"If you're broken it's because you're brittle..."
-Eleanor of Acquitaine, The Lion in Winter
Brittle. That's what most resolutions are, and that's why most of them fail. The problem isn't a lack of committment, but rather the narrow confines of the terms of victory; resolving to go to the gym every day is laudable, but tricky. You get sick, work runs late, and your resolution's busted. Of course, you could always go the next day ... but you probably won't. What's the point? You failed, and now you're going to be doughy and feeble for another year. Game over.
This blog was started with the intention of recording a daily memory - a little piece of every day worth keeping around. That cockeyed bit of optimism coughed and died after a perfect storm of ill health, work stress and multifaceted emotional torture left me with a whole string of days which, frankly, I just don't want to remember. In real life, this translated into my boss wandering into my office, handing me a month's worth of work to do in a week, peering at me, and telling me I should take a vacation. As far as Blog of Days is concerned, it was a deafening silence.
Now, I have returned.
The secret to successful resolution-making, I think, is probably the secret to success in most things. First, of course, it's good to figure out if you have any reason to believe that you know what the hell you're attempting. This, however, may be impossible, and the very fact that you're in resolution-mode indicates that you're probably so deep in a fog of wishful thinking and self deception that you may do more harm than good. The second and more important step is this:
Build flexibility into the system
Know where you can bend to keep yourself from breaking. Don't bet a year's worth of fitness on an uninterrupted 365 days of exercise; give yourself a realistic regimen, set goals to mark your progress, and stick at it as well as you can. Your chances of becoming a supermodel will not appreciably diminish, but your chances of falling off the wagon (treadmill?) and ending up bitter and tubby definitely will. Going on a diet? Forget the zero-flavor stormtrooper mentality or you'll be up to your elbows in Ben and/or Jerry before the ink on your resolution is dry. Decide to eat pizza only once a week instead of every night, and the scales are mathematically guaranteed to be kind to you. Be happy with Europe; don't invade Russia too.
So, humbled but determined, I return once more to blogdom. I won't succeed in closing out the year with twelve uninterrupted months' worth of neat little diary posts ... but I will have done what I can. Since the other option is trying to do what I can't and ending up doing nothing at all, it'll have to do.
And, because my inner Johnny Cutcorners is whispering to me that I can still weasel my way back to the land of non-failures if I'm willing to rough up a few technicalities, I hereby present:
21 memories from the last 21 unrecorded days (in no particular order):
Remember that time...
...I forced myself to go to the gym because I felt awful and hadn't been for weeks?
...I embarassed myself by nearly passing out at the gym?
...I weighed myself in the locker room and realized that I'd lost 15 pounds in three weeks?
...I made my first doctor's appointment in three years because I thought I was dying?
...I met my doctor, and he turned out to be Ron Rifkin (as far as I can tell)?
...I got weighed at the doctor's office and realized that the gym scale is busted - I had in fact lost 25 pounds in three weeks?
...I nodded bravely when, after a series of blood tests, I was told that I was suffering hemolysis as a result of the unexplained presence of cryoglobulins in my blood and that I would have to have a chest CT to rule out lymphoma?
...I spent a week meditating on the word 'lymphoma'?
...I cleaned out the vitamin aisle at CVS while waiting for my results, including a bottle of something called 'Gentle Iron' that terrified me almost as much as the word 'lymphoma'?
...I went to Linens 'n' Things to get a bathmat, weighed myself on ten different bathroom scales (much to the delight of the dude who was obviously going to have to put them back), and realized that my doctor's scale was busted, and that I was in fact only seven pounds shy of my healthy weight?
...I did not, and will not, return my doctor's phone calls asking me to visit a hematologist who I'm pretty certain is his brother-in-law?
...I got promoted at work?
...I nodded bravely when I was told that my new position would entail about twice as much work as before?
...I nodded bravely when I was told that my new salary wouldn't even be determined for a few more months, and wouldn't kick in for another month after that?
...I realized that there are some things that I am to blame for, and that I'll always have to live with that?
...I realized that there are some things that I am not to blame for - and that the ignorance of others does not excuse my own failure to accept that?
...I learned that it's easier to hate somebody for what they did or didn't do than to understand why they did or didn't do it?
...I accepted that there are some things I'll probably never have the chance to understand?
...I had the sense to be grateful for all the amazing things that I have in my life, and to repudiate the notion that I should be ashamed of taking joy where I can find it?
...For the first time in a long time (a looooooooong time) I was excited to talk to my parents?
...LPB moved in with me?
*whew*
So, there you have it. Twenty-one memories from twenty-one silent days, signed, sealed and delivered. It's been a bumpy road ... but I've walked every step of it. And I'll do my level best to record the rest of the journey in a much more conscientious fashion.
I'll probably fail.
But that's okay.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
...I remembered how to play pool?
Ah, Rock Bottom Brewery -- where the beer has amusing names and is almost as good as the real thing. I haven't been to a RBB in ages. But duty called last night, in the form of two of LPB's buddies who, by virtue of having been there all afternoon, had free pool-table privileges. And I am not one to turn down any opportunity to make an ass of myself in public.
Now, a brief history lesson entitled 'Pool and Me: an Uneasy Past'. My life is not a dramatic one, and I am not as a general rule an overly competitive person. My pickup team loses? I call next and hit the bench. My little silver top hat lands on Marvin Gardens with two hotels? I hand over the cash politely, in neat little stacks.
But sometimes it gets personal. And sometimes -- sometimes -- it gets epic.
Epic. As in the stuff that heroic sagas are made of. The story of my youthful affair with the sport of pool could only have been directed by Sergio Leone: a lone man (well, a high school kid) against the cruel world (five or six other high school kids), with the sixteen-year-old equivalent of lives and souls on the line. You have to understand: we had a pool table in the student lounge at my high school. A pool table, some couches, and a really lousy TV. And that's it. So really, a man (high school kid) had a choice: he could just pull up a seat and watch fuzzy daytime television, or he could try for a place at the table. The safety of boredom or the exhilaration of self-humiliation. Guess which I picked.
(Cue Ennio Morricone music)
Now, when it comes to the student lounge pool table, there are different circles of in-ness. At the center are the True Shooters -- sultans of the slate, barons of the baize, who can play whenever they want because they are actually good. They are a breed apart, nonchalant table-clearers who make trick shots to win rather than to look cool. They partner only with each other, and play only against each other. When four of them are around and look interested in the table, whoever's using it finishes up quickly and hands over the cues.
Beneath the True Shooters you have a much larger and more turbulent subset: the Cool Competents. These guys can play, not fantastically but well enough, and moreover they have some measure of student-body status. Jocks, rich kids, and the one member of the school rock band who defied convention by actually coming to school occasionally.
Looking out another circle, you have the Tolerated Novelties. This grab-bag category included hot-girls-looking-for-an-excuse-to-bend-over, a foreign kid who everybody sort of liked but who hardly ever spoke, the school dealer, Lardy Miller (an astonishingly fat kid named Miller who could send balls squirting across the room with deadly accuracy by sitting on the table) and my fresh-out-of-college biology teacher who hated the rest of the staff and hung out with the students, looking peevish.
And that ... is about it, really. Outside the TNs you have only the Dregs, pathetic sub-human table watchers who never get to play but can't stay away. They're there as a warning: this is what becomes of those who try and fail.
Me? My career on the cloth was a brief but storied one. I went two years without so much as a smear of blue chalk on my sleeve, content to seek diversion elsewhere while the upperclassmen monopolized the table. My junior year, however, I found myself presented with a decision. Without meaning to I had maneuvered myself squarely into the Tolerated Novelty class: a varsity player in an unpopular sport, I certainly didn't rate either of the top two tiers. Nevertheless, I found myself occasionally tapped to partner with CCs or other TNs when table traffic allowed.
As the year progressed, I found the cue more and more often in my hand. Although I could never aspire to CC-ness, I was about the best player among the TNs, and hence a popular charity-pick. A few notable wins, one of which prompted a losing CC to hurl his cue javelin-like through the open student lounge window, and my stock was riding high. I couldn't ever be a Cool Competent -- class mobility was nearly unheard of. But maybe, just maybe, I had a shot for greatness. The inner circle. True Shooterdom.
My chance came one stormy afternoon. It was a half-hour until my next class, and the student lounge was nearly deserted. No CCs in sight. Just three True Shooters, leaning on their cues and idly practicing bunny hops. I walked in. I got the nod. The game began.
Now, although the universal public pool table protocol dictates that all games must be doubles, with the True Shooters that didn't always mean much. It wasn't unheard of for the breaker to clear the table, and since I was last in the rotation (the other side broke) it seemed entirely possible that the game might be over before it got to me. Indeed, the breaker sunk a stripe immediately, and proceeded to pot four additional balls before handing control to my partner. My partner, for his part, was having an off day; although he knocked down a few, a misjudged double gave the cue ball back to the other side with very little work left to do. Sure enough, every last stripe hit the bottom of a pocket. That left only the eight ball. I was going to lose my chance for glory without ever even blowing the chalk off my cue.
Then, fortune smiled. In a twist of fate, my partner's unusual ineptitude bought me a new lease on life: with five solids left on the table, the black was completely surrounded, and though the opposition did a nifty little jump to avoid the scratch the eight ball remained on the cloth. All eyes turned to me.
I looked at the table. This was it. Not only did I get my turn, I was sitting pretty; the table was so choked with solids that my first few shots practically made themselves.
Line up, stroke, in.
Line up, stroke, in.
Line up, stroke, in.
Three down, two to go. The next was trickier; I had to either double a ball on the far side of the table (and I can't double to save my life) or else try to dig my other option out from behind the eight. I chose the latter, whispered a prayer, and went for it.
Line up, stroke, in.
Well then. Four in a row -- three gimmes and a moderately challenging shot. And now the cue ball was much better positioned: my last ball was lined up prettily against the corner pocket, and I banged it home with alacrity. This was it: an empty table, just the white and the black. Not an easy shot, not easy at all; if I didn't want to have to try to double against the cushion, and I didn't, I'd just have to kiss the edge of the eight to spin it into the pocket.
Line up. "Eight in the corner."
And then Lardy Miller came in, dumped his backpack on the floor, and planted his mountainous rear on the table. The eight ball shot off the table, the slate cracked, and that was the end of the student lounge pool table.
That was the last time I played pool, until today.
Still got it.
Now, a brief history lesson entitled 'Pool and Me: an Uneasy Past'. My life is not a dramatic one, and I am not as a general rule an overly competitive person. My pickup team loses? I call next and hit the bench. My little silver top hat lands on Marvin Gardens with two hotels? I hand over the cash politely, in neat little stacks.
But sometimes it gets personal. And sometimes -- sometimes -- it gets epic.
Epic. As in the stuff that heroic sagas are made of. The story of my youthful affair with the sport of pool could only have been directed by Sergio Leone: a lone man (well, a high school kid) against the cruel world (five or six other high school kids), with the sixteen-year-old equivalent of lives and souls on the line. You have to understand: we had a pool table in the student lounge at my high school. A pool table, some couches, and a really lousy TV. And that's it. So really, a man (high school kid) had a choice: he could just pull up a seat and watch fuzzy daytime television, or he could try for a place at the table. The safety of boredom or the exhilaration of self-humiliation. Guess which I picked.
(Cue Ennio Morricone music)
Now, when it comes to the student lounge pool table, there are different circles of in-ness. At the center are the True Shooters -- sultans of the slate, barons of the baize, who can play whenever they want because they are actually good. They are a breed apart, nonchalant table-clearers who make trick shots to win rather than to look cool. They partner only with each other, and play only against each other. When four of them are around and look interested in the table, whoever's using it finishes up quickly and hands over the cues.
Beneath the True Shooters you have a much larger and more turbulent subset: the Cool Competents. These guys can play, not fantastically but well enough, and moreover they have some measure of student-body status. Jocks, rich kids, and the one member of the school rock band who defied convention by actually coming to school occasionally.
Looking out another circle, you have the Tolerated Novelties. This grab-bag category included hot-girls-looking-for-an-excuse-to-bend-over, a foreign kid who everybody sort of liked but who hardly ever spoke, the school dealer, Lardy Miller (an astonishingly fat kid named Miller who could send balls squirting across the room with deadly accuracy by sitting on the table) and my fresh-out-of-college biology teacher who hated the rest of the staff and hung out with the students, looking peevish.
And that ... is about it, really. Outside the TNs you have only the Dregs, pathetic sub-human table watchers who never get to play but can't stay away. They're there as a warning: this is what becomes of those who try and fail.
Me? My career on the cloth was a brief but storied one. I went two years without so much as a smear of blue chalk on my sleeve, content to seek diversion elsewhere while the upperclassmen monopolized the table. My junior year, however, I found myself presented with a decision. Without meaning to I had maneuvered myself squarely into the Tolerated Novelty class: a varsity player in an unpopular sport, I certainly didn't rate either of the top two tiers. Nevertheless, I found myself occasionally tapped to partner with CCs or other TNs when table traffic allowed.
As the year progressed, I found the cue more and more often in my hand. Although I could never aspire to CC-ness, I was about the best player among the TNs, and hence a popular charity-pick. A few notable wins, one of which prompted a losing CC to hurl his cue javelin-like through the open student lounge window, and my stock was riding high. I couldn't ever be a Cool Competent -- class mobility was nearly unheard of. But maybe, just maybe, I had a shot for greatness. The inner circle. True Shooterdom.
My chance came one stormy afternoon. It was a half-hour until my next class, and the student lounge was nearly deserted. No CCs in sight. Just three True Shooters, leaning on their cues and idly practicing bunny hops. I walked in. I got the nod. The game began.
Now, although the universal public pool table protocol dictates that all games must be doubles, with the True Shooters that didn't always mean much. It wasn't unheard of for the breaker to clear the table, and since I was last in the rotation (the other side broke) it seemed entirely possible that the game might be over before it got to me. Indeed, the breaker sunk a stripe immediately, and proceeded to pot four additional balls before handing control to my partner. My partner, for his part, was having an off day; although he knocked down a few, a misjudged double gave the cue ball back to the other side with very little work left to do. Sure enough, every last stripe hit the bottom of a pocket. That left only the eight ball. I was going to lose my chance for glory without ever even blowing the chalk off my cue.
Then, fortune smiled. In a twist of fate, my partner's unusual ineptitude bought me a new lease on life: with five solids left on the table, the black was completely surrounded, and though the opposition did a nifty little jump to avoid the scratch the eight ball remained on the cloth. All eyes turned to me.
I looked at the table. This was it. Not only did I get my turn, I was sitting pretty; the table was so choked with solids that my first few shots practically made themselves.
Line up, stroke, in.
Line up, stroke, in.
Line up, stroke, in.
Three down, two to go. The next was trickier; I had to either double a ball on the far side of the table (and I can't double to save my life) or else try to dig my other option out from behind the eight. I chose the latter, whispered a prayer, and went for it.
Line up, stroke, in.
Well then. Four in a row -- three gimmes and a moderately challenging shot. And now the cue ball was much better positioned: my last ball was lined up prettily against the corner pocket, and I banged it home with alacrity. This was it: an empty table, just the white and the black. Not an easy shot, not easy at all; if I didn't want to have to try to double against the cushion, and I didn't, I'd just have to kiss the edge of the eight to spin it into the pocket.
Line up. "Eight in the corner."
And then Lardy Miller came in, dumped his backpack on the floor, and planted his mountainous rear on the table. The eight ball shot off the table, the slate cracked, and that was the end of the student lounge pool table.
That was the last time I played pool, until today.
Still got it.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
...the NFL struck two blows for equality?
And I do mean 'blows'.
Okay, first: the Saints/Bears game. Not fantastic; like everybody else without a particular dog in that fight, I liked the idea of the post-Katrina Saints going to the Big Dance. They've been a feel-good story all year, and after some of the stinking that Grossman has done I really just felt that they deserved it more. But whatever; I like the Bears, I love hard-nosed defense, and there was some good ball being played out there. Good job, Lovie. Chi-town advances. Fair enough.
Second: Pats/Colts. This was one of those 'hang on ... huh?' games. It went against all history, all logic, and everything we know about both teams. Colts stifle the running game? Brady screws up in crunch-time? Manning craps the bed as usual, can barely stay on his feet, and yet totally fails to blow the game? Huh?
Well, whatever. It's a little disappointing -- like the NBA finals last year, none of the top three teams actually made it to the championship. But it's historical for two reasons, one of which you'll hear about a billion times in the next few weeks and one of which you won't:
1/ No African-American coach had ever made it to the Super Bowl before; this year, two did. And that's pretty cool. Expecially when you consider that this year also marked the beginning and end of Art Shell's resurgent coaching career. In a field where minorities are habitually overlooked, 2006 produced both the most and the least successful Black coaches in history. Which just goes to show ... something. I guess.
2/ The great Tom Lehrer, on finishing a brief and unintentional stint in uniform, once remarked that "the Army has carried the American ideal to its logical conclusion: not only do they prohibit discrimination on the grounds of race, creed and color, but also on ability." Which I mention as a segue to my particular Bowl-peeve for this year: that, with apologies to Ben Folds, the Bears/Colts QBs are going to be fighting the Battle of Who Could Suck Less.
I mean, isn't that going to be the deciding factor here? Either Manning will get pressured a few times, revert to form, and start throwing interceptions ... or else Grossman will be dropping the ball like it's the opposite of soap-in-prison. It's a battle of the choke artists: Manning, holder of the Golden Lawnchair award for lifetime achievement in the field of folding under pressure, versus Grossman, who doesn't receive awards because he'd drop them.
Seriously, how can you get excited about this game? Has there ever been a Super Bowl in which the defensive units were more likely to outscore their offensive brethren? Whatever. My prediction:
Colts - 27
Bears - 31
Then Grossman fumbles his ring; Manning recovers it and slips out in the resulting chaos to do a commercial for Summer's Eve. Intimate freshness, thy name is Peyton.
Okay, first: the Saints/Bears game. Not fantastic; like everybody else without a particular dog in that fight, I liked the idea of the post-Katrina Saints going to the Big Dance. They've been a feel-good story all year, and after some of the stinking that Grossman has done I really just felt that they deserved it more. But whatever; I like the Bears, I love hard-nosed defense, and there was some good ball being played out there. Good job, Lovie. Chi-town advances. Fair enough.
Second: Pats/Colts. This was one of those 'hang on ... huh?' games. It went against all history, all logic, and everything we know about both teams. Colts stifle the running game? Brady screws up in crunch-time? Manning craps the bed as usual, can barely stay on his feet, and yet totally fails to blow the game? Huh?
Well, whatever. It's a little disappointing -- like the NBA finals last year, none of the top three teams actually made it to the championship. But it's historical for two reasons, one of which you'll hear about a billion times in the next few weeks and one of which you won't:
1/ No African-American coach had ever made it to the Super Bowl before; this year, two did. And that's pretty cool. Expecially when you consider that this year also marked the beginning and end of Art Shell's resurgent coaching career. In a field where minorities are habitually overlooked, 2006 produced both the most and the least successful Black coaches in history. Which just goes to show ... something. I guess.
2/ The great Tom Lehrer, on finishing a brief and unintentional stint in uniform, once remarked that "the Army has carried the American ideal to its logical conclusion: not only do they prohibit discrimination on the grounds of race, creed and color, but also on ability." Which I mention as a segue to my particular Bowl-peeve for this year: that, with apologies to Ben Folds, the Bears/Colts QBs are going to be fighting the Battle of Who Could Suck Less.
I mean, isn't that going to be the deciding factor here? Either Manning will get pressured a few times, revert to form, and start throwing interceptions ... or else Grossman will be dropping the ball like it's the opposite of soap-in-prison. It's a battle of the choke artists: Manning, holder of the Golden Lawnchair award for lifetime achievement in the field of folding under pressure, versus Grossman, who doesn't receive awards because he'd drop them.
Seriously, how can you get excited about this game? Has there ever been a Super Bowl in which the defensive units were more likely to outscore their offensive brethren? Whatever. My prediction:
Colts - 27
Bears - 31
Then Grossman fumbles his ring; Manning recovers it and slips out in the resulting chaos to do a commercial for Summer's Eve. Intimate freshness, thy name is Peyton.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
...I got sunburned indoors in January?
Okay, maybe it's fair to ask what I was doing napping at 3:00 PM. Further fair questions might address why, given the fact that construction workers make a habit of passing around the popcorn on the rooftop that looks directly into my apartment, I was sleeping buck-naked with the curtains open.
These, as I have said, are fair questions.
Of all the contingencies for which I didn't plan today, however, sunburn is one which I think I might be forgiven for neglecting. Granted, it hasn't exactly been freezing outside -- the only person who will ever mention the 'winter of ought-six' will be Al Gore when he's feeling insufferable -- but it would never have occurred to me to break out the sunblock before closing my eyes.
Big mistake. In my midafternoon dreams I found myself car shopping in old-fashioned basketball shorts (of which I do in fact own a pair), and it was not long before I realized that the vehicle on which I leaned was unpleasantly hot. Shifting positions provided only temporary relief, and eventually my dream-self had to acknowledge that not only did I not need a car, I was in substantial pain.
1/ Wake from burn-y dreams to burn-y reality
2/ Realize what the hell is going on
3/ Get up, unbearably pissed off at whoever the patron saint of nappers might be, and storm off to take a cold shower
But on the plus side, I now have the best-tanned left buttock in the District. I suppose that counts for something.
These, as I have said, are fair questions.
Of all the contingencies for which I didn't plan today, however, sunburn is one which I think I might be forgiven for neglecting. Granted, it hasn't exactly been freezing outside -- the only person who will ever mention the 'winter of ought-six' will be Al Gore when he's feeling insufferable -- but it would never have occurred to me to break out the sunblock before closing my eyes.
Big mistake. In my midafternoon dreams I found myself car shopping in old-fashioned basketball shorts (of which I do in fact own a pair), and it was not long before I realized that the vehicle on which I leaned was unpleasantly hot. Shifting positions provided only temporary relief, and eventually my dream-self had to acknowledge that not only did I not need a car, I was in substantial pain.
1/ Wake from burn-y dreams to burn-y reality
2/ Realize what the hell is going on
3/ Get up, unbearably pissed off at whoever the patron saint of nappers might be, and storm off to take a cold shower
But on the plus side, I now have the best-tanned left buttock in the District. I suppose that counts for something.
Friday, January 19, 2007
...I initiated LPB into one of the divine secrets?
There are many beautiful words that go into a relationship. These words are music, a handful of key phrases that evoke whole symphonies of passion and intimacy: "I want you." "I love you." "I do."
And then there's: "You know, I've never done this before, but do you want to try...?"
Twice tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Twice.
Yes, La Petite Boheme -- the ever-astonishing LPB -- has a new trick up her sleeve. A new weapon in her arsenal, if you will. And I have the same big, stupid grin on my face as the guy whose goose laid a golden egg and then, smiling coyly, said that it rather enjoyed it.
Hats off to my girl, ladies and gentlemen. She has officially raised the bar yet again. 'Best lay of my life' is a moving target, always something to be o'ertopped -- and if it can be done, I've no doubt she will. If anybody has any suggestions as to how she could do it, please let me know. I'm fresh out of ideas.
Oh, and there's a separate and (I swear) unrelated memory for today. Between first discussing the matter with LPB and learning that logistical difficulties would prevent any immediate action was only a matter of hours, but in that time we realized that, yes, we want to move in together. In fact, I can't wait, even though now I apparently have to. And I swear, my eagerness to keep this woman at my side at all times has nothing whatsoever to do with anything discussed earlier in this post.
Okay, maybe a little.
And then there's: "You know, I've never done this before, but do you want to try...?"
Twice tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Twice.
Yes, La Petite Boheme -- the ever-astonishing LPB -- has a new trick up her sleeve. A new weapon in her arsenal, if you will. And I have the same big, stupid grin on my face as the guy whose goose laid a golden egg and then, smiling coyly, said that it rather enjoyed it.
Hats off to my girl, ladies and gentlemen. She has officially raised the bar yet again. 'Best lay of my life' is a moving target, always something to be o'ertopped -- and if it can be done, I've no doubt she will. If anybody has any suggestions as to how she could do it, please let me know. I'm fresh out of ideas.
Oh, and there's a separate and (I swear) unrelated memory for today. Between first discussing the matter with LPB and learning that logistical difficulties would prevent any immediate action was only a matter of hours, but in that time we realized that, yes, we want to move in together. In fact, I can't wait, even though now I apparently have to. And I swear, my eagerness to keep this woman at my side at all times has nothing whatsoever to do with anything discussed earlier in this post.
Okay, maybe a little.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
...I fell asleep on the floor?
Okay. A brief moment of sincerity.
At 2:30 this morning I woke up and realized that I was lying on the floor. Now, my floor's a good enough floor -- hardwood tiles, been swept at some point late last year -- but it's not what you'd call 'comfortable'. It doesn't beckon the weary traveller. "Come, recline on me, slumber long and deep," it doesn't seem to say.
Therefore, and for other reasons, I don't make a habit of falling asleep on my floor. And since I'm being sincere I won't go into detail regarding how I ended up there. But when I woke up at 2:30 this morning, cold and somewhat bruised, she was still sleeping on my arm.
That's my memory for today.
At 2:30 this morning I woke up and realized that I was lying on the floor. Now, my floor's a good enough floor -- hardwood tiles, been swept at some point late last year -- but it's not what you'd call 'comfortable'. It doesn't beckon the weary traveller. "Come, recline on me, slumber long and deep," it doesn't seem to say.
Therefore, and for other reasons, I don't make a habit of falling asleep on my floor. And since I'm being sincere I won't go into detail regarding how I ended up there. But when I woke up at 2:30 this morning, cold and somewhat bruised, she was still sleeping on my arm.
That's my memory for today.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
...I went back to school?
Work thing. My company rented a ballroom and an amphitheater in the GWU student union, on the theory that our shareholders would benefit if most of us died from the dubious catering. I spent ten straight hours feeling like a sophomore who could be fired for snoring.A few highlights:
- Watching colleagues completely fail to hit on college girls in the food court
- Brokering an elaborate three-way deal over the catered-lunch-of-doom involving some original Ruffles, an upsettingly pale and gooey sugar cookie, and my Rold Gold pretzels
- Eating a third of an upsettingly pale and gooey sugar cookie, feeling ill, and wishing I had my pretzels back
- Stealing my pretzels back
Yeah, my triumphal return to the groves of Academe was not the stuff raunchy comedies are made of. Sadly. Will try harder next time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)