a) I've been busy.
b) I've been dating.
c) I apologize. This will be brief.
Everything is at an all-time high around here lately. Liane arrives (permanently!) on Tuesday. This pleases me to no end. And on other fronts, spring fever has hit. Friends and coworkers are hooking up in a frenzy of crocus-blooming glee, and I'm getting emails like this:
so that's it, my friend. no more freakouts. her stuff is in the bathroom, she picks up groceries when we're out of something, she's doing my laundry, she knows how i like my coffee, she can share a bed with me comfortably despite my endless fidgeting, i'm expected home on time, and i get a call if i'm late. i know what to call her, i know where i stand, and i know she's thinking about the future already. no more fighting it. i give in. this girl is all i've ever wanted, so i'm just gonna go ahead and let her change my life.
and this:
And I've wanted to be in love for so long and I am and so I guess that means that I'm willing to just accept her, as much as she's willing to accept me.
Why, just a few months ago I would have read these emails with a cynical "suckers" attitude. But we've all been swept up on the same wave of satisfaction, as though O-o-h Child is playing as our communal soundtrack. When things start to suck again, you'll hear all about it. But for right now, everything is amazing. (Plus we're off to the Ted Leo show.)
Apparently, you’re trying to get pregnant again. How do I know this? Is it the fertility symbols you’ve nailed to the front door or the Haitian witch doctor barbeque-ing ribs the backyard? No. It's the fact that you’re having daily sex in your living room. You know, the living room that’s right above my entire apartment. Yeah, that one.
Granted, I wouldn’t be complaining if you were hot and you were having hot sex. Or if you were cute and you were having cute sex. Then it would just be like watching Fox programming on a regular night. But let’s face the truth: the two of you could play Ned and Marge Flanders in "Simpsons On Ice" without the hassle of prosthetic faces. And the addition of your all-trackpant wardrobe doesn’t help make the visual any more sexy. So maybe it is just like watching Fox programming on a regular night.
But the kind of sex you’re having is disturbingly loud, disturbingly predictable, disturbingly full of hockey lingo (did I hear you yelling "There’s no I in TEAM" last night?), and disturbingly RIGHT OVER MY HEAD EVERY NIGHT FOR THE PAST SIX NIGHTS.
It’s getting to the point where I can’t have people over anymore. Two nights ago, my Highlander friends popped in for an impromptu bagpipe session, only to have our chanty drowned out by the "fling" going on upstairs. That was not the blowing of the reed that reddened their cheeks, oh no. It was the coach-like shouts of "OOOOOOH YES" coming from above. (God, is that you?)
I’ve lived below you for over two years now and was grateful for the long, long stretch of silence from above. Please hurry up and get pregnant. Then I can cut back on the drinking I’ve been doing to kill the brain cells that hold the memory of the events of the last week.
There was this moment with Vincent D’Onofrio: I’d asked to see his hands, to read his palms (right vs. left), to check for wedding band tan lines, to see if he plays guitar half as much as he says he does, to gauge how much manual labour is involved in his line of work. You can tell a lot about someone by a cursory glance at their hands. Me? I do little manual labour, and only if knitting counts. I have a dishwasher. I don’t play the harp, and it’s entirely evident where a pen would rest against the middle finger of my right hand were I to write down my phone number.
He said: You’re a predator. And the way you’re looking at my hands makes me feel like prey.
