In a theoretical way, I always thought that I would make a great dad some day. In theory, I'd like to think of myself as parental and a good caregiver, the fun dad that my kids would call "Pop." In reality, I have less than no idea how to relate to them.
By the time kids have made their way through baby- and toddlerhood, they likely have developed little personalities and want to play games, pretend and imagine. I'm no good at any of that stuff. In that way, I have always been old. Even when I was young, I was old. I think I first got the acute sense of it when I was nine or 10, and I discovered that I lacked imagination. For Christmas one year, I got an elaborate Lego set of a medieval castle, complete with four walls, an articulating drawbridge, and a glow-in-the-dark ghost to haunt the tower. Exactly what I wanted.
It took me a few weeks to put it all together according to the included specs, and it was great fun to see it through to completion. Once I placed the final Lego flag on the final Lego tower, I remember feeling a vague sense of disappointment, like a "What do I do with this now?" kind of feeling. I didn't know, so I just looked at it, raising and lowering the drawbridge from time to time.
Mostly, it just sat there on my desk, like a monument to my failure. I wanted to play with it, wage battles and quests with my horse-mounted Lego men, but I lacked the power of pretend and did not know how to play. I could not move those Lego characters without seeing my hand doing the moving, could not act out scenes from King Arthur without seeing the carpet underneath the castle floors. I couldn't even tear it apart and build something else with the pieces, anything other than what the instructions dictated.
In college, I dated a man with a five-year-old son named James. James liked me well enough at first, constantly asking me to play Matchbox cars with him. And I would, but tried as I did, I just could never make those Matchbox cars be anything more than palm-sized replicas of actual race cars (which itself didn't exactly thrill me in the first place). The worst part was that I think he knew. Eventually, he stopped asking me to play with him; could there be anything worse than failing at playing with a five-year-old?
But now I have Grr, practically a child himself in his needs and behaviors (both the good and the bad), and I think he sees me as the most fun dad that I could ever be. When I come down the stairs, he often gallops over with his ears plastered to the side of his head, wagging his entire body along with his tail like it had been ages since he'd seen me last. If I sit on the floor with him, he inevitably plops down on my lap with whatever chew toy he conveniently grabbed on his way. In the mornings when he comes upstairs and I'm still in bed, he gives me little kisses all over my face and falls down right on my chest, as if to say, "I can't wait for you to wake up, give me all of your attention, and play!"
Who actually knows what he means since we can't exactly sit down and chat about it (that would pretty much solve my problems with kids, too, if I could do that). But for now, I'll just pretend that that's what he means, and maybe with enough time, I'll come to learn that I do know how to play after all.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
3/6/2011 - the fear of wanting to fall. . .
I woke up this morning thinking about relationships for some reason, the delicate nature of them. I wish I could explain where these thoughts come from and why. Or, actually, it'd be nice to just think of simpler things like American Idol or whatever else is cool nowadays. But as I laid in bed, fighting the morning, simultaneously wanting to get up to start the day and putting it off indefinitely, I wrestled with the question of how it is that two people manage to not only find each other but stay together for any amount of time. I don't know why I thought this, or what it means that I did, but the idea of it bounced back and forth in my head.
I thought of how a relationship feels like it is held in supreme balance on good days, leveled on the head of a pin. On bad ones, though, it feels more like standing on a cliffside with your toes dangling over the edge. Milan Kundera in The Unbearable Lightness of Being defined vertigo as not necessarily the fear of falling, but the fear of wanting to fall. I think in a way, he could have been talking about love, both the pursuit and abdication of it.
I thought about Sam, a self-professed loner who claims that he is not one to pursue or care about being in a relationship of any kind, romantic or otherwise. Where on the surface, this statement should put me in a rather dubious position, I know that he is just putting up a facade (or at least I hope). I know that he once had a profile on Match.com, went on dates that ranged from fruitful to disastrous with people he enjoyed meeting and others he forgot about immediately afterwards. Still, somewhere inside, he must have wanted to be with someone if he put forth the effort. In spite of himself, he must have looked for love, and now, it is just too difficult to admit through the thick shell of armor he wears that he ever could have wanted something so human.
I'm not even sure why I am writing this, what it is I am thankful for today, or why it all came to me in the haze between waking and not. It's just that I heard Sam and Grr playing downstairs, a sporadic squeak from Grr's raccoon chew toy, and as much as I wanted to join them, I could not will my body to move. I was that tired. Yet my mind was active and heard every time Sam laughed at Grr, told him to quiet down because I was sleeping, every time he said, "Good boy" as if it was the most exciting thing he had uttered in his life. While fading in and out, I wondered how we, Sam and I, and to some extent, Grr as well, how we all got to where we are today.
I thought of how a relationship feels like it is held in supreme balance on good days, leveled on the head of a pin. On bad ones, though, it feels more like standing on a cliffside with your toes dangling over the edge. Milan Kundera in The Unbearable Lightness of Being defined vertigo as not necessarily the fear of falling, but the fear of wanting to fall. I think in a way, he could have been talking about love, both the pursuit and abdication of it.
I thought about Sam, a self-professed loner who claims that he is not one to pursue or care about being in a relationship of any kind, romantic or otherwise. Where on the surface, this statement should put me in a rather dubious position, I know that he is just putting up a facade (or at least I hope). I know that he once had a profile on Match.com, went on dates that ranged from fruitful to disastrous with people he enjoyed meeting and others he forgot about immediately afterwards. Still, somewhere inside, he must have wanted to be with someone if he put forth the effort. In spite of himself, he must have looked for love, and now, it is just too difficult to admit through the thick shell of armor he wears that he ever could have wanted something so human.
I'm not even sure why I am writing this, what it is I am thankful for today, or why it all came to me in the haze between waking and not. It's just that I heard Sam and Grr playing downstairs, a sporadic squeak from Grr's raccoon chew toy, and as much as I wanted to join them, I could not will my body to move. I was that tired. Yet my mind was active and heard every time Sam laughed at Grr, told him to quiet down because I was sleeping, every time he said, "Good boy" as if it was the most exciting thing he had uttered in his life. While fading in and out, I wondered how we, Sam and I, and to some extent, Grr as well, how we all got to where we are today.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
3/5/2011 - a complete and true picture of my friend. . .
About six years ago, I met my friend Steve. He was one of the regular morning gym-goers I would see every day, and he introduced himself after we both realized we were fixtures there. I thought, "Wow, he's a nice guy."
The next day after we 'officially' met, I was sitting on a bench, yawning and still trying to wake up. Steve came over and said, "Girl! Are you just sucking up air over here?" I thought, "Wow, I don't think you know me well enough to be calling me 'Girl!'"
Or maybe he already did. Probably so.
And I quickly learned that that was how it was with Steve. Strangers were a foreign concept to him; we were all merely friends-in-waiting. I guess he wasn't called the "unofficial mayor of the Castro" for nothing.
And luckily for me, he was like that, the counterbalance to my introvertedness. Back then, I was going through a rough patch and was very shy, almost to the point of not knowing how to be in a social setting. I didn't want to be that way; I just didn't know how to be any way else. Truth is, I never got lonely because I was alone. I got lonely because I sometimes felt like I didn't know how to be anything but alone.
Steve changed that. He would always approach me at the gym, always prepared with conversation and stories and questions to break me out of my shell. It came to a point where as soon as I would see him walk into the weight room, I would automatically adjust my routine to accommodate the extra 20 minutes of chatting we'd do. And that was a great thing. Seeing him kept me going consistently. I looked forward to it every morning, practically five days a week.
Soon, we started having lunch together, then movies on the weekends. Then he introduced me to many of his friends, and I started seeing how life could be different, and making new friends didn't have to be difficult. He arranged dinners and shows; we took trips to Napa and vacations to Vegas. And then, before I really took the time to think too much about it, he became one of my closest friends.
Of course, he was not without his flaws, one of which was his chronic tardiness. If we said that we would meet for lunch at a certain time, he would always be late. I would often stand by the railing of the Crocker Galleria, in our designated meeting place at our usual lunch spot, and watch our 12:00 meet-up time tick by, then 12:05, 12:10. When he finally showed up, he would smile and laugh in that rambunctious way of his, punch me playfully in the shoulder, roll his eyes and explain that he got cornered by his boss, or his co-worker had a complicated question, or he ran into a friend on his way over who talked his ear off. To this day, I think he had his facts wrong, and it was he who cornered his boss, he would talked his friend's ear off.
Because the truth is, the reason he was always late was because he gave everyone equal attention. If we saw John walking past, where most people would wave, say hi, and move along, Steve would introduce me to him, ask him about his children, his job, his childhood dreams and fears. If he saw Jane in line while waiting to get to the counter at Walgreens, he would pull her aside afterwards and make sure that he knew how things were going with her husband, the new dog, plans for future vacations. That was just the kind of person Steve was, interested in all that you do, and thorough to the core.
So it was fitting, then, that his first date with Jason lasted all of 50 hours or something like that and came to be known by us as the 'Longest Date in the World.' It makes perfect sense. If he could have gone on for 20 minutes or more with me at the gym everyday, a relative stranger then, why wouldn't the time he'd spend with a possible romantic connection be exponential?
Tonight, Sam and I are having dinner with Jason to commemorate this 'Longest Date in the World,' which of course got me thinking about Steve heavily for the last few days. He died about a year and a half ago, and it took me a long time to feel complete about it, meaning I couldn't even think too much about him at first, almost would prefer not to remember. I didn't want to wonder how things would be if he were still around. Jason once asked what my favorite memory of Steve was, and I couldn't even recall, much to my horror.
Slowly, though, I have come to remember his sense of humor, his habits, his sporadic but insistent east coast accent, the way he'd dance. Shortly after he died, I focused on the unbelievable, how only a couple of years prior, we had gone to a drag performance of an episode of the Golden Girls; a year prior, still meeting for brunch. Months before he died, we had dinner together for my birthday. And then he was gone, and I couldn't believe how much things can change.
I believe it now, but mostly, I feel OK enough to be able to think of him and remember with less sadness than nostalgia. I certainly remember how annoyed I would be with him while waiting for his late yet nonchalant arrival at the Crocker Galleria, but also how I couldn't help but smile when he finally got there. Steve just had had that kind of positive energy. And true to that, I can't help but smile now as well when I think of him, of all the memories that help me compose a complete and true picture of my friend, and who he was to me.
The next day after we 'officially' met, I was sitting on a bench, yawning and still trying to wake up. Steve came over and said, "Girl! Are you just sucking up air over here?" I thought, "Wow, I don't think you know me well enough to be calling me 'Girl!'"
Or maybe he already did. Probably so.
And I quickly learned that that was how it was with Steve. Strangers were a foreign concept to him; we were all merely friends-in-waiting. I guess he wasn't called the "unofficial mayor of the Castro" for nothing.
And luckily for me, he was like that, the counterbalance to my introvertedness. Back then, I was going through a rough patch and was very shy, almost to the point of not knowing how to be in a social setting. I didn't want to be that way; I just didn't know how to be any way else. Truth is, I never got lonely because I was alone. I got lonely because I sometimes felt like I didn't know how to be anything but alone.
Steve changed that. He would always approach me at the gym, always prepared with conversation and stories and questions to break me out of my shell. It came to a point where as soon as I would see him walk into the weight room, I would automatically adjust my routine to accommodate the extra 20 minutes of chatting we'd do. And that was a great thing. Seeing him kept me going consistently. I looked forward to it every morning, practically five days a week.
Soon, we started having lunch together, then movies on the weekends. Then he introduced me to many of his friends, and I started seeing how life could be different, and making new friends didn't have to be difficult. He arranged dinners and shows; we took trips to Napa and vacations to Vegas. And then, before I really took the time to think too much about it, he became one of my closest friends.
Of course, he was not without his flaws, one of which was his chronic tardiness. If we said that we would meet for lunch at a certain time, he would always be late. I would often stand by the railing of the Crocker Galleria, in our designated meeting place at our usual lunch spot, and watch our 12:00 meet-up time tick by, then 12:05, 12:10. When he finally showed up, he would smile and laugh in that rambunctious way of his, punch me playfully in the shoulder, roll his eyes and explain that he got cornered by his boss, or his co-worker had a complicated question, or he ran into a friend on his way over who talked his ear off. To this day, I think he had his facts wrong, and it was he who cornered his boss, he would talked his friend's ear off.
Because the truth is, the reason he was always late was because he gave everyone equal attention. If we saw John walking past, where most people would wave, say hi, and move along, Steve would introduce me to him, ask him about his children, his job, his childhood dreams and fears. If he saw Jane in line while waiting to get to the counter at Walgreens, he would pull her aside afterwards and make sure that he knew how things were going with her husband, the new dog, plans for future vacations. That was just the kind of person Steve was, interested in all that you do, and thorough to the core.
So it was fitting, then, that his first date with Jason lasted all of 50 hours or something like that and came to be known by us as the 'Longest Date in the World.' It makes perfect sense. If he could have gone on for 20 minutes or more with me at the gym everyday, a relative stranger then, why wouldn't the time he'd spend with a possible romantic connection be exponential?
Tonight, Sam and I are having dinner with Jason to commemorate this 'Longest Date in the World,' which of course got me thinking about Steve heavily for the last few days. He died about a year and a half ago, and it took me a long time to feel complete about it, meaning I couldn't even think too much about him at first, almost would prefer not to remember. I didn't want to wonder how things would be if he were still around. Jason once asked what my favorite memory of Steve was, and I couldn't even recall, much to my horror.
Slowly, though, I have come to remember his sense of humor, his habits, his sporadic but insistent east coast accent, the way he'd dance. Shortly after he died, I focused on the unbelievable, how only a couple of years prior, we had gone to a drag performance of an episode of the Golden Girls; a year prior, still meeting for brunch. Months before he died, we had dinner together for my birthday. And then he was gone, and I couldn't believe how much things can change.
I believe it now, but mostly, I feel OK enough to be able to think of him and remember with less sadness than nostalgia. I certainly remember how annoyed I would be with him while waiting for his late yet nonchalant arrival at the Crocker Galleria, but also how I couldn't help but smile when he finally got there. Steve just had had that kind of positive energy. And true to that, I can't help but smile now as well when I think of him, of all the memories that help me compose a complete and true picture of my friend, and who he was to me.
Friday, March 4, 2011
3/4/2011 - wonderful nothingness. . .
Tonight is Friday night. The most exciting decision Sam and I faced was whether to get pizza from Costco or Goat Hill, and I think that was pretty awesome.
I left work early today because the office building was undergoing some sort of power maintenance. Though it only amounted to shaving off one hour of my workday , I left my cubicle with the same excitement I had when my junior high gave us Minimum Days.
I biked home and said hi to Grr. He did this helicopter thing with his tail instead of wagging it back and forth; apparently, he loves Minimum Days too. Half an hour later, we were at the park, meeting new dogs and rolling in the grass. It occurred to me that soon, the bars would open, if not already for happy hour. People were probably already getting their buzzes on while Sam and I watched Grr wrestling with some smaller dogs. People were probably getting dressed for dinner, sitting in traffic to cross the bridge that will take them into the City where an entire evening (and maybe even night) would unveil itself to them.
Some might even be coming to our neighborhood, as we have several bars and clubs within a few blocks. Last week, Grr and I saw a couple who looked like they stepped right off the set of Beetlejuice but never got out of their costumes. The woman smiled at Grr and said he had the cutest little face (something he gets a lot, the lucky dog), so I guess I can overlook her tragic wardrobe selection.
Not that I'm one to judge, as I will be in sweats and an oversized T-shirt by 8:00 if I can help it. Hopefully, I will be slouched on the couch watching my new (and only) favorite cartoon, Sym-Bionic Titan. The pizza box would be empty, I would be full, and the evening would still have plenty of wonderful nothingness to offer.
Though in (mostly) a good way, the past two weeks have been so exhausting that I have never looked forward to a Friday more than I did today. Well, I was definitely excited to go to the trampoline park two weeks ago, but that almost feels like it happened in a different lifetime. In someone else's life altogether.
Today, and the days before, the only thing I wanted to do on this Friday night was spend time on the couch and time in bed. If I was a lame, unfun homebody before (and some would argue that I was and still am), Grr has helped me transcend to a whole new level of homebodiness. He gives me a reason to stay at home, justifies my lack of interest in the 'scene.' I barely even consider going out to dinner anymore. Other than the dog park, I have not left the house this week for fun. And while the park has been fun, I'm not rushing to write in to Urban Daddy to suggest it as the next place to be seen.
Adult, human-related fun? A thing of the past. It's all about dog parks, dozing off by eight, and asleep by 9:30 these days. Tonight, I can't wait.
I left work early today because the office building was undergoing some sort of power maintenance. Though it only amounted to shaving off one hour of my workday , I left my cubicle with the same excitement I had when my junior high gave us Minimum Days.
I biked home and said hi to Grr. He did this helicopter thing with his tail instead of wagging it back and forth; apparently, he loves Minimum Days too. Half an hour later, we were at the park, meeting new dogs and rolling in the grass. It occurred to me that soon, the bars would open, if not already for happy hour. People were probably already getting their buzzes on while Sam and I watched Grr wrestling with some smaller dogs. People were probably getting dressed for dinner, sitting in traffic to cross the bridge that will take them into the City where an entire evening (and maybe even night) would unveil itself to them.
Some might even be coming to our neighborhood, as we have several bars and clubs within a few blocks. Last week, Grr and I saw a couple who looked like they stepped right off the set of Beetlejuice but never got out of their costumes. The woman smiled at Grr and said he had the cutest little face (something he gets a lot, the lucky dog), so I guess I can overlook her tragic wardrobe selection.
Not that I'm one to judge, as I will be in sweats and an oversized T-shirt by 8:00 if I can help it. Hopefully, I will be slouched on the couch watching my new (and only) favorite cartoon, Sym-Bionic Titan. The pizza box would be empty, I would be full, and the evening would still have plenty of wonderful nothingness to offer.
Though in (mostly) a good way, the past two weeks have been so exhausting that I have never looked forward to a Friday more than I did today. Well, I was definitely excited to go to the trampoline park two weeks ago, but that almost feels like it happened in a different lifetime. In someone else's life altogether.
Today, and the days before, the only thing I wanted to do on this Friday night was spend time on the couch and time in bed. If I was a lame, unfun homebody before (and some would argue that I was and still am), Grr has helped me transcend to a whole new level of homebodiness. He gives me a reason to stay at home, justifies my lack of interest in the 'scene.' I barely even consider going out to dinner anymore. Other than the dog park, I have not left the house this week for fun. And while the park has been fun, I'm not rushing to write in to Urban Daddy to suggest it as the next place to be seen.
Adult, human-related fun? A thing of the past. It's all about dog parks, dozing off by eight, and asleep by 9:30 these days. Tonight, I can't wait.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
3/3/2011 - the uncool ones. . .
Truthfully, I have been a little annoyed with Grr the last few days. I guess you can say that the honeymoon phase is effectively over. Between the fiasco on Tuesday, my lack of sleep due to his night-time bathroom habits, and his newfound interest in nipping at any exposed flappy-looking thing (whether it be a finger or toe, a dangling plant leaf or corners of papers or tags from pillows), I regularly find myself staring off, zoning out, and missing my life. You know, the one where I do more than go to work, work on this blog, and entertain him so he doesn't destroy the house.
(On a related note, I think we have decided two things about his name: 1) Grr is it, and 2) it is now unofficially short for Freddy Krueger, the unholiest of nightmares.)
(Oh, and on another related note, Sam has become the ultimate permissive parent, and now Grr climbs into bed with us in the mornings. The other morning, when I was already dreading the prospect of waking, he slept with his front feet at my sides while dreaming of digging holes or chasing after rabbits, something that caused him to involuntarily kick me regularly for the better part of the hour of sleep I had left. Nightmare, indeed.)
In an effort to curb his bad behaviors, we thought it best to simply tire him out at the park, so we took him on Tuesday night after work and let him run around and play with other dogs. At first, he was very shy, not wanting to do anything more than sniff around and stand still. Soon, a friendly golden lab came around and started chasing after a ball. And then various other dogs began chasing after the same ball. Grr ran alongside them, but had no interest in the ball itself, much like how he was with Elliot when we were at my parents' house. But seeing him run around the periphery of so many other dogs yet not getting into the middle of the group made me feel a little bad for him. He was like the uncool kid who stood on the outskirts of the inner circle, laughing when they laughed but not really knowing why.
Still, I'm pretty sure Grr had a great time.
But then it rained yesterday, and we could not take him anywhere but the garage downstairs, and all of a sudden, Sam and I became the uncool ones. We would run from wall to wall in an effort to get Grr to chase us, but he was having none of us. We'd throw a ball, and Grr would barely give it a second glance, even after we ended up fetching it for him. It was as if he was saying, "Ugh, I hope the other dogs don't see me with my dads."
Luckily, the sun came back out today and the temperature warmed up. We took Grr back out to the same park, and the nonchalant, apathetic puppy from yesterday was completely gone, replaced with an active, playful, and completely independent one. It's strange, actually. Just the other day, I told Sam that one advantage of raising puppies is that, unlike children, they probably won't grow up to have an 8-year phase where they hate you and want nothing to do with you (but everything to do with your wallet). Yet there we were, standing in the park while our little pup barely even remembered to look back at us.
But somewhere inside, I felt really good about that. I know that my less-than-enthused attitude about him lately is only a factor of my fatigue, my aching desire to sleep from one end of the night to the other (just one night). Watching him be brave with other dogs made my feel like a proud dad, seeing his boy go off on his own, making his own friends and way in the world.
And what a way he was making. While playing, he body-checked a little chihuahua mix, stole a toy from a shiba inu, and generally acted more like a cock of the walk than the scared puppy we still have to carry down the stairs at home in order to get him to go outside. But I kept that to myself; I wasn't about to embarass him in front of his new friends.
(On a related note, I think we have decided two things about his name: 1) Grr is it, and 2) it is now unofficially short for Freddy Krueger, the unholiest of nightmares.)
(Oh, and on another related note, Sam has become the ultimate permissive parent, and now Grr climbs into bed with us in the mornings. The other morning, when I was already dreading the prospect of waking, he slept with his front feet at my sides while dreaming of digging holes or chasing after rabbits, something that caused him to involuntarily kick me regularly for the better part of the hour of sleep I had left. Nightmare, indeed.)
In an effort to curb his bad behaviors, we thought it best to simply tire him out at the park, so we took him on Tuesday night after work and let him run around and play with other dogs. At first, he was very shy, not wanting to do anything more than sniff around and stand still. Soon, a friendly golden lab came around and started chasing after a ball. And then various other dogs began chasing after the same ball. Grr ran alongside them, but had no interest in the ball itself, much like how he was with Elliot when we were at my parents' house. But seeing him run around the periphery of so many other dogs yet not getting into the middle of the group made me feel a little bad for him. He was like the uncool kid who stood on the outskirts of the inner circle, laughing when they laughed but not really knowing why.
Still, I'm pretty sure Grr had a great time.
But then it rained yesterday, and we could not take him anywhere but the garage downstairs, and all of a sudden, Sam and I became the uncool ones. We would run from wall to wall in an effort to get Grr to chase us, but he was having none of us. We'd throw a ball, and Grr would barely give it a second glance, even after we ended up fetching it for him. It was as if he was saying, "Ugh, I hope the other dogs don't see me with my dads."
Luckily, the sun came back out today and the temperature warmed up. We took Grr back out to the same park, and the nonchalant, apathetic puppy from yesterday was completely gone, replaced with an active, playful, and completely independent one. It's strange, actually. Just the other day, I told Sam that one advantage of raising puppies is that, unlike children, they probably won't grow up to have an 8-year phase where they hate you and want nothing to do with you (but everything to do with your wallet). Yet there we were, standing in the park while our little pup barely even remembered to look back at us.
But somewhere inside, I felt really good about that. I know that my less-than-enthused attitude about him lately is only a factor of my fatigue, my aching desire to sleep from one end of the night to the other (just one night). Watching him be brave with other dogs made my feel like a proud dad, seeing his boy go off on his own, making his own friends and way in the world.
And what a way he was making. While playing, he body-checked a little chihuahua mix, stole a toy from a shiba inu, and generally acted more like a cock of the walk than the scared puppy we still have to carry down the stairs at home in order to get him to go outside. But I kept that to myself; I wasn't about to embarass him in front of his new friends.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
3/2/2011 - which five songs I wanted. . .
A few weeks ago, I discovered the American Express promotion where the price of five songs purchased off of iTunes will be reimbursed if you pay for them with a registered AmEx. So I registered mine, and ever since, I've been thinking about which five songs I wanted those to be. In the scheme of things, these five will be no different than the previous five I bought with my own money and the next five after, but I thought I should choose five songs that remind me of something good, if for no other purpose than to give me something to write about today.
So here they are, in no particular order:
So here they are, in no particular order:
- On the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe, by Sherie Rene Scott. If you have never heard Scott sing, you owe it to yourself, because her voice is so beautiful. A little bit Idina Menzel, but less nasal and more sultry. And if those words meant little to you, then be glad that this is the only showtune I downloaded as a part of the five. I chose this song in particular because during the time that Sam and I lived with my parents while our house was being renovated, we would regularly hear this song on the Broadway channel while sitting in traffic on our way to Union City. It was an amazing two months of seeing my parents everyday and integrating Sam into their lives.
- Kyrie, originally by Mr. Mister, but redone a cappella by the University of Oregon's On the Rocks - This one almost explains itself. When the group finished performing this song at Berkeley's West Coast A Cappella Showcase in 2008, it swept me up out of my seat, and I knew that I somehow had to convince Sam, who was sitting right next to me and equally awed, to drive up to Oregon to see On the Rocks perform in their Spring Show. He agreed pretty wholeheartedly, and maybe you'll see why if you watch their performance here. Of course, YouTube doesn't do them justice, but imagine sitting in the audience for this song, especially at the 2:57 mark. That was the moment I was overwhelmed by their talent. Amidst the cheering crowd, somewhere in there was my voice too.
- Because of Toledo, by The Blue Nile - I met someone in grad school who was determined to sway me away from my showtunes and Top 40 and convince me to appreciate his jazzy, esoteric style of music. He mostly failed, but amidst the numerous compilation CDs he gave me in his earnest efforts, a few stuck. This song was one of them. I still remember sitting in his car while we drove back to the east bay after having dinner in the City, how I said that the song currently playing on the stereo wasn't half bad, and finding it on a CD he gave me the very next day. I have since lost that CD, but now I have the song again.
- Spaseniye sodelal, by Pavel Chesnokov, but performed by the Turtle Creek Chorale. This song reminds me of a man named Carl. Without him, I would never have discovered this song, a beautiful Russian hymn that literally translates to "Salvation is created." Ironic, then, that Carl introduced me to it, because if there ever was a person who I hope will never find his salvation, Carl would be it. I hate him with a passion that rivals my love for Sam, and that's a lot of love. A story for a different time, and probably a different blog, but still, I can't deny that this song is transcendental; if I close my eyes and listen, I can believe that I'm flying. (A pretty awesome version of it can be found here, performed by the Sante Fe Desert Chorale.)
And originally, the fifth song was to be Lady Gaga's acoustic version of Born This Way, but it doesn't look like it will be out by March 15th (which is when the AmEx offer ends), so I opted for Memories (Someone We'll Never Know), composed by Clint Mansell for the movie Moon. I am a total sucker for Clint Mansell, from his work on the soundtrack for Requiem for a Dream to The Fountain. At his best, his music slows me down, makes me think, feel, makes me sad. I randomly stumbled upon this song on YouTube one day, loved it, and just always went back to YouTube whenever I wanted to hear it. Now, I can put it on whenever I want to spend five minutes feeling depressed. Whoo!
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
3/1/2011 - 30 minutes on my hands and knees. . .
Sam, for the last week, had been coming home for lunch in order to take Grr out for his midday pee-and-poop. Today, he was stuck in meetings, so I said that I would gladly do the honor.
And I did look forward to it all morning, thinking about the way Sam had described their lunch-time dates as frisky and full of puppy energy. I love puppy energy, especially if the puppy and I can expend it together so he stays out of trouble. I also figured it would be a good way for Grr and I to spend some one-on-one time together, since Sam gets so much more of it than I do.
I biked home excitedly, and when I opened the door, Grr was, as expected, in his crate. Along with him, though, was one of Sam's shoes. Its other half had been taken from the closet to the middle of the living room floor. I fetched both and inspected them. No damage, so I figured I got home just in time before the maiming began. I made a mental note to report this to Sam, and I secretly got a sick thrill from the opportunity to tattle on him. It was kind of big news: puppy's first destruction.
Before we could play, though, I carried him out and took our usual lap from one side of the building to the other, the only section of the sidewalk he feels comfortable with. He peed twice, didn't poop. No big deal.
We came home. I praised him for being such a good boy and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. I bent down and grabbed one of his toys, ready to get him squirreled up and tired out.
Then I saw it.
Actually, I saw them, sitting innocuously on the shaggy black rug: one medium sized, soft-serve-shaped coil of poop, and four additional islets of what looked like burnt pea soup in both color and consistency.
Suddenly, the shoe infraction didn't seem like such a big deal.
I then proceeded to spend the next 30 minutes on my hands and knees, cleaning with resolve. Literally, actually, with Resolve, spraying sections of the rug with the carpet cleaner and going through half a roll of paper towels before figuring that I had cleaned the mess satisfactorily.
Well, I still wouldn't walk on that section of the rug barefoot. Or with socks on. Truth is, I can barely even look at it right now without feeling a little gross inside.
While I cleaned, I vacillated between anger directed at Grr, and anger directed at Sam. Even though it's been only a week, Grr had lulled us into an apparently false sense of security, and I felt betrayed. As for Sam, I couldn't believe that he did not make Grr poop before leaving him for the day.
It took a couple of hours or so, but I did come to the conclusion that it was neither Grr's fault, not was it Sam's. Grr is, after all, still a puppy, and mistakes happen. It just happened, and it was pure luck that it happened on the one day I came home for him.
But the rest of the day flew in the same trajectory. I couldn't reach an agreement between all the stakeholders on the direction of one of my projects. A meeting went unapologetically over my 5:00 PM tolerance for work. As I left the office, I got Sam's report that Grr possibly may have swallowed two small plastic buttons from a different pair of shoes along with a little knobby thing from the wall. Oh, and between the time I left Grr and Sam came home, Grr had peed on the same area of the rug he previously pooped on.
So today ended up just being one of "those days." I'm not in the best mood. But as much as temptation sat there beckoning for me, I did not take out my frustrations on Sam, which would normally be my default reaction. Nor did I take them out on Grr, for that matter. When I met them after work at the park, I was happy to see them in spite of myself, and I showed it. Best I could, I let go of the previous five hours. That's something to be thankful for, yes?
And I did look forward to it all morning, thinking about the way Sam had described their lunch-time dates as frisky and full of puppy energy. I love puppy energy, especially if the puppy and I can expend it together so he stays out of trouble. I also figured it would be a good way for Grr and I to spend some one-on-one time together, since Sam gets so much more of it than I do.
I biked home excitedly, and when I opened the door, Grr was, as expected, in his crate. Along with him, though, was one of Sam's shoes. Its other half had been taken from the closet to the middle of the living room floor. I fetched both and inspected them. No damage, so I figured I got home just in time before the maiming began. I made a mental note to report this to Sam, and I secretly got a sick thrill from the opportunity to tattle on him. It was kind of big news: puppy's first destruction.
Before we could play, though, I carried him out and took our usual lap from one side of the building to the other, the only section of the sidewalk he feels comfortable with. He peed twice, didn't poop. No big deal.
We came home. I praised him for being such a good boy and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. I bent down and grabbed one of his toys, ready to get him squirreled up and tired out.
Then I saw it.
Actually, I saw them, sitting innocuously on the shaggy black rug: one medium sized, soft-serve-shaped coil of poop, and four additional islets of what looked like burnt pea soup in both color and consistency.
Suddenly, the shoe infraction didn't seem like such a big deal.
I then proceeded to spend the next 30 minutes on my hands and knees, cleaning with resolve. Literally, actually, with Resolve, spraying sections of the rug with the carpet cleaner and going through half a roll of paper towels before figuring that I had cleaned the mess satisfactorily.
Well, I still wouldn't walk on that section of the rug barefoot. Or with socks on. Truth is, I can barely even look at it right now without feeling a little gross inside.
While I cleaned, I vacillated between anger directed at Grr, and anger directed at Sam. Even though it's been only a week, Grr had lulled us into an apparently false sense of security, and I felt betrayed. As for Sam, I couldn't believe that he did not make Grr poop before leaving him for the day.
It took a couple of hours or so, but I did come to the conclusion that it was neither Grr's fault, not was it Sam's. Grr is, after all, still a puppy, and mistakes happen. It just happened, and it was pure luck that it happened on the one day I came home for him.
But the rest of the day flew in the same trajectory. I couldn't reach an agreement between all the stakeholders on the direction of one of my projects. A meeting went unapologetically over my 5:00 PM tolerance for work. As I left the office, I got Sam's report that Grr possibly may have swallowed two small plastic buttons from a different pair of shoes along with a little knobby thing from the wall. Oh, and between the time I left Grr and Sam came home, Grr had peed on the same area of the rug he previously pooped on.
So today ended up just being one of "those days." I'm not in the best mood. But as much as temptation sat there beckoning for me, I did not take out my frustrations on Sam, which would normally be my default reaction. Nor did I take them out on Grr, for that matter. When I met them after work at the park, I was happy to see them in spite of myself, and I showed it. Best I could, I let go of the previous five hours. That's something to be thankful for, yes?
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