Boyfriends are good for squooshing

"The Life Aquatic" really wasn’t that spectacular a movie, despite my continued affections for the sound of the title ("life aquatic" just has a poetic, almost Nerudian rhythm to it). It had its funny and its funnier moments, as most of its cinematic comedy ilk tend to have– but in the end, it wasn’t a rolling-on-the-floor sort of deal. It certainly didn’t send *me* into any giggle fits and it wasn’t until the next day that I had come to the conclusion that I did actually like it.

But for all that, for all the reasons that made this movie "okay" and not "I-must-own-this" for me, I’m thinking of actually buying it when it comes out in two weeks. And I suspect that this is because of sentimental value and the experience attached to my viewing of the movie.

Even though the drive down was a little harried because of navigational glitches, even though parking at The Grove was a little more than stressful, even though delayed meal times made us both a little crabby and impatient, even though finding somewhere to stay for the night (and then finding a restaurant for dinner) proved to be a not-altogether-comfortable experience (though the room we got in the end was very passable)– I remember the trip to be a pleasant one. The Guy got his root beer float in Baker and he played "Elf" early on in the drive, The Grove was beautiful (and yet a little pretentious– just like the people walking around in it), the restaurant in Pasadena had THE BEST FOCACCIA BREAD EVER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, the next morning I had one of the three best omelets I’ve ever eaten in my life (egg whites with potatoes, green bell peppers, cheese, *avocado* and possibly mushrooms), and I got free samples of Ghirardelli peppermint squares while perusing the lines of shops with The Guy. And the weather was absolutely gorgeous.

And those are the things I remember when I think about "The Life Aquatic." And because of that, I have pleasant associations with that movie. And because of *that*, I’m probably going to be minus some cash after May 10 rolls around.

At the risk of making him sound like some lame little frou-frou toy poodle– I have the cutest boyfriend who does the cutest things, like thank me for little things that would usually go un- (or under-) appreciated. ::squoosh::

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Not for non-locals

After an advance screening of "The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy," tonight, The Boyfriend (a.k.a., The Guy Who Is So Talented And Cool) and I went to Hamada’s with two friends of ours who had also attended the screening.

And after an overpriced repast of pretty-okay sushi (served with exquisite courtesy and timeliness, but in the end, still overpriced), The Boyfriend (would it be wrong to abbreviate him to TB?) and I were standing in the parking lot, talking (him) and trying to stall our inevitable parting of ways for as long as possible by asking more questions that could only have lengthy answers (me).

At one point, he broke a brief lapse in the dialogue while staring down the street:

Him: Isn’t it amazing that Paradise is only a block away?
[beat]
Me: "Take me down to Paradise"?
Him: Actually, I think it goes, "Take me away to Paradise."
[beat]
Me: "Sailing"?
Him: "Takes me away."
Me: "To where I always…"
[pause]
Him: Yeah, it’s just mumble-mumble after that.

We changed to a different topic of conversation for a bit, and then finally made the decision to bid adieu to Hamada’s (which, for those of you lucky few unfamiliar with the off-Strip territories of Vegas, is situated close to the intersection of Flamingo and Paradise roads). Having decided to take Paradise to the 215, I got onto Flamingo and proceeded to turn left at the intersection, my mind entirely preoccupied with figuring out the last line in the chorus to "Sailing."

Ten minutes and several intersections later, I’d come up with two items: one, I believed the line went "…where I always wanted to be," and two, why the hell hadn’t I hit Tropicana yet? And then I bothered to look at where I was driving through and saw Sahara not too far ahead of where I currently was and realized this whole time, I’d been heading north. Damn that Christopher Cross!

I called Le Petit-Ami Qui Est Si Extrordinaire Et Hyper-Cool to let him know what a dunce his girlfriend is and to make my case for the lyrics mystery. He consented to the former but dissented to the latter, saying he thought it sounded like something closer to "needed" and not "wanted."

Determined to prove myself right (or to prove him wrong, the two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive), I challenged his authority (and we’re talking *many* years of exposure to music that he’s got over me) in my best arrogant-pipsqueak tone of voice and asserted that when I got home, I’d look up the lyrics.

Which I did.

And it turns out we were both wrong. Though I was listening to the actual song before I ran the search, and it does actually sound more like "mumble-mumble" than anything else, so I guess he gets points for calling that.

Also, I don’t know if he was just being magnanimous enough to ignore it or lucky enough to be oblivious to it, but no matter the reason– a very petty and irrational and unjustified pissy mood of mine was thankfully deflected tonight as it quickly ran out of steam, unacknowledged. It turns out that it is indeed difficult to stay annoyed at someone whose natural goodness perseveres. Who would’ve thunk?

A week’s absence

Plus two days.

I’m back to habitating this house o’ mine and I’m not particularly thrilled about it.

The emptiness and subsequent silence in my bedroom twists my heart. The space where her bed used to be is overwhelmingly bare. All my mistakes and their consequences leap at me from every inch of this place.

I don’t want to be here. But, like it or not, this is home. Or at least, that’s what my monthly rent would indicate.

I have to be up early tomorrow for my first day of this new job and I’m in a red-line panic mode.

Solution? "Finding Nemo" on continuous repeat.

Baugh.

Tip #1: Transporting milk

Tip: Don’t drive from the northern-most tip of Summerlin back to the heart of Green Valley with a carton of milk between your legs. Yes, it’s a good way to prevent it from tipping over and spilling all over the place as a result of your unwieldly turns and goddammit-get-out-of-my-way braking, but in the course of that half-hour drive, you will become overwhelmingly aware of the scientific process called "heat transfer." The end result will be a not-really-cold-anymore carton of milk and really, *really* cold inner thighs, especially if you happen to be so foolish as to be wearing a skirt, which has to be hiked up in order to get that carton of milk between your legs in the first place, and bare skin down there was not so much intended to be in continuous contact with cold items, you know?

But this is what happens when you need 4 oz. of milk for a French toast batter and you refuse to use anything other than skim milk, but your boyfriend only likes 2% milk, but just the *thought* of anything-percent milk makes your stomach curdle and there’s no way in hell you’re going to use that in the batter, so instead you reassure him that you’ll take the skim milk back with you after breakfast so he won’t have to deal with the leftover milk (because he doesn’t really drink or use milk to begin with).

In Memoriam

I didn’t know him well enough to call him a friend, but I’d talked with him on enough occasions and worked with him for long enough that I was able to get a sufficient glimpse of his character.

The first time I met him, I liked him instantly. Had I been single at the time, there’s no doubt I would have been attracted to him "in that way." He was charismatic, no-nonsense, uninhibited– and my god, you’d be hard-pressed to find a sense of humor that surpassed his.

Since his passing– or rather, I should say, since my discovery of his passing– I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what happened that morning for him, what happened that previous evening. What was going through his mind when he fell asleep, and what were the first thoughts that entered his mind upon awakening, thoughts which no doubt drove him to do what he did? Was it a searing pain that stole all hopes of a better tomorrow from him, or a dull ache that swallowed his will to keep enduring a time of darkness?

I feel as though I have no right to be so affected by the death of someone I truly hardly knew– as though it isn’t my place to grieve. I suppose my only justification is, I did know him, a little. I knew his face, his voice, his smile, his laugh, his sardonic criticisms of the failures of this country’s presidency. And, perhaps the worse part of it all for me, I knew– I know– all the bitter shades and shapes of emotions that can lead a person to seek an instantaneous solution to ending the suffering.

To all those who knew him much better than I, to his friends and family and otherwise– I can only guess at the profound sadness stemming from your loss, but my deepest sympathies extend to you.

Ryan– I hope with all my heart that you’ve found a better place, that you have indeed left your troubles behind here on earth and you are, at last, at peace. "May the wind be forever at your back," and may eternal grace have taken you into its arms.

“Busted Stuff,” Track 7

"She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment… When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow.

"There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

"She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

"She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

"There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

"Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will–as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.

"When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: ‘free, free, free!’…

"She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.

"She knew that she would weep again… But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome."

(Kate Chopin, "The Story of an Hour")

It’s like losing her all over again.

Gainfully re-employed

[Ed: This was written before the post below, but didn’t get published until… um, just now. Because that’s what happens when you work on two computers simultaneously and one of them doesn’t like to operate on dial-up.]

Hey!

I was offered the position of Director of Medical Records this morning. The title is a bit more impressive than the actual job itself, but all the same, I’m happy. Definitely a step up from the last job. And– and!– I’ll be working close enough to where The Guy works that we can meet up for lunch (aww).

In other wonky work news, the woman who took over my position at my former place of employment called me last night to see if I would be willing to talk about why exactly I had decided to leave. I wasn’t too keen on discussing anything with her, but she started venting about all the things that are driving her nuts, and fascinatingly enough, our complaints were identical. So I began telling her my experiences in that office and we traded details and in the end, we both benefited: I finally felt validated in my choice to leave because her unhappiness (which is an understatement) proved that it *wasn’t* just me, that it was, in fact, that office and that environment; and she as well felt relieved to know that it wasn’t just her, and subsequently decided to quit. Not give her two weeks’ notice– just up and quit. And I have to admit, I was almost proud of her. Me? I hung in there well after my last official day, mostly because I guilt-tripped my way into it.

But anyway. Not a bad day, the headaches aside. I’m freshly 21 with a full-time job (again) that offers benefits as well as financial assistance should I decide to pursue certification or field-related degrees, a job that offers plenty of room for career growth– and for relocation! And my mother can now brag, however deceptively, that her youngest daughter is a director of something. Not a bad day, indeed.

A lie, some summaries, and then stuff

The lie: I’m not going to backlog. Screw that. I’ve posted three or four times a day often enough to make up for a five-day absence. (And like any of you *really* care.)

Some summaries: My mom is back in town for almost four weeks this time. There’s stuff going on with the dog that will have its denouement tomorrow. Unemployment sucks some serious ass but after two weeks, I can safely say that is no longer a state of being that applies to my life. I really miss my cat and The Guy recently said something related to that which all-encompassingly acts as testament to how unbelievably good he is to me. Checked out "Layers," this bakery in Green Valley next to Trader Joe’s, and was not terribly impressed.

And then stuff: I’m thinking of picking up golf, as I really enjoyed the afternoon I spent at the driving range with the boys and Josh encouraged me to keep practicing. ** I still have my Typepad account even though I swore April was going to be the last month because I’ve been so tickled with all the damn searches that pull up this site as a result (and all the subsequent traffic, yes, I am a traffic WHORE), and also because, well, because I still haven’t finished the design for O.S. In fact, progress on that design seems to have come to a permanent stand-still so I think I’m just going to scrap it and start anew. I would just say, screw O.S and Movable Type, I’m sticking with Typepad– but I really hate the archiving system Typepad has as it makes filtering through the archives nearly impossible. Plus, there’s no search feature except on the administration page. So, yeah. I don’t really know where I was going with that, except to say, asian.freckles is still alive and O.S is still poorly neglected.

Bisy backson

I’m "on vacation," or something like that, and my HSI is therefore temporarily unavailable. Will backlog next week– I’m writing, just not posting. Etc.

And all you people who keep accessing my site through Google searches for dog porn– I don’t know whether I should do the dry heaving act or just shut up and be grateful for the traffic. Same goes for you people who do searches on "dog phallus." Ew! But, um, thanks for visiting.