April 21st, 2009
First trip, first fight: they’re the hallmarks everyone tells you will define your sparkly new relationship. The You Can’t Possibly Know Your Mate Until… definitive. When the Dork Lord and I were a month or two into dating, my hairdresser, whose first trip anywhere was with her husband on their (stressful) cruise ship wedding, asked if we’d taken our first vacation together. We hadn’t. But it wasn’t something I was worried about. And Stephanie – whose battles with her equally stubborn partner are an integral part of their fiery dynamic – didn’t ask if we’d had a fight, she insisted we needed to have one.
“I just know that you don’t really know who someone is until the shit comes down.”
I wasn’t sure I agreed.
Of fights, we’ve had two arguments that I can recall. Did shit come down? Oh, I don’t know. There were tears (I pretty much cry any time I’m frustrated or hurt. Or watching scary movies or reading stories about baby animals. So, it’s not really an excellent indicator) and apologies. But no yelling. Never any yelling. We do have disagreements from time to time that lead one of us to declare, “We’re in a fight.” and the other to make a fart joke. It works for us.
Of trips, we’ve been to the Ranch for a weekend of total relaxation and zero responsibility. I packed the snacks. He drove. We made out a whole bunch. I’m not sure that it really counted as a vacation, and so this weekend will be our first. We leave on Thursday for a long weekend in Utah to celebrate my sisters’ BYU graduations. There are connecting flights and family accommodations involved. It could get sticky. But! But I’ve already learned some pretty important Dork Lord characteristics that will (hopefully) make this experience low on stress. For instance, I know to tell the Boy that we need to be somewhere (the airport, graduation, dinner) a good thirty minutes before we’re actually expected to show up. See? Prepared.
I’ve also laid the groundwork for the first meeting he’ll have with my dad.
“Has he ever met any of your boyfriends before?”
“In high school. But since then I’ve always lived far, far away.”
“What’s he going to think?”
“He’s going to think that he loves his daughter something crazy and if this guy makes his daughter happy, then he’s happy, too.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He looked so relieved, I went ahead and left out the part about my dad sleeping with a firearm under his pillow and occasionally hearing voices. And as for meeting my grandparents?
“Just tell them how much you love golf. Maybe they’ll put me back in the will.”
April 18th, 2009
Today is Moving Day Part I. And while waiting for the movers (who are now two hours late) to put my worldly belongings in storage until the middle of June when our apartment is finally ready, I started digging through blog archives. I found this gem from four years ago this weekend, a story I hardly remember writing, but one that makes me smile. I can’t say I remember much about the day-to-day of having another family live with us, but I remember Mr. Lucas and his quietus.
Mr. Lucas was the type of guy who had a story for everything.
“Well now, that reminds of the time…”
Nearly every one of those stories began the same and ended,invariably, with some kind of nonsense that had you shaking your head,wondering what, exactly, the point had been. I was fifteen when Mr.Lucas and his brood of six came to stay with us, and inclined to notonly shake my head, but to sigh loudly and roll my eyes at his backwardways.
He — out of either some bizarre grace or total ignorance — paid no heed to my public displays of annoyance.
“Miss Heath-uh, why don’t you get out th’old chess board and let meshow you a few things. Mmm hmm. That’s right. I’m gonna put thequay-ee-tus on ya.”
The quay-ee-tus?
Mr. Lucas slicked his hair back in a greasy swirl, wore shiny AirForce issue black shoes and invented ridiculous words. And night afternight, he schooled me in chess. Or, as he said, put the quay-ee-tus onme.
“What does that mean, Mr. Lucas? It’s not even a word.”
“Sure it is. If it ain’t a word, how come you fall for it every time?”
“You want me to get the dictionary again?”
It would go on this way until his wife intervened.
“Paul?” Mrs. Lucas would sit quietly in one of my mother’s blue,high-backed chairs, reading while her awkward mate levied hischeck-mate. Though patient and lovingly accepting of her husband’squirks, she was decidedly more timid — and also less comfortable thanhe about their situation. Temporarily homeless and relying on thehospitality of strangers, the Lucas Six added to the Hunter Seven in achaos that strained the very seams of our house. Mrs. Lucas, calm andeven-toned, did her best to lessen the effects.
“Why don’t you put that away for now? The kids have homework.”
For years after, we would imitate Mr. Lucas and his hokey accent. “I’m a-gonna put the quay-ee-tuson ya” we’d threaten over Trivial Pursuit or sprints for shotgun. Themocking was gentle. Mr. Lucas could drive you crazy, but also somehowendear himself to you — a weirdo with a brilliant chess game and astockpile of made-up words.
A few months ago, I was nearing the end of The Moviegoer when Istopped mid-sentence and stared. “No way,” I said. “No effing way.” Iopened my web browser and picked up my cell phone. My brother answeredafter two rings.
“It’s a real word, Jas.”
“What?”
“Quay-ee-tus. He pronounced it wrong, but it’s for real.”
“You’re kidding. I always wondered where he got that. What does it mean?”
When I told him, my brother laughed. “You mean, Ol’ Lucas even used it correctly?”
“Mmm hmmm.
“I’ll be damned. He really did put the quietus on us.”
Word of the day: qui•e•tus
n. Something that serves to suppress, check, or eliminate.
Certain she’d remember Mr. Lucas, I texted my sister just now, telling her I was going to put the quietus on her.
“I was about to write, Bring it on!” she said. “But then an eyelash fell in my eye and I thought, damn, she’s good.”
April 16th, 2009
There are two things that the Dork Lord and I will never agree on: Red Sox baseball* and bedtime.
Me, I like to be in bed by 10PM. Actually, if I’m going to show up to work on time (who keeps office hours that begin at 7:30AM? We do. It’s inhumane) I NEED to be in bed by 10. I know this makes me an old lady. I know it makes me a bummer. But I just can’t function on six or seven hours of sleep BECAUSE I AM NOT THE BIONIC WOMAN. There are things that go on while I sleep that take time – processes to keep me beautiful and witty and always ready with the ‘your mom’ jokes that make the workplace and our household the epicenters of intelligence that they are. Besides, next to hungry, I think tired is the most torturous of sensations. Tired makes me emotional. It makes me cranky. And, despite popular opinion, I don’t particularly like to be cranky. Because I am not House MD.
The Boy’s typical response to my snooze requirements includes harmless jabs and jokes about granny’s bedtime, even though sometimes I know it genuinely bothers him that I’m yawning on my bar stool at 9:30. So, now I opt to stay home a lot of nights — send him out with his friends so that he may enjoy the majesty of whatever occurs after 10:30 that is so life affirming. I’d make a off-color suggestion about free hand jobs from the bartenders but I’ve seen the bar keep at his favorite watering hole. Shudder.
Last night, though, the Dork Lord employed a new tactic: kidnapping. Early in the evening, we met his friend at a driving range to hit a bucket of balls. Side note: Though I averaged about six swings per actual contact, when I did hit that ball, it sailed in a very neat, straight path every single time. I am most likely a natural and you will see me on tour next year. End side note. Then there were burgers and beers back at the friend’s house and of course, ohmygodwhydotheyhavetoplaysixtimesaweek, the Mavericks game. That’s when, toward the end of the fourth quarter, my beloved announced,
“It’s going to be a late night.”
Let’s watch the next game! And then LOST! Everyone else in the room (the night nurse and the recently unemployed) was in. Naturally. And then there was me. The wet rag.
“No, it’s not.”
Fortunately, I have a lot of practice being the wet rag. I used to be a Mormon.
*My friend Lee tookme to Fenway eight years ago and my fate as a fan was sealed. The Boy?Eh, he hates ‘em. He has no reason to hate them (because what,the Texas Rangers are competition? Please) and so I can justlaugh off our difference of opinion. Mostly because I know I am right.
April 14th, 2009
In college, I moved every year. Sometimes more than once. Come spring term, I’d cram all my junk into a few boxes, toss them into the back of someone’s truck and relocate, either to be closer to campus, or to find a better roommate situation (for a while, I had one of those Look at me! I’m amazing! Wait, why are you paying attention to HER when I’M in the room? kind of roommates. She made the scab picking finger licker of the previous semester seem suddenly dreamy by comparison). When I lived in Boston I moved a lot, too. It was the never-ending search for cheaper rent and more space that ended, naturally, in a 280-square-foot, sixteen-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment in New York City. Because that is what we call LOGICAL.
What’s unfathomable to me now is, I didn’t even mind it back then. I actually liked moving. And now, with the movers coming Saturday and my living room a dizzying mess of cardboard and assorted WTF Did I Buy This items, I kind of want to swallow my own tongue.
On Saturday, my mom and I spent the better part of the day cleaning, boxing, and priming walls. Mom did all the bending work (she does not eff around, people. My oven is so clean you could set it to low and keep your baby warm in there. Not that I’m encouraging you to bake your baby – it’s just that hygienic) and I inched my way through the apartment with my hand attached to a paint roller. Now, there are blisters. And parts of my body that do not work. I recognize that this is just what comes with getting old(er), but I swear, if today is the day they come around asking for volunteers to be in a Magnum P.I./MacGyver sandwich and I’m not able to raise my hand, I am going to be SO bent out of shape.
The part of this move I do like is the part of moving I have always liked. All the newness. New spaces to decorate, new closets to over stuff. I’ve also really enjoyed setting up my soon-to-graduate sister with all of my gently used extras. For instance, between the two of us, the Dork Lord and I have upwards of a DOZEN sets of white sheets. And as we’re not running a brothel or making any living room forts (yet. Though, frankly, is there any other reason to have children other than living room forts and lying about Santa Claus?), I figured, why not share the wealth. And what do you know, the whole giving thing is actually really affirming. You know, as in, it makes me feel like my massive credit card debt wasn’t accumulated in vain.
April 9th, 2009
I’m sorry to bother you, but is that the yellow curry? It smells fantastic.
The Boy and I were sitting down in a booth at a local hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant. And I wanted what she was having. So I asked. The older woman at the next table smiled and nodded.
“It is fantastic! But it’s not the yellow… it’s called ‘Gang Bang’ or something. Though, hmmm…. that doesn’t sound right.”
She was not making light. For the entire exchange, her face remained unchanged, totally placid, as though to say, “Gang bang is a perfectly natural name for a spicy curry dish.” I turned to my menu and quickly shot a raised-eyebrow WTF look at The Dork Lord who mouthed, “Gang bang?” before going back to his list of exotic beer. Giving the menu a one-over, I located the intoxicating smelling dish.
“I think you mean Gang Dang?”
“Yes, that’s it!”
The woman smiled again and went back to her food, and I turned back to our table thinking one, that I was glad I didn’t have to order a gang bang, because seriously, I wasn’t sure I had it in me. And two, old people these days.
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