Rocky Mountains

Keith is out of town for this Valentine's Day.  This doesn't bother me, as I think Valentine's Day is ridiculous, but none the less, I put on a dress and headed out to dinner with the ladies.   We had fun.  But now it's 10:45, and I'm at home, writing a blog, still all dressed up... with no where to go.

Sooooo I'm gonna tell you a little story that I have already told fifteen times today because it's my quintessential "I love my husband because" story, and for some reason people just LOVE to swap LOVE stories on Valentine's Day.  It's short, and not gushy, so it probably wont burn your eyes.

When I first met Keith, we were working together at a local cafe.  He had a live-in girlfriend, I kind of had a too-old-for-me boyfriend (that's another story).  But eventually that boy broke up with himself for me (yeah, I said it was a story), and shortly after that Keith and his gal ended their relationship, leaving keith somewhat homeless for a few months.  And so, being the good buddy co-worker that I was, I let him stay at my house. 

Over the course of a few weeks I totally fell in love with him.  Mostly because he was goofy, totally off the wall, hilarious, creative, sweet, tattooed and most importantly 100% in love with my dog.  I didn't know I was in love with him though.  (I know, this sounds ridiculous, but it's true.) He ended up being my best friend.  We did just about everything together.  Basically attached at the hip.  

But this is what solidified our bond.

One night, when we were about to go to bed, he said to me:  "Oh! Hey, wanna see something cool?"  obviously the answer to this is... "YES."

"Come over here, look"  He proceeds to pull up the right leg of his pants and points to a purple spot on his knee.  "It's a rock, it's been in my knee since I was 6."

And now for my response:

"Oh come on. Who told you about that? That's not funny.  Dont make fun"

Obviously Keith was flummoxed.  "What are you talking about?! It's kinda cool!"

"Wait... you're serious?!"

"Yeah! It's a rock! Is that wrong?"

"No no, I just mean... I have a rock stuck in MY right knee!  That's ridiculous! We're the same!  I got mine when I was five... when you were six!"  

Some people were just meant to be together, I think. 

Excuse me! This is me time.

Keith and I have a few rules.  For the life of me, I can't really think of more than one, actually.  

Due to the fact that I can only really think of one, I'm starting to believe we really only have ONE rule.  Do not ever hang out in the bathroom while the other person is on the toilet.   Just because we're seated doesn't mean it's powwow time. (alright, so there are others, like... don't fuck around, obviously)

Until about 2 years ago, I'm pretty sure no one had ever seen me pee (this doesn't count my mother, of course.  I'm sure I gave her a number of golden showers as a baby).  And then Sam and I started "team drunk."  We don't have jersey's but we do drink whiskey.   In excess.  But only once in a while. 

On our inaugural Team Drunk night, Sam and I went to "thebar" and then proceeded to consume a bottle of Jameson that had JUST been opened and used to pour 2 shots.  Over the course of the next 3 hours, we finished that bottle.  Yes. Finished.  I only remember the first hour and 2 small snippets from the rest of the night.  Sam remembers that I drank more whiskey than she did, and not much more.  At this point in my "adulthood", I have a hard time thinking of two people finishing a fifth in one night, but we finished an honest-to-god bottle.

Somewhere around hour 3, we had to go to the bathroom.  So we ran next door to the cafe where I was the boss (yes! way to undermine your authority) and Sam was everyone's favorite.  And we did what drunk sorority girls have been perfecting for all of time.  We paraded into the bathroom as a duo.  You know, held each other's hands.  Just in case peeing had gotten significantly harder.  

I vaguely recall trying to hide my face from my bunnies with my sweater when we were headed into the bathroom, but I'm sure it looked ridiculous.  In fact, I don't even remember having on a sweater, so it's very possible that I flashed a cafe full of people.  Cause I think I was wearing a skirt.  (OH DAMNIT.  Why does this memory just get MORE ridiculous.)  And then I sat on the floor while Sam peed, and vice-versa.

There were, of course, other hilarious things that happened that night.  

1: I got lost on my way home from the bar, which is scary because I lived in the superghetto and hilarious because I was visible from the bar when I called Sam to tell her I was lost.  She waved and told me to "keep on!" This statement kept me keepin' on.

2: Whenever I'm wasted I murmur in french, and that night, the teams-man in me  was shouting out phrases you'd shout at a (european) football match at the top of my lungs.  Luckily my roommates were both at work.  Only Penny (dog) witnessed that.  I think I threw her a ball and said goooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaal for a long long LOONG time.  She got scared and went to her room.

But what sticks out the most to me is the peeing.  And the laughing.  So sam, I know you've seen lots of people pee at gigs and shows (and some of those bitches are shooting up, which is CREEPY! Don't do lines on bathroom sinks!) but you're the only person to see me pee, not to mention the only person I'VE seen pee.  

I was reminded of team drunk part 1 this morning when my dogs came barreling into the bathroom while I was peeing.  EXCUSE ME! This is me time!

We really have to fix that latch.  And Sam, wanna take on a fifth?  Or... what's half of a fifth?

To moonwalk or to Punch. That is the question.

On any given day, Keith delights in dressing up.  Or at least looking dapper.  He wears collared shirts, sweaters, vests, slacks, nice shoes, designer jeans... often, it will take him an hour to figure out what he's wearing on any given day.  Too many options is most of the problem.  He tries on one thing, takes it off, tries again.  Eventually he stumbles across "the look" he was really hoping for, and then we're out the door. 

Me in my basics. GapJeans, solid shirt, big scarf, jacket, boots/chucks.  Keith in his ensemble (must be said with snooty french accent).

Basically, I married a girl.  And not just any girl, but a girl who understands fashion, who loves interior design, and can pick out a fantastic bottle of wine.  I married that mythological girl who is both hilarious and hot... Only handsome, and with boy-humor.  

He works from home, I own a store.  He wants to be a stay at home dad, and I'm content to work all day.  Work all day where people can see me in the most basic of clothing while he sits at home in his get ups where only I see him.  I'm not sure how this happened.   

I took that picture at the top just after I found out that he scheduled a massage for me today.  Something to relieve stress.  Sometimes, I think he might be imaginary.

When he told me, I paused, said thank you, rubbed his back, and found this spot that made him go limp and twitch toward the floor.  (Mwahahaha) He screamed out, "STOP IT!" and with a giggle, "I don't know whether I should moon walk or punch something!"  

And then I took his picture (with the Mrs., which is awkward).  To commemorate the moment. 

Ohhhh, Marriage.

 

Bed Time?

It's Thursday.  I don't have to work tomorrow. It's  not even 8:30 yet.  But I'm pondering going to bed.  Yep, I'm a 24-year-old 75-year-old.  Thank you Bakery.

Keith just headed off to his nighttime job at a local bar, and I'm turning in for the evening with a cat in my lap and Bon Iver blaring through the house.  Have you listened to Bon Iver?  I suppose it's no surprise that I'm sleepy.  Their music is dreamlike.  Sort of muddled and cold, like you're listening to it underwater in the winter. 

That's also why I love it.  It makes me think of running full-force into the ocean in the dead of winter.  I always listen to it, close my eyes and inevitably end up rocking back and forth.  

It's rare that I listen to something other than audio books and french speakers when I'm at home by myself and can listen to anything I want.  But this has eeked into my solo night-time life slowly and smoothly.  It's a lullaby you fall asleep inside of, then dream the night away with.

Nightcap time!  I'm off to run into the ocean (bathtub). 

Historically Speaking

Just to get it out of the way, I fell out of love with photography a few years ago.  It used to be mythical to me.  Someone could capture the color, light and enthusiasm of a person's personality in one specific moment.  But then I realized how quickly people write off photographs.

"it's too  _______."

"Where's the intellect?"

I guess that's art school for you.  Always fuc*ing things up. And in a town where "art" is very visible, it's hard to ignore it.   Keith's degree is in Photography, though I haven't seen him holding any sort of camera --whether it be polaroid, digital or film-- in I don't even know how long.  This might be part of why I fell out of love with it.  Because it seems that he did.

I guess he and I are doomed to always love the same things within reason.  I suppose doomed is the wrong word, but sometimes it feels that way.  For example, I've become an avid fan of naked people on dishtowels, which I never thought I would find as amusing as I do.  I like to think I've implanted some of my weird loves on him as well, like purging closets (ugh, is that really the best example of something I love that I can come up with?!)... but only in moderation.  He's more steadfast than I am (his wardrobe still dwarfs mine).

But I digress.   Yesterday, I missed Obama's inaugural speech because I was working to get my damn bakery open.  Phone calls turn into house calls turn into driving 45 minutes to find the trash company... and before you know it, it's 9pm on inauguration day and you've completely forgotten about it.

I'm running off to find a NYTimes before they are all sold out as they were the day after the election, but I wanted to let you know that I fell back in love with photography for today while scrolling through this slideshow.  Give it a listen, a look.  It's pretty, and amazing.  Not to mention all of the 20-somethings in there made me realize what working hard and being motivated can get you.  And suddenly I didn't mind being addicted to work. 

Wait, so they blew it up twice?!

I worry that after reading this post, some of you will write me off, and discontinue your interest in my blog.  But I'm going to do it anyway because it made my husband (keith from here on out) laugh so hard that we were both crying a little.

------

In highschool, my adorable and dorky husband had a big, big, big addiction to Star Wars.  He watched it all the time, quoted it, had life-size cardboard cut outs in his bedroom and wore pins with lea's cinnamon buns on his (awesome) denim jackets.   

I'm sure it was painfully obvious that he was a Star Wars fanatic.  We never would have gotten along back then.  He was somewhat original, while I watched MTV's TRL like it was the only thing I needed to sustain myself other than water, food, and oxygen. 

Yes, this was during the era of the boy band.  I'm not proud of it, but I do still get a little giddy whenever I hear certain nsync or backstreet boys songs.  I'm also pretty (Ok, FINE I'm 100%) sure it wasn't even cool back then.

Regardless, we never would have been friends.  It just wouldn't have worked.  I would have thought his home-made bellbottoms were weird and he would have thought my sweater sets were lame.  I guess it's good that we never knew each other.  (by the way, we went to the same school, at the same time, but when 3,000+ hormone-crazed kids cram into one building... it's not easy to know EVERYone.)

Now that we're older and have moved on past our weird afflictions of the high school variety, it's often hilarious to look back and ponder our differences.  So, earlier today he was inspired to have me describe what I thought the plot of Star Wars was after he watched this video in his studio.

The following is what I said.  Please take into account that I have never seen Star Wars.  This is what I've gleaned from conversations I've heard and random pop culture references.  We have now decided that maybe I shouldn't see the movies.  It would ruin my "vision."

"Well, ok.  The movies start off with the words that fly across the screen.  Something about the world being bad.  They blame it on Darth.  So, another group of guys is trying to keep Darth at bay using light swords.  Wait. Light Sabers.  Yeah, Sabers."

At this point, keith is staring at me with his mouth open, which I don't understand cause I haven't even gotten to the good part yet. 

"Ok, so there's this guy, Hans Solo and another guy whose name I can't remember, but I think he's Harrison Ford.  And Harrison Ford is crazy.  Always shooting things in his space pod."

This is where the hysterical laughing started.

"So they find another guy named Obiewan who teaches Hans Solo to use the force.  And somewhere in there they talk to Princess Lea. I'm not sure what was going on with her, but I do know that she had her hair in buns and was always wearing a tunic, except for this one time when she was in a bikini as a sex slave for a giant slug.  I'm not sure how you have sex with a giant slug, but it's a good thing they got her out of that gross mess."

At this point he couldn't even see because of laughter tears, and I was starting to laugh because apparently I was getting things wrong. 

"Ok, well I also know that they had some robot friends.  One was short and did a lot of booop boop doo doo do dee doo to talk and the other one, the big gold man-shaped one could tell what he was saying.  And then there's Chewy.  He's from another planet where everyone looks like teddy rumpskin.... you know, the talking bear?!"

I think somewhere around here he stopped laughing and started just staring at me again.

"Ok, so... Long story short they break onto Darth's ship with the princess and ... Oh wait, somewhere in there Lea and Hans fall in love... And there's Yoda.... Crap.  I forgot about Yoda. Yoda's like a 'the force' sensei. And he speaks sentences completely out of order.  Anyway, so they break onto the ship and try to kill Darth. But then Darth says 'Luke I am your Father.'

WAIT! THAT'S his Name! That's other guys Name is LUKE!"  

Hysterical Laughing recommence.

"Anyway, Then the ship blows up.  Maybe Darth's dead?  I'm not sure why it blows up.  I think Hans did it."

So, yes.  That's what I would describe as the story of the Star Wars.   And then Keith enlightened me through more laughter.  Although, not in too much detail...  Apparently it's Han Solo. Not Hans Solo.  and HE is played by Harrison Ford.  Then of course there's Luke Skywalker, who does most of the things that I thought Han Did. And the big slug is named Java the hut. Wait. Jaba the hut? I couldn't really tell. 

Symphonic? Definitely. Not.

Windinstruments and Percussionists: Two 55lb. dogs. 

The Strings:Two 15lb. cats. (yes, they're fat cats, I know.  They make up for how ultra-trim the dogs are) .

On an average morning, I get up around 4:30 or 5:00.  I have to be at work by 5:45 and if I'm not up and about by 5, I wont have time to get the dogs outside, or get myself presentable to see a litany of people that I serve or am in charge of.  And every single morning... without fail, the following set of sounds rushes through our house at levels the train just 40 yards from my front door rarely reaches within our walls.

I wake up, quite naturally at about 4:47. (I know this sounds ridiculous.  But it's true) And do a little stretch.  And when I say little, I mean that I look out the window and raise my arms above my head while still sitting in bed.  It takes 2 seconds.

And that's when the sound starts. The dogs ("thegirls" from here on out) get up.  I dont know how they hear me.  1) I have no alarm. 2) they don't sleep in our room, they sleep on the other side of the door on a landing.  It's maddening.  The MOMENT I open my eyes, their collars shake out the sleep like a castanet percussion entry.  Here it comes!

Once they've gotten the shake out of the way (damn collars and their jingling), there's the whining. Well,  maybe it's excitement for the new day, but high-pitched, desperate sounds seem to be whining no matter what when you're up before the sun and other reasonable people. 

Secondly, there's the clicking of their nails on the hardwood floor of our landing. They get all excited, and start prancing around like 5-year-old girls in god-awful leotards and mommy's red lipstick, waiting for their first chance to try out the pennies they have glued to their new shoes (Side note: I've been that little girl, and pennies are definitely not the same as tap shoes.  Perhaps I should apologize to my mother today).  

So you have the whining (first movement), tap dancing, and then add in the staircase (PERCUSSION takes over again).  We have a metal, spiral staircase.  It's akin to the sound of churchbells chiming, if church bells were made by, say... the worst metal sculpture student you've ever seen.   And once they plummet --and I do mean plummet-- to the bottom of the staircase the whining continues.  Now they're whining, tapdancing and slapping their tails up against the walls.   That's the second movement and now we're on to the third...  The scherzo.  More like schitzo. 

Enter: the cats (from here on out: The Fats).

 

The fats are cute. Their tails are far less destructive. They're cuddly, friendly, they can't knock me over, and they don't need much from me.  I've always been a dog person, but these two fats made me like two cats.  They're also the devil in a fluffy fur coat.  

I'd say the volume at this point of our --as of yet-- extremely short morning is probably at about a 7.  And once the Fats start chiming in with their "song" the level gets to about a 9.  They Meow. And croon, and gasp and hiss and... well they join the whining sounds the Girls are making at this point. 

I have very little experience with cats, but I don't think it's normal.  Most cats I've encountered couldn't care one way or the other what you do when you wake up.  Maybe it's my fault for creating such a serious schedule for them.  Up at 4:45, exercise vocal cords, fed at 4:47, sleep all day, go bat-shit crazy from 2-4, eat dinner after 5, sleep all night.  Repeat.  Or maybe it's the older cat's fault for teaching the kitten to meow.  Either way.  JEEZE.  SHUT UP! I feed them every morning and so help me, it's like they haven't been fed in WEEKS each time we move towards their food bin. 

And so the crooning is over once their food hits the bowl, and the girls are still tick tick ticking and thwap thwap thwapping around my feet when I turn on the teapot but slowly the sound starts to subside as the fourth movement slowly eases its way to a halt as they settle into their bed by the time the stove burners are red.  Apparently my dogs just LOVE new days with a fervor that mystifies my human mind.

It's probably because they're pretty. But not smart.