Why I Just Wish Everyone Stopped Smiling, Dammit

They had it coming

I hate happy people

Being away from your loved one for an extended period of time seems to have profound effects on your psyche. I know that now – I’m living proof. The examples are plentiful and varied: For some reason, I only fall asleep nowadays when I’m hugging a big, fluffy pillow – and whenever I order a burger, the usual ham feels woefully inadequate next to the crispy bacon I remember from my trips to the State. Aaah, bacon.

But most of all, I have become hypersensitive to happiness.

Don’t look at me like that, it’s not all happiness that makes me shudder and close my eyes shut and lalalalala, this isn’t reality, lalalalala. But the merry couples that walk hand in hand all around me, and laugh and kiss and generally make a spectacle of themselves? I react to them as a vampire would to a tanning bed: complete and utter disgust. Suddenly, everyone but me is with someone, and having an awesome time of it. Bah! Humbug!

And it’s not just the couples in the street, oh no. It’s all around me, all the time. Every single movie trailer has a beautiful people starring in a stupid love story, even in dramas, even in horror movies. And wherever love takes a backseat for once, naked women just assault me from every cardinal direction, pouring out of my monitor like lies from an economist’s mouth. True story.

So here I wait, embittered and alone, for my chance to join the happy crowd once again, and ruin some poor bastard’s day with Leta’s and mine shameless kisses, our nudges and winks and injokes, and her smiles that say that, together, we’re a lot more than two.

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Posted in Corny, Moping | Leave a comment

Dammit I am TRYING

Hernán has told me that I have to post, tonight.  Now.  NOW now.  The trouble is, I haven’t been doing anything postworthy, but I have been really damned busy.

I am to spend next week at a conference, which means getting home and work in order.  On top of regular job, fledgling side business is sucking up major amounts of time and money.  Hopefully, the time part will make up for money part soon.  But for now, it’s new, and this is how it goes.

I’m also trying to rehab my living space, which is crowded and messy in a pretty extreme sense of the word.  My days and evenings have been full, and yesterday obligations that kept me outside all day and resulted in my sunburning through my shirt kept me from doing much in the house.  Today, I got up at 7 AM for an 8 AM soccer game (…), picked up Tiger Balm on the way home (fuck you, quad muscle!) and started cleaning.  Hernán told me that in the meantime, he’d woken late, had lunch and watched Caddyshack.  Bastard.

Being allergic to dust makes cleaning just a swell task indeed, and now I have a headache.  I mean that shit gets everywhere.  And now, instead of continuing to clean, or rub more Tiger Balm on my achy parts, Hernán, WHO INSISTED I POST NOW IN THE FIRST PLACE, keeps sending me links to things like a goddamn Lionel Ritchie video that I saw plenty when I was growing up and demanding that I STOP INSTANTLY and WATCH IT BECAUSE OMG THAT LIONEL SCULPTURE AT THE END.

So.  Having met Hernán’s blog and video demands, I’m off to raid the alfajor stash, because those things are great for headaches.

Posted in Ramblings, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

To Kill A Monday

Monday. It’s Monday. It’s Monday and I have to go to work. It’s Monday and I don’t want to wake up, but I have to, because for some stupid reason when I was kid I decided I was going to grow up to be a responsible adult. I throw the warm, warm covers off while cursing at that stupid kid that I was, may he grow up with acne, a girly voice and a crippling fear of spiders.

It’s a cold, rainy Monday. Half-asleep, I look for my clothes, not really caring about matching the colors. It doesn’t feel like I’m wasting my time if my eyes are barely open, you know. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the soft lights, brush my teeth with my eyes still closed, shave now because then it won’t matter if I cut myself, it will be fine by the time I hop into the car. Light off, and into the shower. I wake up slowly as hot water washes away the last hints of that dream I was enjoying so much, before Monday took it away.

It’s unavoidably Monday. Resignation sets in as the toast pops out. Being responsible is good, right? Right. A job means that you’ll have food on the table, right? Right. And you want to buy that stupid phone, right? Right. And work isn’t that bad, after all, you have some good friends there and lunch is always fun, right? Right! And Friday, o Friday, that most handsome of days, is just around the corner, you’ll see.

Fuck I hate Mondays.

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Don’t Forget to Stretch

I have started to play soccer [football].  This was my first week.  I went to my first practice on Tuesday, and I am recently outfitted with new shorts, socks, shin guards and cleats.  Today, I played in my first game.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve been wondering at the tendency to not attempt to do new things once Real Adulthood is reached.  It’s hard for me to know if I’m alone in the restlessness.  There are some people who do pick up new pursuits–lots of people.  And I’ve never heard anyone really complain about it.  So maybe it is just me.  Maybe it is the inertia of routine, the lack of free time, the exhaustion.  And then, a sort of mental cabin fever.

So I have been taking up some new things; mostly things I always wanted to do and talked myself out of over the years.  I finally picked up soccer.  That brings us to today.  I’ve been reading over the game rules and particulars, but I have only a rudimentary understanding still.  I was aghast when the coach started me at forward, but I quickly realized that the real runners were the midfielders.  Also, within 10 minutes, I had pulled the holy fuck out of my left quad.  Looks like I missed that one when stretching.  Whoops!

It was clear, when the coach put me back in later that I couldn’t manage; apparently I was visibly limping.  I watched the rest of the game, recommended my type of cleats to another player and decided that I’d wait til I got home to use the restroom, where it would matter less if I collapsed on the floor.

While icing my quad at home, I discovered another memento of this day:  I hadn’t thought about sunblock at all–it was very, very cloudy.  Well, yeah.

Much, much redder in person. Shin guards: SPF 120.

Can’t wait til next week.

Posted in Football Soccer, I lack the necessary foresight, Sports | Leave a comment

Tiny Eulogy For A Big Fish

SunsetToday I’ve lost a friend, one I hadn’t met yet, one I was hoping to meet soon. One of those future friends who are so special that when someone describes them, you just know you’re going to click. Leta, my love, has lost something more.

Whale the Tail Blackie, the fish, is gone. I saw Leta cry for him, and all my criticisms about the cruelty of keeping a fish in a tiny bowl just died on my lips. Those of you who have pets know how difficult it can be when we outlast them, how much love we can put on those little animals that we care for, that care for us in their own ways. I look at my poor Conan struggling to climb onto my bed like he’s done every night since he was a puppy, suffering from that damned arthritis, and my heart breaks a little.

And now Leta’s lost her Blackie, and I’m not there to hug her. I hate death.

Open seas, Blackie. I wish we had met.

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It’s the Notes You Don’t Hear

I am not a music snob.  Far from.  I like to listen to all kinds of music.  Good music, crappy music, whatever.  Dance, pop, hip hop, rap, rock, metal, classical.  I’ll give nearly anything a chance.

The last three concerts I attended:  Shonen Knife, The Black Crowes, and Lady Gaga. The next one that I’ve got a ticket for is Placido Domingo.  My MP3 player has songs by B.o.B., Korn, Mazzy Star, Gabrielle Cilmi, and Asleep at the Wheel.  Among others.  Many, many others.

Hernán favors a more uniform approach.  He prefers Cuban folksingers, songs of the past and romantic poems of love and loss set to music.  He is not fond of many of my favorites.

"There is," he says to me as I start dancing and singing along in a Buenos Aires Wal-Mart, "already enough strain on our relationship."

Despite the differences, music has played somewhat of a central role for Hernán and I.  Our first date was a symphony concert.  I even brought along an excellent book to assist Hernán with his understanding of orchestral nuances:

A Must Read for All Classical Music Enthusiasts

He’s not really into classical music, but to hear him tell it, I was wearing very interesting stockings and that was good enough for him.  Our second date involved dinner at a local pizza place, where two musicians were performing.  Outside.  In January.  We didn’t hear much of them from our warm, indoor table.  And, probably most precious to me, there was the morning after our first night together, when I was listening to Hernán sing in the shower as I got ready.

I could go on, from linking each other to songs we like and talking about why those songs are so good, to listening to Spanish singers, Mazzy Star and Credence Clearwater Revival while driving between Bariloche and Angostura.  It is one of those things that we have little in common on, but that means opportunities to hear different things and gain new understandings.  Dammit, is there no facet of life that can’t be made richer?  What the fuck?  I’m too lazy for all this.

Being far from a music elitist and harboring little in the way of serious band fandom, this prominence of melody in our life has been surprising.  But it’s been such fun.

Posted in Music, The Only People Who Get Us Are Us | Leave a comment

Levels of Intimacy

If those sheets could talk... they would suffocate

I am now going to tackle the relative importance of farting in the construction of a long-lasting, loving couple. I do this knowing that I risk turning this little blog into a big scatological joke, but I have no choice – I need to save face somehow after Leta’s indiscretions about fingers that were pulled and the reaction that such pulling caused.

I believe that finding a life companion is never having to be fake. Secrets have been shared, good traits have been embraced, bad ones identified and ameliorated and also embraced, what the heck. That aura of personal awkwardness has been blown away, and the Masks We Must Wear are left at the door, make up is optional and that bellies are never sucked in, but proudly displayed as permanent reminders of how we must go to the gym soon. Really. Soon, I mean it.

Nakedness is a frontier that’s usually crossed with the first romp, or the second, and at one point the bathroom door stays open through the many tasks of our morning routine. Relationships are lucky to pass the year mark without a shall-not-be-discussed-again moment of hair-holding and boundless barfing. And let’s be honest, with so many carbonated drinks around us, the first belch is just an unguarded moment away. Say, the fourth month. And thus, one by one, the walls between us crumble.

50 years from now (because why think if you don’t think big?), do I want my beloved to lock herself in the bathroom, and then run the water so no sounds escapes that most sacrosanct of all rooms? And say that as the humans that we are, gas accumulates inside of us on a cold, cold winter morning, one of those mornings when the covers form a warm haven that we can’t leave without much consideration of the pros and cons, the consequences of just staying there for a few more hours, until it’s warmer, pleeeeease?, and you hug and cuddle and just enjoy with your eyes closed those lazy minutes where you manage to forget you’re a grown up, with responsibilities, doggone it!

And my life companion suddenly feels an urge she can’t repress, and looks at me. She has to get up, she says, and cross the cold hall to the bathroom. We share a bed, you see. Well, not on my watch, miss! There’s no I in team, is there, so we just keep on hugging and make a huge joke of the aftermath, the shaking of the sheets and the unfortunate consequences. My beautiful princess is human after all, and I feel like celebrating with a concert in Fa minor. To me, that is love.

I might be sick.

Posted in Love Means Never Having to Say 'Your Sense of Humor Is Fucked Up", scatological | Leave a comment