She is very excited. (Beyond the normal excitement that anyone feels when they get to hang out with me.)
She just got an electric wheelchair.
We have decided to call it "Super Chair-y." Something that cracks her up. A lot.
I've yet to see the chair, as she only got it recently, but we've talked about it a lot on the phone. She looooves it. However, some digging has lead to the real reason why she is so excited to show it to me...
She wants to try to run over my toes.
And it weighs 250 lbs.
Still, I am super excited to see her running it on her own. She is still learning how to use it, but seems so proud of herself, and to be very much enjoying some freedom.
She called me last night from Super Chair-y. She had the cordless phone, on speakerphone, sitting on her lap as she drove around the house -- while her Daddy was doing things like moving dishes of dog food out of her path. She squealed with delight.
I've been smiling like a goof ever since.
While watching her drive her chair this weekend, I am going to be one proud and toe-less uncle.
I lied. I did. I knew that I was lying at the time. I did it anyway. You needed to hear it. I needed not to speak the truth out loud. I knew that eventually things would feel OK. I'm glad that they do. You didn't want me to be honest at that time. You can admit it. Occasionally the natural greyness of indifference and distance bothers me. But, if you ask? I'll lie about that too.
It's never a good sign when the ice has barely melted in your empty glass. Still, he liked the clinking sound as he moved it around.
"I'm sooo sorry for my Dad," she said with a sheepish smile, as she re-entered the room.
"It's fine. Honestly. He's great."
"I told him that we are just friends, but, you know..."
She fake pouted.
He died a little inside.
She stood directly in front of where he was sitting on her couch. She took the glass from his hand and started to take a drink when she noticed that it was empty.
"Fine, huh?"
"It was a little intense. I got all the grilling of someone dating you, without any of the benefits."
"There are benefits to dating me?" She titled her head to the side, faux innocently. "Whatever would they be?"
It felt like someone else was running his hands, as they found themselves on her hips. Hips he had never touched before. Hips he tried never to look directly at.
"There are far too many to list." He was controlling his own words, but just barely.
"Could you try?" She asked, her voice getting softer as she stepped/was pulled in a little closer.
He leaned in, his nose just an inch from her neck. The fragrance that had haunted him for so long, now felt like something different.
"It could take a while," he replied in something close to a growl.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered immediately.
He gently traced up her neck with his lips, stopping to whisper, "Good" directly into her ear.
She exhaled softly as she ran her hands through his hair.
His hands crossed the border between the back of her shirt and her favourite jeans.
Lips found lips.
Silent desire found a voice.
Without breaking the kiss, he scooped her up, turned around and placed her on the couch.
Starlight bends as it passes near the sun. How did he expect to remain unaffected? Words not ready to be spoken to ears not prepared to receive. Thought trying to return the voice it had been lent. The bullet is not so magic, if it is the wrong gun. And yet... The beauty in doom trumping the pain in possibility. Ever thankful for wandering attention, always losing its way back.
When I was in grade nine or ten, my French teacher asked me to stay after class. This didn't really strike me as overly strange. I was a sarcastic bastard, so I was assuming that he wanted to tell me to, you know, stop being a sarcastic bastard.
Dude was one of my favourite teachers. A couple of years later, he'd lovingly refer to my buddies and I as "little fuckers" when we tried to convince him that the rules for the other students in the class shouldn't really apply to us. Yes, even back then...
So, I sat down on top of a desk across from his and said, "What's up?"
As I waited for the "stop being a little prick" talk, his expression turned serious. He looked like he was trying to pick the right words.
This seemed odd, but I had biology class next and I was in no rush to get there.
He started with, "You could be fluently French if you wanted..."
This was not what I was expecting.
At all.
I was in what was called "French for English." That meant that I wasn't French, couldn't speak French, and my parents most likely weren't French."
My reply was as carefully considered as his opening statement, "Wha?"
He went on to explain that I showed a certain aptitude and blah blah blah. He said he'd move me into "French for French" if I wanted.
I was pretty shocked by the entire thing.
Being me, I turned it down. The reason I gave was something along the lines of, "So, I am making As with no effort, and you want me to switch into something where I'll make much lower grades and have to work much, much harder? Pass."
In reality, it was because I hated speaking French. I understood it pretty well. Better than I let on, really. I kept that nugget of information close to the vest, in case anyone tried to talk smack about me en francais. But, I hated the way that I sounded when I spoke French. And since I didn't like doing anything that I wasn't good at...
After I turned it down, my French teacher said, "At some point in the future, you'll wish that you could speak French."
I laughed, patted him on the shoulder and said, "Little fella, as long as I can order food and hit on women in French, I'm golden." (I sometimes wonder why people didn't punch me in the face on a fairly regular basis.)
This moment in time flashes back on me occasionally. Not when an interesting job opening requires French. Or when I have to try to translate something. It is usually when an attractive woman mentions that she loves listening to a man speak French.
I somehow suspect that "You wanna sit there and listen to me understand French?" won't have the same impact.
Though I've never tried it.
My sister, on the other hand, was much more proactive when it came to picking up French.
Many years ago, my cousins' two French boyfriends (two sisters, two boyfriends) were working on a car in my uncle's garage next door. My sister, who was seven at the time, spent an entire day there with them. Let's face it, there isn't a lot to do in a small town.
When she came home for supper that night, she sat down and announced proudly, through missing teeth, that she had learned some French that day.
My father was intrigued, "Oh yeah, what did you learn?"
Still smiling big, she said, "I learned 'Coooooock suckerrrrrrr' and "Mudder fuckerrrrrrrr."
He backspaced over the two lines. Hating the reality more than he enjoyed the wording. He stared at the blank screen, trying to will the words to appear. At least in his head. But, that filled with pictures. A smile that looked like it snuck up on her. Every. Single. Time. That seemed to build up and burst forth without warning. He shook his head, but the Etcha-a-sketch defense was useless. He saw eyes. Drawing him in. Feigning innocence. Filled with life and joy. And always hope. A sigh mixed with a growl mixed with a swear mixed with a pained laugh escaped him. He allowed his hands to once more type, "Speed may kill, but distance crushes." He stared at the words. And then at his finger, still hovering over the backspace key.
The other morning, I heard a familiar song from my youth. (No, it wasn't The Andrews Sisters or the Glenn Miller Orchestra, you saucy bastards.)
It wasn't one my favourite songs. But, I liked it well enough, I suppose.
The thing is that it very much reminded me of a crush that I had back then.
Reminds, apparently.
I immediately remembered lying awake at night and "writing" conversations that I hoped to have with her someday.
I remembered plotting my own brilliant opening lines. A necessity because usually my brilliant words only occurred to me much later than I would need them. An annoying trait that I'd like to tell you that I've outgrown in the past two decades. I'd like to tell you that.
I remembered planning follow-ups to EVERY possible reply that she might give me. ("Lupus, you say? Well that'll sting if you aren't used to it.")
I remembered that this damn song played everywhere I went.
I remembered it always stopping me in my tracks.
I remembered smiling.
I remembered wondering if dudes were supposed to have these sappy thoughts.
I remembered not caring either way.
I remembered the exhilarating rush of excitement I felt anytime I was going to be someplace where I might end up seeing her.
I remembered it all so fondly.
I just didn't remember her.
I have no idea who the girl was. I could probably think about it for a while and figure it out based on the girls in my school at that point in time. But, right now...
No clue.
And then I wondered...
What does that say about me?
Is the crush itself more important to me than the crushee?
I am sure that the crush lasted for a long-ass time. Most of mine did. And do.
I think I may have gotten that from my mother. Once my mother is locked in on an idea, she is really hesitant to let it go.
"So, you should go up and get it."
"Mom, I don't have a ladder."
"Just, you know, go up there and--"
"You realize that I can't actually levitate, right?"
"Uh huh. Yes.... What if you wore lighter shoes?"
I'm less concerned about it than I was the other day. And, frankly, I wasn't losing sleep then either. But, it just seemed a bit strange.
Maybe I'm doomed to an existence where I will always be overly idealistic and too focused on the results of the crush, and not enough on the object of my desires. Maybe I'll always be thinking about the possibilities and never living in the present. Maybe I'll die penniless and alone in a third-tier nursing home, where bed pans are never emptied, and where I wile away my dwindling hours pretending to accidentally drop my pills so that I can get a glimpse down the nurse's uniform, as I constantly complain that "In my day we had good shows, like Punky Bewster" and that kids were all little bastards with no respect for their elders, while still being, you know, pretty damn thankful for the new and improved Viagra patch.
Or maybe drawing too many conclusions from something that happened when I was 14 is kind of silly.
There is something muted about it. About all of it. The very feelings she elicits in you, are the same feelings that will turn her off If you share. Sic (sic) of writing about it. Even your thoughts are mumbles now. Why her? She excites you. Mentally. Well, not only. Skin like electric silk. It is something that you want crave need. She sees the things in you That you wish you could. That you want to. Desperately. And she tells you. Casually. As if her words hadn't just lifted you up. And up. And then the moment is gone. You grasp for it. Futilely. Your one move... Your one choice... Your one hope is to try to forget it. And you get close. Your thoughts almost clear.
Herman Melville once said, "A man thinks that by mouthing hard words he understands hard things."
What a dick.
Actually, there are a few things that I just don't understand:
The popularity of "Family Guy." The Middle East. Quiche. What "the dutchie" is, and why they are so adamant that we pass it. Why most movies are made. Sex and the City. Why anyone would want to be an accountant. Why no one will admit that The Killers' "Sam's Town" wasn't that bad. Using the neutral zone trap in hockey. The interest in celebrity weddings. The interest in celebrities (who aren't Lauren Graham.) The interest in weddings.
Let's face it, Cute girl + 80s music = Happy Peter
(Which is, as everyone knows, "Newton's Third Law of Mrrrrrrroooowwwwwwrrrr.")
So, I linked to that video on my blog the very next day. And I immediately got feedback on the link from two friends. Both are women in their twenties. Both are from NY. Both are super intelligent and educated. Both have good taste. I trust both of their opinons.
But, one HATES J-All, while the other one adoooores her.
Hm.
Ever the word smith, my reply was, "But... But... But... Whaaaaa?"
How could this be?
Still, I was hooked. I had to find out more about this polarizing little minx. The things I'll do to procrastinate...
So, I read her tumblr. I watched some of her videos. I "met" her pretty friends. (Most of whom turn me into an Italian grandmother and make me want to say "Mangia! Mangia!")
I may have even sent her an email once when she seemed sad. Not because I expected, or even wanted, a reply. But, because I thought that my delightful charm and cleverness would brighten her day.
It is cute that you think that I'm kidding.
It is strange that I would be reading her blog at all. Mostly because pretty much everything she seems to be writing on, falls at the top of the list of things that I don't really give too much of a fuck about. Fashion, celebs, gossip, hot spots, NY, etc.
And yet, every once in a while she'll write something that makes her seem so warm and genuine. It almost seems out of place in the little world she's living in and reporting on.
And then I become intrigued all over again.
Her detractors will tell you that she is fake and calculating and an attention whore and possibly more evil than a hypothetical lovechild of Hitler and Shelley Long.
And yet, if pressed, I bet most of them could think of something nice to say about her too.
(Oh, by the way, if you don't like Julia Allison, please don't use my comment space to trash her. That section should only be used for love and happiness... And for lavishing me with the praise that fuuuuuuuuuuels me!!!!! I'm kidding about that part. I AM. Shut it.)
So, after countless hours -- or, you know, ten minutes a week -- I was still no closer to unraveling the mystery that is Julia Allison.
She is a pretty swirling vortex of contradictions. I suppose that all vortices swirl...
Vapid gossip monger with heart of gold?
At this point I realized that my investigation was cutting into my Facebook Scrabulous time. So, I decided that I liked Julia Allison.
That, my friends, was that.
Or was it...?
At some point later, I caught wind of some report from someplace that maybe Julia Allison had some work done. At 26/27?!? I was horrified. Because, you know, it was obviously totally my business. Still, it bothered me. It made me sad that a beautiful young woman would think this was necessary.
I looked at the series of pics that she posted from her past birthdays. I was trying to see if her face looked different. Well, different in an unnatural way. And I convinced myself that it did.
It kind of ruined the whole thing for me. (Much like an ex girlfriend tried to do to me once by saying that Lauren Graham has shoulders "like a linebacker." Grrrrrrrrrrrrr.)
But, then I saw her wearing these jeans and liked her again...
So, I wrote this ages ago. I didn't like it. I still don't. I think it is entirely too blech. (A technical word doodle term. Don't concern yourself.) I don't think that I posted it before. Though it is possible that I used parts of it elsewhere. Is it still plagiarizing if you are plagiarizing yourself?
He danced around it. To the familiar strains of fear. He didn't want to stop for too long. Nor get too far away. He was going to ask. No excuses. Just panic. Sheer, flop-sweating terror. And the urge to run, as fast as possible, In any direction. The prospect of "no" didn't worry him. He'd heard it before. Infrequently. It was the possibility of "yes" That had him tucking his chin into the collar of his sweater. She was one of those. Is. The life-changers. No matter how well-constructed his perfect little world was... (Built on a foundation of denial.) And no matter how long she would spend in it... (Mere minutes would do it.) It would be rocked. Forever. Other hearts have been poured out to him, He feels guilty for how little impact they had. Yet when she spoke... When she spoke, he saw a forever In between the syllables of her "hello." False bravado and sarcastic wit would provide no shelter from this storm. He was going to ask her out. True. He just didn't know which reply he was rooting for.
Stage 1 - "Hmmm. I don't really like that last paragraph. Oh, whatever. They can't all be winners."
Stage 2 - "Well, this entire piece kind of blows. Maybe I just need to power through ."
Stage 3 - "OK. Everything I write sucks. Maybe I need to switch it up. Let's try writing something silly. Hmmm. *Peter starts typing* 'Top ten pick-up lines that almost never work on women... #10 If I could rearrange the alphabet, I would put U on my penis... *Peter stops typing* I hate me."
Stage 4 - "Why didn't anyone tell me that I couldn't write?? The time I've wasted. I could have gone to Med school and -- Well, that might have involved working. Law school then!"
Stage 6 - "I'm not REALLY going to write. I'll just jot down a few lines..."
Stage 7 - "I am the GREATEST WRITER IN THE WORLD!!!! When Oprah has me on for her bookclub thingy, will I be able to bring guests with me backstage? I'll bring my 11th grade English teacher. Am I applying myself now??? (Beat.) Hmmm. I don't really like that last paragraph."
posted by Peter at 3:05 PM
