the nice ones," "we don't fight back," etc. etc. Boring, annoying, and just plain weak.
But this...damn.
Granted, the vets are bringing a letter, not a herd of alligators. But still, how nice is it to see some fire and some creativity for a change? Very nice, indeed.
He's leaving, you know. The Boy is getting ready to up and fly his self to New York tomorrow. That family wedding I mentioned last week. He'll meet his dad there, and then the two of them will roadtrip it up to Vermont. Although both he and his dad very graciously invited me along, the money just isn't there. Besides, the two of them deserve some guy time. This way they can make all the dirty jokes and disgusting noises they want, without me along as the Kate Hepburn to match their Humphrey Bogarts. Although...having heard them talk on the phone, I'm not sure I would be much of an impediment.
Anyway. Leaving, for nearly a whole week. And I've already started up with the mooniness and sneaking of extra smooches. I'm not even sure what I will do with myself this weekend. Actually, that's not quite true. I'm meeting a friend for brunch Saturday, and I have a birthday party to go to that night. The rest of the time, though, it will be an effort not to devolve into a nap-taking, puttering, junk-TV-watching girl who's just killing time until her boyfriend is back. Yeah, that would suck. (Except for maybe the TV-watching part. Like it's my fault all the cable channels run their reality-show marathons on the weekend.)
Miss you already, you silly, charming, wonderful man of mine.
Wish me luck. Today The Boyfriend and I embark on a potentially relationship-damaging excursion: attempting to buy him a sportcoat. No, I'm not exaggerating. This has become enough of a kerfuffle that if we're not careful, someone's feelings could get hurt. I hope the people at The Men's Wearhouse aren't easily insulted.
Bricks--old bricks; new bricks; bricks under ivy; windows grown closed with bricks; a rare patch of bricks that breaks through the pavement
Papers--Newspapers, newspapers, newspapers; flyers; lost dog; cheap pizza; free to good home; papers crammed next to seats; papers in the gutter
Pigeons
Empty taxis with the light that glows like a promise
Rarely, a bus
Ivy--ivy ivy ivy up and across and over everything
The cool and shaded sky
Every station's flaking paint and stained platform
Morning people with new hair
Flower boxes and barbecue grills
Train creaking like an old bed
Vertical blinds blowing out from an open patio door
Old buildings with new faces; new buildings with old faces
Attention passengers
The windbreaker crowd--security guys and maintenance workers
Gulls on an empty schoolyard
Ghost signs appearing over the bricks and under the ivy
Stairs that cross; stairs that twist; stairs that offer escape
And the river, with the morning light that makes its back a surface of scales
It had to happen. He couldn't be a groom forever.
Doug, the man behind the very funny PlanetGordon.com, is about to fly to Wisconsin for his wedding. He's spent the past year or so blogging his adventures as a modern and involved groom, and now he gets the payoff: a fab wedding with his beloved Leora.
Unfortunately for us, once the pictures have been passed around and the flowers have to be thrown out, the blog will be done. He'll be shuttin' the place down--no longer a groom, no longer a need for a groom blog. Too bad, as he's provided a good and interesting read, and the blog world can always use more of those.
Still, we want to wish them all the best. Here's hoping that you both have a fantastic and memorable wedding up at the camp. And, that the day is only one of a lifetime's happy memories, created and enjoyed together.
PS--Don't forget to bring us back some cake.
On the train this morning, I notice a guy in line for the next station. In his hand--one of those giant Ziploc Baggies, holding a banana, sandwich and big bottle of Gatorade.
And my first thought? "Man, that's a lot of carbs. Does he know many carbs that is? With the banana and the bread AND the Gatorade, my God, he must be looking at--"
No caption contest today. Instead, a mind-boggling statement spotted by my friend Teri, from today's Guardian:
"Michael Moore yesterday released unseen footage of the new CIA boss explaining his own unsuitability for the role. The scene, which didn't make the cut for Fahrenheit 9/11, shows Porter Goss pointing out that his lack of language and computer skills means he 'wouldn't get a job' with the CIA."
Note—that's "footage," as in film. As in, gee, that would be difficult to refute. But guess again.
The response? "The White House has dismissed the interview as 'ridiculous hearsay.'"
That's right--the same interview that is on film. According to the White House, we should think of it as a rumor, rather than an actual thing you can see and hear (and judge) for yourself.
And now I'm supposed to pick a photo that could be funnier or more ridiculous than that? No chance.
Headline in today's New York Times:
"New Jersey Governor Resigns, Disclosing a Gay Affair"
Somewhere in New York, there is a very smug editor.
