When Sam and I first moved into our loft, we immediately launched into renovations. We built a new bathroom upstairs, tore down and reinstalled the ceiling, and painted all of the walls. Well, we hired people to do all of this stuff, and because of it, we were uprooted for two months, two simultaneously stressful and pampered months. We stayed with friends and family, learned what it felt like to live with roommates (pretty fun) and doting parents who cooked for us every night like we were children, yet gave us our adult freedoms (pretty awesome).
When we moved back home, we beheld an incredible transformation. Where there used to be mysterious scuff marks and dents in the ceiling now hung one smooth sheet of drywall with the barest of ripples, like the surface of a pond on a still afternoon. Walls that were marred from the previous owner now were painted a sleek grey, and the new bathroom had hints of an upscale boutique hotel. This was like our baby, gestating for two months, and now that it was out in the world, we could not have loved it more.
With this love, however, came great responsibility: Sam wanted to preserve the newness, the perfection, of it all, and while I felt similarly (who doesn't want to keep something in pristine condition for as long as possible?), he took it to a bad place. We held caucuses before nailing any holes into the walls; he asked that I wipe down all shower fixtures after each use. One afternoon, I walked in on him as he was hunched over in the new shower stall. I thought he was sick, or fell.
"No," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "I was just looking for cracks in the tile. Don't you do this?"
No.
Perfection had become a curse, driving us to abnormal lengths to preserve it. After he discovered a couple of minor, barely noticeable scratches on the new sink, he was convinced I was at fault and "requested" that I take off my ring when I wash my hands or brush my teeth or stand anywhere near it. I held firm and refused. "But we have to live!!" I implored.
On Monday, the delivery guys came and installed our new bedframe upstairs. This final piece of furniture completes our major purchases, and it is beautiful, a low platform bedframe that sits in the designated "bed space" as if built in.
It was perfect until I saw a few noticeable scratches and dents on the wall next to the bed, presumably due to whatever the installers were doing. It's not horrible, certainly not the end of the world. Not for me, anyway.
I told Sam while bating my breath for the torrent of wrath that I expected to rain down on me. Fortunately, he was riding a high on seeing the new bed, so he just shrugged it off, saying damage to the walls was bound to happen; we have touch up paint for such occasions.
I had to hide my surprise at his nonchalance. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I interpreted it as the lifting of the curse; the dark cloud of perfection has been banished. Now we really can live like normal people: the sink is scratched, the walls are marred, and the house no longer has to act as if it is constantly prepping for an Elle Decor photoshoot.
Halleloo!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
4/5/2011 - doom-bah-dooms
Rapid Transit rehearsals have already taught me a few things about myself: I can not sight read sheet music, and I have what seems to be a tenuous grasp (at best) of pitch even when I am singing alone. Throw in five other voices sometimes singing five other notes, and I count myself lucky if I don't throw off the person singing next to me, much less stay on key myself.
I went in recognizing how difficult a cappella singing is, but to experience it first hand is truly humbling. Rehearsals have been difficult.
To mitigate this difficulty, and my ensuing embarrassment in front of amazing singers, I practice diligently at home in the closet during the week. Since Sam and I live in a loft, we have very few doors that don't belong to a bathroom, so the closet is my only other option. (I'm sure there is a gay joke in there somewhere; leave it in the comments and you'll get a prize.) Sam is supportive of course, in his own way, but really, think of the most musically-minded person and consider how many doom-bah-dooms he can stand, then take 18% of that amount and you'll end up with how much Sam can handle before his ears go numb.
So instead of subjecting him to this torture, I sit in the closet with my computer and listen to tinny MIDI files of my part while singing to my clothes. The idea of practicing at home reminds me so much of my younger days when my parents made me take piano lessons. Though I have been playing the piano for over 20 years, it does not show, and I blame my practice habits for that: my piano teacher would require me to practice at home for half an hour, four days a week. This means that my parents required me to practice the same amount. And I would be at my piano for half an hour, four days a week.
Though really, I probably practiced for half an hour total every week. The rest of the time I would fritter away by adjusting the piano bench, tinkering with the metronome, or just reading the sheet music with my eyes while firmly sitting on my hands, tapping a few keys every so often so my parents would hear that I was still "practicing." Anything but to actually practice. I was never going to be a concert pianist, had no interest even in being a lousy pianist, so I didn't understand why I had to sit in front of this monstrous instrument when I obviously was not born with the gift. My mom would give me that old canned line: practicing is good discipline, and you'll be thankful when you're older; I disagreed. When my parents finally let me stop taking lessons, I vowed to permanently divorce myself from the piano.
(And of course, cut to an adult-me trying to find a piano teacher, and kicking myself after learning how expensive lessons are. Why had I squandered all those years of parent-subsidized musical enrichment??)
On hindsight, I don't know why I didn't just practice. The reality of my situation was that for half an hour, four days a week, I was bound to the piano, away from TV and video games, whether I practiced or just sat there twiddling my thumbs. I could have just practiced instead of scrambling to find ways to pass 30 minutes.
(Then again, if I understood the reasons for half of the things I did when I was a kid, or even just from a year ago, what a better person I would be. . .)
Now, between work, the gym, Grr, Sam, and my precious, precious sleep, I seek out opportunities to practice. Ironic, since I used to seek out opportunities to skirt it.
But I have to admit, the practicing is working. Last night, during rehearsal, I felt a rare confidence while singing one of the songs I had drilled particularly hard, even got a "Nice job!" from the director. I guess what mom and dad said ad nauseum when I was growing up might actually have some validity, that some day, I will understand the meaning of hard work, and the value of its rewards.
Sucks when your parents are proven right, years after you tried so hard to prove them wrong.
I went in recognizing how difficult a cappella singing is, but to experience it first hand is truly humbling. Rehearsals have been difficult.
To mitigate this difficulty, and my ensuing embarrassment in front of amazing singers, I practice diligently at home in the closet during the week. Since Sam and I live in a loft, we have very few doors that don't belong to a bathroom, so the closet is my only other option. (I'm sure there is a gay joke in there somewhere; leave it in the comments and you'll get a prize.) Sam is supportive of course, in his own way, but really, think of the most musically-minded person and consider how many doom-bah-dooms he can stand, then take 18% of that amount and you'll end up with how much Sam can handle before his ears go numb.
So instead of subjecting him to this torture, I sit in the closet with my computer and listen to tinny MIDI files of my part while singing to my clothes. The idea of practicing at home reminds me so much of my younger days when my parents made me take piano lessons. Though I have been playing the piano for over 20 years, it does not show, and I blame my practice habits for that: my piano teacher would require me to practice at home for half an hour, four days a week. This means that my parents required me to practice the same amount. And I would be at my piano for half an hour, four days a week.
Though really, I probably practiced for half an hour total every week. The rest of the time I would fritter away by adjusting the piano bench, tinkering with the metronome, or just reading the sheet music with my eyes while firmly sitting on my hands, tapping a few keys every so often so my parents would hear that I was still "practicing." Anything but to actually practice. I was never going to be a concert pianist, had no interest even in being a lousy pianist, so I didn't understand why I had to sit in front of this monstrous instrument when I obviously was not born with the gift. My mom would give me that old canned line: practicing is good discipline, and you'll be thankful when you're older; I disagreed. When my parents finally let me stop taking lessons, I vowed to permanently divorce myself from the piano.
(And of course, cut to an adult-me trying to find a piano teacher, and kicking myself after learning how expensive lessons are. Why had I squandered all those years of parent-subsidized musical enrichment??)
On hindsight, I don't know why I didn't just practice. The reality of my situation was that for half an hour, four days a week, I was bound to the piano, away from TV and video games, whether I practiced or just sat there twiddling my thumbs. I could have just practiced instead of scrambling to find ways to pass 30 minutes.
(Then again, if I understood the reasons for half of the things I did when I was a kid, or even just from a year ago, what a better person I would be. . .)
Now, between work, the gym, Grr, Sam, and my precious, precious sleep, I seek out opportunities to practice. Ironic, since I used to seek out opportunities to skirt it.
But I have to admit, the practicing is working. Last night, during rehearsal, I felt a rare confidence while singing one of the songs I had drilled particularly hard, even got a "Nice job!" from the director. I guess what mom and dad said ad nauseum when I was growing up might actually have some validity, that some day, I will understand the meaning of hard work, and the value of its rewards.
Sucks when your parents are proven right, years after you tried so hard to prove them wrong.
Monday, April 4, 2011
4/4/2011 - more like an invitation. . .
Somebody I once knew said that all good gay guys go through the following learning curve for home decor:
- College -- hand-me-downs from friends and family
- First apartment -- IKEA
- First job -- Crate and Barrel (and the like)
- Getting ready to submit an application for the platinum gay card -- designer pieces (Eames chairs, Noguchi tables, etc.)
Were it not for Sam, I would probably still be in the IKEA phase, teetering on unstable dining room chairs and coloring in the corners of my particle-board coffee table with black Sharpies to hide the dents and nicks. I was not given the gay decorating gene, and I always felt like nice furniture meant settling down. Since I was 18, I've moved almost every year, once a year, from apartment to apartment. I wasn't ready for nice furniture.
You'd think that since we just adopted Grr, a puppy in all the normal ways a puppy should be (read: destructive), the last thing we should be buying is nice furniture. Yet here we are, with a new dining table purchased a few months ago, and a custom-made bed frame that was delivered today.
Though we had ordered the bed frame months ago, in a way, it seems appropriate that it should arrive now. I've accepted that our loft is not perfect, adapted (more or less) to Grr's small but pervasive presence in our lives, and it seems that he has accepted ours in his (though at the moment, he is quite upset with both of us; a different story for a later time). Moving within a year like I would have in my younger days is no longer possible; I understand that the three of us will live here together for quite a while, an undetermined amount of time. This now feels more like an invitation, less like a sentence.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
4/3/2011 - stepping through the portal. . .
Yesterday morning, Sam and I dropped Grr off at his puppy playtime day care center and marched over to the Moscone Convention Center with Kevin and Gordon for Wonder-Con, the annual comic book/animation/sci-fi/fantasy summit in downtown San Francisco.
I don't know much about sci-fi or fantasy, less about animation or comic books, the various "universes" in which the superheroes live, the elaborate histories and complexities of these characters and worlds. All I know for certain is that the Speed Racer movie was awesome despite near unanimous critical flogging, Dean Cain was the hottest Superman, and that I had a high school friend who insisted on being called Jubilee, despite actually being named Arlene. Beyond that, not a whole lot else.
Still, I decided, apropos to the occasion, that I would wear a T-shirt with a print of Wolverine, Spiderman, Silver Surfer, and Thor on it, just to fit in. (I borrowed it from Sam.) It totally worked until a guy at the Prism Comics booth (a line of gay stories and characters; who knew this existed?) said something about one of the characters, or the illustrator, or some other thing that I had no idea how to respond to. I was therefore left with a stupified look on my face for several seconds before I remembered my mantra for life: when in doubt, smile and nod.
But it was too late, and I had to come out as a poseur.
All in all, though, it was a fun afternoon. I only wish that I saw more people in costume, which I thought was the greatest thing, seeing how excited people got, for one afternoon, to become their favorite superheros, wearing their uniforms, talking their talk. At one hardcore comic book vendor's booth, boxes and boxes of comics were lined up like dominos, sorted by publishing house, title, year. An older fan in his 50s or 60s held up an issue he found in the stacks and jabbed a finger at his friend, who also had his hands full of books and tchotchkes. I overheard them say something to each other, excitement and awe reflecting off of their eyes; though I heard the words, they were incomprehensible to my layman's ears.
Because I was truly a layman in their church, a lowly visitor to their Wonderland. I may have attended the event, bought a ticket and was in, but I was not of it. Though I had no understanding of the characters or the stories I saw at Wonder-Con, I did recognize wonder. I saw lots of it, proud and unabashed wonder.
I almost felt privileged to witness the meeting of so many like-minded individuals, artists, their admirers, reveling in the shared authority of their passion they've cradled for so many years.
Some pictures:
Stepping through the portal
An old-school Battlestar Galactica Centurion. For Steve.
One of those Death things from Lord of the Rings
A couple of Power Rangers and (inexplicably) the Green Hornet
Some characters from the Venture Brothers (as explained by Gordon)
Somebody please hire this guy!!
Apparently, this was a group of gender-switched superheroes
(female Superman and Batman, and that was pretty much all I recognized)
And finally, life-sized R2-D2s that moved (I think) and made beeping noises
Saturday, April 2, 2011
4/2/2011 - definition of a good time. . .
First, a caveat: bars were never my thing. Outside of a couple of piano bars and one particularly memorable stripper bar in Montreal, I usually feel excruciatingly out of place, mostly because I don't drink.
(Sidenote: I recently learned of a term dedicated to people like me: teetotaler. That was quite a discovery, as it is nice to know that there is a name for me besides goody-two-shoes, party pooper, and lame ass.)
With that said, Sam and I, as per our usual routine nowadays, took Grr to a new park yesterday, a small enclosed doggy play area nestled inside the Castro. To get there, we had to drive past several bars and restaurants just spilling over with patrons because of the nice weather on a Friday afternoon. Boys were dressed in their best "displaywear" (i.e., revealing v-necks, asphyxiating jeans), holding hands with each other and walking down the street. I saw a couple making out at a sidewalk cafe, just dropped everything and batted each other's tonsils around on the corner of Sanchez and 18th.
Their evening had barely begun.
We drove right past those two, the bars, the restaurants, parked the car in a quiet residential stretch and walked Grr to the playground. He was surprisingly amenable to this task, considering his agoraphobia, or ligyrophobia, or motorphobia (all of these are real), or whatever it is that prevents him from venturing out to the sidewalk by our house. He shrugged them all off and trotted along like the brave boy I know he can be.
And to prove just how brave he was, he marched right into the park and found a smaller dog to bully. Atta boy. The little chihuahua mix wasn't taking any of it though, and before any of us knew it, over an hour had gone by, and Grr had barely paid neither Sam nor I any attention. To see him adjust so well to a new environment was heartening, to say the least. There is hope yet that we will one day stop carrying him downstairs to the garage, lay down puppy pads, and pray that no loud cars drive by in the meantime.
By the time we left the park, I was starving, and I knew Grr would have been too if he weren't preoccupied with playing. So we walked over to Firewood Grill and picked up some takeout tortellinis. While waiting for our orders, we sat outside and people-watched, all three of us.
On some level, I was jealous of all those people we saw. Two months ago, had you asked me what I wanted to do on a Friday night, I would have invariably said, "Oh, nothing. We can stay in and relax." Now, all I want to do is stand around awkwardly, blanketed by loud music and holding a drink I have no interest in while nobody comes and talks to me. Seeing all those people entering and exiting various bars made me see that the world of fun had once been at our fingertips, orbited around us, just across the street, waiting to welcome us like long-lost lovers when and should we choose to welcome it in return.
Now, we don't, even if we wanted to, which we still don't, which puts me in this weird space. Grr is not the reason why we don't "go out" in the bacchanalian sense. He just gives us a convenient reason not to, which is no different than how we were before he came along, yet he now makes me want to more than ever. Like I said, it's a weird space, to feel like my definition of a good time is in limbo, floating around in committee, waiting for a decision.
We got home, all three of us now single-mindedly in need of food. When we sat down, Sam said, in his usual summarizing way, "Well, Grr got some more street exposure, we found a park he likes, and now we get yummy tortellinis. What a good day, huh?"
Grr did make me very proud today, and the tortellinis were delicious. I nodded.
The committee had adjourned with a decision.
(Sidenote: I recently learned of a term dedicated to people like me: teetotaler. That was quite a discovery, as it is nice to know that there is a name for me besides goody-two-shoes, party pooper, and lame ass.)
With that said, Sam and I, as per our usual routine nowadays, took Grr to a new park yesterday, a small enclosed doggy play area nestled inside the Castro. To get there, we had to drive past several bars and restaurants just spilling over with patrons because of the nice weather on a Friday afternoon. Boys were dressed in their best "displaywear" (i.e., revealing v-necks, asphyxiating jeans), holding hands with each other and walking down the street. I saw a couple making out at a sidewalk cafe, just dropped everything and batted each other's tonsils around on the corner of Sanchez and 18th.
Their evening had barely begun.
We drove right past those two, the bars, the restaurants, parked the car in a quiet residential stretch and walked Grr to the playground. He was surprisingly amenable to this task, considering his agoraphobia, or ligyrophobia, or motorphobia (all of these are real), or whatever it is that prevents him from venturing out to the sidewalk by our house. He shrugged them all off and trotted along like the brave boy I know he can be.
And to prove just how brave he was, he marched right into the park and found a smaller dog to bully. Atta boy. The little chihuahua mix wasn't taking any of it though, and before any of us knew it, over an hour had gone by, and Grr had barely paid neither Sam nor I any attention. To see him adjust so well to a new environment was heartening, to say the least. There is hope yet that we will one day stop carrying him downstairs to the garage, lay down puppy pads, and pray that no loud cars drive by in the meantime.
By the time we left the park, I was starving, and I knew Grr would have been too if he weren't preoccupied with playing. So we walked over to Firewood Grill and picked up some takeout tortellinis. While waiting for our orders, we sat outside and people-watched, all three of us.
On some level, I was jealous of all those people we saw. Two months ago, had you asked me what I wanted to do on a Friday night, I would have invariably said, "Oh, nothing. We can stay in and relax." Now, all I want to do is stand around awkwardly, blanketed by loud music and holding a drink I have no interest in while nobody comes and talks to me. Seeing all those people entering and exiting various bars made me see that the world of fun had once been at our fingertips, orbited around us, just across the street, waiting to welcome us like long-lost lovers when and should we choose to welcome it in return.
Now, we don't, even if we wanted to, which we still don't, which puts me in this weird space. Grr is not the reason why we don't "go out" in the bacchanalian sense. He just gives us a convenient reason not to, which is no different than how we were before he came along, yet he now makes me want to more than ever. Like I said, it's a weird space, to feel like my definition of a good time is in limbo, floating around in committee, waiting for a decision.
We got home, all three of us now single-mindedly in need of food. When we sat down, Sam said, in his usual summarizing way, "Well, Grr got some more street exposure, we found a park he likes, and now we get yummy tortellinis. What a good day, huh?"
Grr did make me very proud today, and the tortellinis were delicious. I nodded.
The committee had adjourned with a decision.
Friday, April 1, 2011
4/1/2011 - no longer about gratitude. . .
I have officially completed three months.
I know that to serious bloggers, three months is but a dot in the timeline of blogging. It is a milestone, however, for someone with the attention span and tenacity of a toddler, especially when it concerns work, which this blog is (to some degree).
Though each entry is loosely based on the theme of gratitude, let's just get one thing out of the way first: the intent has changed. The cheese has been moved; the carrot dangles ever further. This may still be a blog chronicling the good things in my life, but it is no longer about gratitude. This experiment is not likely to make me a better person, a more thankful person, and even if I were to turn into one, it probably won't be because of this blog.
Because this is now primarily about writing. The intention is to write, and write as well as I can. The goal is to produce. I have learned a lot through this project, none of which have much to do with gratitude, I'm afraid, especially for a blog called "One Grateful Year." I struggled with this disparity for a while, as I had hoped that I would emerge as goodness incarnate, but I think the trade-off is fair: the abandonment of the gratitude goal led me to discover that I actually enjoy writing.
I learned that perfection is not the goal, only completion. Some days, I finish and publish posts that I'm not completely proud of but have no time to start over. I almost hope that nobody sees it, or if they do, that they won't judge me by the quality of it. I want to be there, looking over their shoulder when they begin to read and say, "But look at what I wrote on XX/XX/2011. I was good in that one!! That was good, right? Funny and uncharacteristically witty, and the part where I used that word to describe that thing? Pretty great, right? That's the post you should be reading, not this one. But read today's anyway, but shrug it off afterwards and go read XX/XX's to see who I really am. You'll like him, I promise."
Because who reads this blog is also very important to me, probably more than it should be. I mean, I should write regardless, right? Dance like there's nobody watching, that whole thing? But really, why dance, then, if nobody watches? Why write if nobody reads? Why express anything if there is nobody on the other end to receive it?
Blogger, the hosting site for this blog, must know this need for blogs to be read, because they provide tracking tools that tell you how many people have visited your blog, when and where--nothing specific, but enough to obsess about. These tools are at once my best friend and worst nemesis. Some days, I have single digit readership; other days, double. On the former days, I think, "Why bother keeping this up? If I take a day off here or there, no one will even notice." On the latter: "Now there's pressure to actually write good and talk smart." Either way, I check this little stat counter every fewdays hours with no actual idea of what to do with this information. Does it say something about the blog? My writing? Me?? It's a popularity contest that I hold in my head with no clear criteria for victory.
At the same time, thanks to these tracking tools, I've learned that I have one lone reader (at least I think it's one) in Denmark who comes regularly, and another in Hungary. I'm fairly certain that I don't personally know anyone in these countries, so how did this happen? That's pretty cool, right? (By the way, hail, my Denmark and Hungary readers!) Sam says this means that I'm an international bloggerstar. His tone said something altogether opposite.
In reality, I know that this blog is but one star in a universe, one microparticle in an ever-expanding space of particles. I also know that it stands alone in my head with no other star to outshine it. I wake up in the morning, lay there at the brink of sleep and think, "What can I write about today?" I adhere to a process that seems to work pretty well, drafting it the old-fashioned way, with paper and pen and scribbles, before transferring the skeleton to the computer to be given flesh. After publishing each entry, I feel an immense, though fleeting, sense of pride.
And while I would hardly say that the blog has taken over my life (Grr still holds the tiara in that contest), it definitely resides in a well-appointed, smartly decorated corner.
I now totally see the value in those "one day at a time" programs; quantity is a tangible accomplishment. Three whole months have gone by and I have not missed a day--91 posts plus today's--and I do feel like a bloggerstar, thankful that I stuck with it, even on days when it physically hurt to hunch over at my desk, crawling my way towards an idea.
I know that to serious bloggers, three months is but a dot in the timeline of blogging. It is a milestone, however, for someone with the attention span and tenacity of a toddler, especially when it concerns work, which this blog is (to some degree).
Though each entry is loosely based on the theme of gratitude, let's just get one thing out of the way first: the intent has changed. The cheese has been moved; the carrot dangles ever further. This may still be a blog chronicling the good things in my life, but it is no longer about gratitude. This experiment is not likely to make me a better person, a more thankful person, and even if I were to turn into one, it probably won't be because of this blog.
Because this is now primarily about writing. The intention is to write, and write as well as I can. The goal is to produce. I have learned a lot through this project, none of which have much to do with gratitude, I'm afraid, especially for a blog called "One Grateful Year." I struggled with this disparity for a while, as I had hoped that I would emerge as goodness incarnate, but I think the trade-off is fair: the abandonment of the gratitude goal led me to discover that I actually enjoy writing.
I learned that perfection is not the goal, only completion. Some days, I finish and publish posts that I'm not completely proud of but have no time to start over. I almost hope that nobody sees it, or if they do, that they won't judge me by the quality of it. I want to be there, looking over their shoulder when they begin to read and say, "But look at what I wrote on XX/XX/2011. I was good in that one!! That was good, right? Funny and uncharacteristically witty, and the part where I used that word to describe that thing? Pretty great, right? That's the post you should be reading, not this one. But read today's anyway, but shrug it off afterwards and go read XX/XX's to see who I really am. You'll like him, I promise."
Because who reads this blog is also very important to me, probably more than it should be. I mean, I should write regardless, right? Dance like there's nobody watching, that whole thing? But really, why dance, then, if nobody watches? Why write if nobody reads? Why express anything if there is nobody on the other end to receive it?
Blogger, the hosting site for this blog, must know this need for blogs to be read, because they provide tracking tools that tell you how many people have visited your blog, when and where--nothing specific, but enough to obsess about. These tools are at once my best friend and worst nemesis. Some days, I have single digit readership; other days, double. On the former days, I think, "Why bother keeping this up? If I take a day off here or there, no one will even notice." On the latter: "Now there's pressure to actually write good and talk smart." Either way, I check this little stat counter every few
At the same time, thanks to these tracking tools, I've learned that I have one lone reader (at least I think it's one) in Denmark who comes regularly, and another in Hungary. I'm fairly certain that I don't personally know anyone in these countries, so how did this happen? That's pretty cool, right? (By the way, hail, my Denmark and Hungary readers!) Sam says this means that I'm an international bloggerstar. His tone said something altogether opposite.
In reality, I know that this blog is but one star in a universe, one microparticle in an ever-expanding space of particles. I also know that it stands alone in my head with no other star to outshine it. I wake up in the morning, lay there at the brink of sleep and think, "What can I write about today?" I adhere to a process that seems to work pretty well, drafting it the old-fashioned way, with paper and pen and scribbles, before transferring the skeleton to the computer to be given flesh. After publishing each entry, I feel an immense, though fleeting, sense of pride.
And while I would hardly say that the blog has taken over my life (Grr still holds the tiara in that contest), it definitely resides in a well-appointed, smartly decorated corner.
I now totally see the value in those "one day at a time" programs; quantity is a tangible accomplishment. Three whole months have gone by and I have not missed a day--91 posts plus today's--and I do feel like a bloggerstar, thankful that I stuck with it, even on days when it physically hurt to hunch over at my desk, crawling my way towards an idea.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
3/31/2011 - music, love, and something of perfection. . .
Every so often, life hands me a perfect moment.
Yesterday evening, after Grr had finished inhaling his dinner as if he had never been fed in his life, he grabbed his chewtoy and hoisted himself up on the couch. With his belly full, he gave his toy a couple of half-hearted gnaws before putting his head on the armrest, surrendering to sleepiness. I had just finished dinner as well, and while Sam was cleaning the last of the dishes, I, too, hoisted myself up on the couch. With my belly full, I gave Grr a couple of half-hearted pats on the leg before putting my head on the opposite armrest and surrendering to sleepiness.
It had been a beautiful day, an even more beautiful evening, one of those rare and fogless San Francisco evenings. It smelled like summer, swirling with heat and moisture and smoldering charcoal. After work, Sam and I drove Grr to two new dog parks, figuring it was good to expose him to new places. Sam's verdict for Park #1: too many lesbian soccer moms who paid us no attention; Park #2: no fun dogs who paid Grr any attention. I don't think Grr minded either way as he is currently wading through an antisocial phase when it comes to other pups.
But after a late afternoon of smelling grass and eating dirt, Grr was now twitching and kicking in his sleep. I was just about to nod off as well when Sam walked by with a fresh cocktail, sat in a chair across from the couch, and kicked his feet up, prodding me with them in the ribs until I started rubbing them.
The noise of traffic outside our window was constant and white, though I could still hear the faint music playing from my iPod across the room. It was doing its best to embarrass me: Paula Abdul's "Rush Rush," Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl," and Lindsay Lohan's "Rumors" played in succession. Thank God Sam had his cocktail. It kept him quiet and occupied, oblivious to the music.
Right when I was ready to get up and actually find a song I wanted to hear, "Rumors" ended, and the piano remix of the early 2000s dance reboot of the mid-80s Bryan Adams' rock ballad, "Heaven," came on.
And then it was perfect.
Everything in life should come with a soundtrack. Even with cheesy lyrics, music shades everything with more meaning, lends more weight. Sam was staring off into space, no doubt pondering something about cars, something about home improvement, something about something else completely unrelated, and Grr was sound asleep. With the song punctuating the relative quiet, I was able to really take stock of what I have around me: a loving, albeit annoying, dog dreaming and flicking his paws to my right; and a loving, albeit oblivious, boyfriend blissfully nursing his drink to my left.
Oh, once in your life, you find someone who will turn your world around, pick you up when you're feeling down. . .
And right when I wondered how long this could last, Sam emptied his glass, got up and asked, "Are there any shows on?" as he walked over to the dishwasher. Grr, who recently discovered the pleasures of licking our used silverware, heard the dishwasher door open and found it impossible to resist. Seeing them both gone, I reached over the side of the couch and grabbed by iPad.
And just like that, it was over. I was out of perfection; it had lasted no more than a few seconds. The music soon went off, and the TV came on. I responded to some e-mails, suffered through yet another episode of Bones (is that show on every night?). Grr trotted around the room, his nails tapping out a jaunty little rhythm against the hardwood, his tags jingling along, while I thought, "Tomorrow, I will write about music, love, and something of perfection."
Yesterday evening, after Grr had finished inhaling his dinner as if he had never been fed in his life, he grabbed his chewtoy and hoisted himself up on the couch. With his belly full, he gave his toy a couple of half-hearted gnaws before putting his head on the armrest, surrendering to sleepiness. I had just finished dinner as well, and while Sam was cleaning the last of the dishes, I, too, hoisted myself up on the couch. With my belly full, I gave Grr a couple of half-hearted pats on the leg before putting my head on the opposite armrest and surrendering to sleepiness.
It had been a beautiful day, an even more beautiful evening, one of those rare and fogless San Francisco evenings. It smelled like summer, swirling with heat and moisture and smoldering charcoal. After work, Sam and I drove Grr to two new dog parks, figuring it was good to expose him to new places. Sam's verdict for Park #1: too many lesbian soccer moms who paid us no attention; Park #2: no fun dogs who paid Grr any attention. I don't think Grr minded either way as he is currently wading through an antisocial phase when it comes to other pups.
But after a late afternoon of smelling grass and eating dirt, Grr was now twitching and kicking in his sleep. I was just about to nod off as well when Sam walked by with a fresh cocktail, sat in a chair across from the couch, and kicked his feet up, prodding me with them in the ribs until I started rubbing them.
The noise of traffic outside our window was constant and white, though I could still hear the faint music playing from my iPod across the room. It was doing its best to embarrass me: Paula Abdul's "Rush Rush," Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl," and Lindsay Lohan's "Rumors" played in succession. Thank God Sam had his cocktail. It kept him quiet and occupied, oblivious to the music.
Right when I was ready to get up and actually find a song I wanted to hear, "Rumors" ended, and the piano remix of the early 2000s dance reboot of the mid-80s Bryan Adams' rock ballad, "Heaven," came on.
And then it was perfect.
Everything in life should come with a soundtrack. Even with cheesy lyrics, music shades everything with more meaning, lends more weight. Sam was staring off into space, no doubt pondering something about cars, something about home improvement, something about something else completely unrelated, and Grr was sound asleep. With the song punctuating the relative quiet, I was able to really take stock of what I have around me: a loving, albeit annoying, dog dreaming and flicking his paws to my right; and a loving, albeit oblivious, boyfriend blissfully nursing his drink to my left.
Oh, once in your life, you find someone who will turn your world around, pick you up when you're feeling down. . .
And right when I wondered how long this could last, Sam emptied his glass, got up and asked, "Are there any shows on?" as he walked over to the dishwasher. Grr, who recently discovered the pleasures of licking our used silverware, heard the dishwasher door open and found it impossible to resist. Seeing them both gone, I reached over the side of the couch and grabbed by iPad.
And just like that, it was over. I was out of perfection; it had lasted no more than a few seconds. The music soon went off, and the TV came on. I responded to some e-mails, suffered through yet another episode of Bones (is that show on every night?). Grr trotted around the room, his nails tapping out a jaunty little rhythm against the hardwood, his tags jingling along, while I thought, "Tomorrow, I will write about music, love, and something of perfection."
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