Tuesday, February 15, 2011

A Dozen Nachos



















Much like everything in a red box in the Duane Reade seasonal aisle, interest in Valentine’s day is reduced up to 80% by the fifteenth. It’s a good day to take advantage of a convenient reverse commute of interest if you want to quietly tell a love story.

Three-quarters of the reason I’ve avoided writing anything for months is that the language I developed for myself in this here spot poorly describes my current life. I have given it shot, bridging the gap between what I used to write about and the things that have happened in the interim, but all I’ve got to show for it are a few saved drafts that use terrible and long-winded metaphors (pie crust, for example, and how its perceived difficulty kept me from trying to make it for a long time but actually I perfected it over the summer and I learned all these lessons and now we are treading dangerously close to the borders of Elizabeth Gilbertonia and also I am yawning right now and confused). There are plenty of ways I can talk about stupid dudes, funny dudes, dudes I talked to one time, dudes I remember having crushes on in high school, dudes who are friends, even dudes I used to commute with, but I haven’t yet got gotten the hang of writing about (spoiler alert) having a boyfriend.

I’ve done nothing in my love life traditionally or well thus far. Wait until you’re 25 to even speak to a straight guy; have a long and scandalous affair with Jack Daniels and a series of his flesh and blood buddies; turn to the internet; have your first relationship at 27: I know, stop rehashing the plot of EVERY Nora Roberts novel, right? Regardless of the Family Circus-patented wacky Jeffy path I took from point A to point B, I celebrated Valentine’s Day last night with my boyfriend. Again, because it would be almost disingenuous to do Valentine’s the Valentine’s way (criminally expensive dinner, tights with no runs, pretending I like wine, gifts) and I have done nothing normally thus far, we ordered a pornographic amount of Mexican takeout, watched Ken Jennings play Watson on Jeopardy, and ate an entire Whole Foods chocolate ganache cake out of the container. I made Sam a Valentine using a photocopier and an anatomy textbook. I got the serious stinkeye from an old broad reading a Jesus book on the train who, I think, incorrectly took my short hair and nose ring as proof that the “Sam” on the front of the card was short for “Samantha.”

I got to work really early this morning to do some prep work for a meeting and got into a conversation with a visiting colleague about an impressive flower arrangement on a co-worker’s desk. She got them delivered yesterday and they are seriously beautiful. It wasn’t until then that I remembered I’d grabbed a couple of the flowers from the bouquet Sam got me and stuffed them in my bag before I left for work. In theory, my Dixie cup of purse-mangled droopers can’t hold a candle to her dozen roses, but why hold a candle at all when I’ve finally gotten a lamp?

2 Comments:

Blogger Mr. Kit said...

Glad you're back! Please keep writing or I'll have to go back and read from the beginning... again. Seriously, when is your book coming out?
Stay happy.

5:53 PM  
Blogger Kathy said...

I'm really trying! At least to write one thing a day, even if it's tiny, until I'm back in the swing of things. Amazed you're still here, frankly!

12:26 PM  

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