Saturday, August 30, 2008
Grave Hunting
On our second day in The Middle Of Nowhere, Ohio, my cousin asked what we'd like to do. She periodically warns us, almost apologetically, that "there ain't a whole hell of a lot to do out here." There were only a few things I wanted to do while we were there: look at Amish houses for sale, sit around talking and drinking coffee with my relatives (the sulfur-heavy well water makes surprisingly good coffee), and go see the family we have up on the hill:
The higher up the hill you go, the older the graves. Up there, the dates on a single headstone are often too close together. It's up there that I bend down and squint at faded markers, trying to find family members every time I visit. At the top of my list of reasons for wanting to move to The Middle Of Nowhere is unlimited access to graveyards.
The sweet spot for finding ancestors is having a last name that was prolific enough that you're not looking for a needle in a haystack, but unique enough that you're not overwhelmed with a million false leads to follow up on. Our Family Mystery wouldn't be such a fucking mystery, I bet, if the last name of the Mysterious Guy In Question wasn't this:
It feels like I see it in every fifth tombstone. I'm not the first person to try to track his parents down and figure out who the fuck, exactly, my great-great-grandfather was, and I don't pretend to think I'll have any more luck than everyone else before me. But I still look. And sometimes I find:
Is that one of my direct ancestors? Fuck, no. As if it would be that easy. It's one of their brothers or cousins. Either way, I guess it's just one more grave that will require flowers.
My distant cousins decorate graves. They decorate the graves their parents decorated, even when nobody can remember how we're related to the dead in question. When the flower bill began to get out of hand, one of the great aunts handed down a rule: if they have other kin who will leave flowers, don't decorate.
Grave decoration- even for the relatives we don't remember, never met, or aren't sure belong to us at all- is serious and necessary. Although logic tells me otherwise, I understand on some wordless level why we do this. When one of the great aunts put an expensive and elaborate flower arrangement on the wrong grave, she went to the store to buy another one rather than just walking over, picking it up and moving it. I understand why.
The most dutifully decorated grave is that of "the kids." The death of the two girls in the same night, I think, still stands as the family tragedy to trump all others:
I stopped by the far end of the graveyard to see some other great-great-grandparents:
Later, we went to the older cemetery. We don't have people out there- and I'd heard that before we went, but I was still holding out hope- and I fell in love with the writing on the stones and started taking pictures. A lot of them were also of the anthropomorphic shape that was once popular.
Some of them were misspelled. Check out the addition of the "h" in "daughter":
"Daughter" is misspelled here, too, on a marker for a child too young to have a name:
On a few stones, it looked like the carver ran out of room at the end of a line and had to squeeze the remaining letters into a tight spot. Also look at the tiny "N" wedged into the misspelled "months".
The last stone I took a picture of had a little of everything. It had the old anthropomorphic shape, the hand-carved letters. The carver ran out of space twice- once having to split the last name into "BOTH" and "WELL" on two lines, and again at the end of CHARLotte.
All craftsmanship aside, it struck me because it has story to it, and you could be forgiven for asking why it's a story I'd want to take a picture of. The eighteen-month old boy who died on the day after Christmas, of all days. The nearby stones of his siblings, not much older when they died. Above all, the names of the parents on the marker. On some of the old stones, the parents' names are more prominent than the children's. It's fitting that the spot should be marked with their names, too. It's their sorrow more than anyone else's, and it's part of them that's buried on that spot. The single name on an adult's gravestone is reminder of a lost life. The parents' names on a child's gravestones remind us when someone had to bear all the losing.
I don't take pictures of the unusually sad headstones for shock value, just as I don't take pictures of old, unique stones just for novelty's sake. I like them because they remind me why I hang out in graveyards. The misspellings, cracked stones and crowded letters tell me that the parents must not have been able to afford either the money or the time to start over with a new stone. That stone was fucking precious to them.
And there are old stones that are precious to me.
I walk through wide fields of stones, hundreds of stones, looking for the specific stones that were precious to my parents' parents' parents; I am looking for our story because it is my story and I don't want to die. I can- and have- become caught up in the chase for its own sake, stepping over the tiny gravestones of infants while I'm looking for the right dates or middle initials. I'm grateful for the random stone that stops me halfway up a hill, reading tragedy between the misspelled and crowded lines. It brings me back down to earth, reminds me why I started looking in the first place, shakes a little respect for life back into me.
And isn't that why I keep doing this? Because I'm afraid to die without getting my head around how precious my own life was?
We don't know who we put flowers down for sometimes, but we decorate the graves of forgotten relatives because we cry for people who cried for them. It hurts when it happens, but I don't want to keep doing this if I never get stopped by the random stone with an unusual capacity for reminding me that people cried over these graves, my chest caving in with the realization that despite the different name and date I might have just found the right grave after all as I look up from my search to see a field of hundreds. And hundreds. Of stones.
The higher up the hill you go, the older the graves. Up there, the dates on a single headstone are often too close together. It's up there that I bend down and squint at faded markers, trying to find family members every time I visit. At the top of my list of reasons for wanting to move to The Middle Of Nowhere is unlimited access to graveyards.
The sweet spot for finding ancestors is having a last name that was prolific enough that you're not looking for a needle in a haystack, but unique enough that you're not overwhelmed with a million false leads to follow up on. Our Family Mystery wouldn't be such a fucking mystery, I bet, if the last name of the Mysterious Guy In Question wasn't this:
It feels like I see it in every fifth tombstone. I'm not the first person to try to track his parents down and figure out who the fuck, exactly, my great-great-grandfather was, and I don't pretend to think I'll have any more luck than everyone else before me. But I still look. And sometimes I find:
Is that one of my direct ancestors? Fuck, no. As if it would be that easy. It's one of their brothers or cousins. Either way, I guess it's just one more grave that will require flowers.
My distant cousins decorate graves. They decorate the graves their parents decorated, even when nobody can remember how we're related to the dead in question. When the flower bill began to get out of hand, one of the great aunts handed down a rule: if they have other kin who will leave flowers, don't decorate.
Grave decoration- even for the relatives we don't remember, never met, or aren't sure belong to us at all- is serious and necessary. Although logic tells me otherwise, I understand on some wordless level why we do this. When one of the great aunts put an expensive and elaborate flower arrangement on the wrong grave, she went to the store to buy another one rather than just walking over, picking it up and moving it. I understand why.
The most dutifully decorated grave is that of "the kids." The death of the two girls in the same night, I think, still stands as the family tragedy to trump all others:
I stopped by the far end of the graveyard to see some other great-great-grandparents:
Later, we went to the older cemetery. We don't have people out there- and I'd heard that before we went, but I was still holding out hope- and I fell in love with the writing on the stones and started taking pictures. A lot of them were also of the anthropomorphic shape that was once popular.
Some of them were misspelled. Check out the addition of the "h" in "daughter":
"Daughter" is misspelled here, too, on a marker for a child too young to have a name:
On a few stones, it looked like the carver ran out of room at the end of a line and had to squeeze the remaining letters into a tight spot. Also look at the tiny "N" wedged into the misspelled "months".
The last stone I took a picture of had a little of everything. It had the old anthropomorphic shape, the hand-carved letters. The carver ran out of space twice- once having to split the last name into "BOTH" and "WELL" on two lines, and again at the end of CHARLotte.
All craftsmanship aside, it struck me because it has story to it, and you could be forgiven for asking why it's a story I'd want to take a picture of. The eighteen-month old boy who died on the day after Christmas, of all days. The nearby stones of his siblings, not much older when they died. Above all, the names of the parents on the marker. On some of the old stones, the parents' names are more prominent than the children's. It's fitting that the spot should be marked with their names, too. It's their sorrow more than anyone else's, and it's part of them that's buried on that spot. The single name on an adult's gravestone is reminder of a lost life. The parents' names on a child's gravestones remind us when someone had to bear all the losing.
I don't take pictures of the unusually sad headstones for shock value, just as I don't take pictures of old, unique stones just for novelty's sake. I like them because they remind me why I hang out in graveyards. The misspellings, cracked stones and crowded letters tell me that the parents must not have been able to afford either the money or the time to start over with a new stone. That stone was fucking precious to them.
And there are old stones that are precious to me.
I walk through wide fields of stones, hundreds of stones, looking for the specific stones that were precious to my parents' parents' parents; I am looking for our story because it is my story and I don't want to die. I can- and have- become caught up in the chase for its own sake, stepping over the tiny gravestones of infants while I'm looking for the right dates or middle initials. I'm grateful for the random stone that stops me halfway up a hill, reading tragedy between the misspelled and crowded lines. It brings me back down to earth, reminds me why I started looking in the first place, shakes a little respect for life back into me.
And isn't that why I keep doing this? Because I'm afraid to die without getting my head around how precious my own life was?
We don't know who we put flowers down for sometimes, but we decorate the graves of forgotten relatives because we cry for people who cried for them. It hurts when it happens, but I don't want to keep doing this if I never get stopped by the random stone with an unusual capacity for reminding me that people cried over these graves, my chest caving in with the realization that despite the different name and date I might have just found the right grave after all as I look up from my search to see a field of hundreds. And hundreds. Of stones.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
A Brief Intro
I've got tons of stories and pictures from our trip to Ohio, but those will come later. For now, I have two short things to note.
First, today is LoPro's first day back at school. He's off teaching philosophy right now, and I miss him already.
Second, it seems like every chance he gets, the Tall Crazy Manager will climb up on the bar to do something. (Click on the link for the last picture of his leg.) I should make pictures of Tall Crazy Manager's legs a regular column on the blog, because Tall Crazy Managers's legs are a regular occurrence on my bar. Here, you see his sneakers perched not on the bar itself but on the EDGE of the bar. He wasn't changing the light bulb- the light fixture high above the bar takes a specific, unusual bulb- he was seeing if he COULD change the light bulb if and when someone at the bar actually buys the bulb. As the tallest and craziest employee, he is probably the only one who can do it without a ladder.
Yesterday night we were all counting out when he told us about some woman guessing his age. He is in his mid-thirties. "She thought I was 25!" he said, then happily marveled, "I'm so handsome."
First, today is LoPro's first day back at school. He's off teaching philosophy right now, and I miss him already.
Second, it seems like every chance he gets, the Tall Crazy Manager will climb up on the bar to do something. (Click on the link for the last picture of his leg.) I should make pictures of Tall Crazy Manager's legs a regular column on the blog, because Tall Crazy Managers's legs are a regular occurrence on my bar. Here, you see his sneakers perched not on the bar itself but on the EDGE of the bar. He wasn't changing the light bulb- the light fixture high above the bar takes a specific, unusual bulb- he was seeing if he COULD change the light bulb if and when someone at the bar actually buys the bulb. As the tallest and craziest employee, he is probably the only one who can do it without a ladder.
Yesterday night we were all counting out when he told us about some woman guessing his age. He is in his mid-thirties. "She thought I was 25!" he said, then happily marveled, "I'm so handsome."
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A Rundown, A Honeymoon, Several Types Of Fungus
So! It's been pretty busy around here.
Early tomorrow morning Logic Professor and I are setting out for the Middle of Fucking Nowhere, Ohio, to visit my cousins.
"Don't clean on my account," I told the one we'll be staying with. "I haven't cleaned my house in six months." And that is pretty close to the truth.
"Well, I already changed the sheets on your bed and straightened up your room," she said, and I started to get excited about going back. We talk on the phone a couple times a year, and she always says, "Comin' back home?" Tomorrow morning, I am, and I'm bringing my LoPro with me.
Speaking of the LoPro, he's either off playing tennis or getting hacked into manageable pieces by the serial killer who contacted him about the ad he posted on craigslist asking for a tennis partner. He should be home soon, barring murder. I miss him.
Since he got home from Nerd Camp, it's been like a honeymoon. We've spent all of our time together, laughing and snuggling, eating ourselves sick at the Indian buffet and hanging out at the diner in the middle of the night for cocoa and scrambled eggs, going out to the movies, grocery shopping, and making tea for each other in the morning. Also, we've been hanging out with medical professionals. He got his half of our HIV test despite his needle-phobia, after which a nurse had to come get me from the waiting room and he got a free ice pop, but that is a story for another post. I went to my family doctor to see about the itch in my ear and the rash on my leg, and was diagnosed with a mild ear infection and leg fungus.
LEG FUNGUS.
"It's everywhere," the doctor said. "It's on me, it's on that table, it's on everything." For a second I thought he meant that I had contaminated everything in the room, but then I realized that he meant that fungus is like bacteria. You can't get rid of it; it's just there. Sometimes, it decides to embarrass itself in public by making a scene.
"Why is it growing on my leg?" I asked.
"Who knows," he said, more or less, and wrote me out a prescription for anti-leg-fungus cream. I mean, I guess it will work on any body part, but in my case it's on a leg. Now, a couple days after starting to apply the cream, the rash is going away. It hadn't been doing much of anything, and didn't bother me while it was there. It didn't itch, flake, hurt, or ooze. It wasn't even that prominent. It just sat there. But now it must die.
My ever-compassionate doctor reassured me that I'd get better soon. I was unaware that I was, you know, unwell. There just happens to be stuff growing in my ear and on my leg, but that doesn't mean I was worried about getting better, per se. Rather, I'm terribly amused that the benign little rash that has graced the back of my left leg for something like six months- dude, don't look at me like that, I was waiting for it to go away on its own- is actually alive. What a revelation!
Aside from hanging out with medical professionals, we've also hung out with two of LoPro's friends, a young wholesome hipster-y couple on whom I've developed a serious couple-crush. Thursday night the four of us went to a local movie theater to see a double feature of awful B horror movies and then hung out at the diner, and we had a great time. Or, at least, LoPro and I did. I feel like we should pass them a note that says "Do u like us? Circle one: Y/N."
Meanwhile, at the CPRB, Twin 2 and I have been engaged in a brutal bake-off, and I think Saturday night baking is going to continue for the time being because the customers, as innocent bystanders who've shouldered the brunt of the pie-eating responsibilities, have been so pleased. I was going to make a peach pie tonight. The peach tree in my garden, which grew from a pit that fell out of a trash bag, produced scads of peaches this year, and I was waiting for the ones on my kitchen counter to get a little riper before pie-ing them. I have never seen mold grow so fast. Maybe it's just my house. In any event, I have to make alternate plans for a pie filling before going to work, and to that end have texted LoPro to ask if he could stop at the Cupboardsburg Acme on his way home from getting hacked to death by the Tennis Partner Killer.
In 24 hours I'll be halfway to Ohio. 24 hours after that, Logic Professor should be on an Amish farm, set far back in the woods up the road from my cousin's house. About five families came out to settle there, and decided to move back to where they came from this year, leaving a handful of huge, empty, beautiful houses and barns with no electricity. For sale.
Early tomorrow morning Logic Professor and I are setting out for the Middle of Fucking Nowhere, Ohio, to visit my cousins.
"Don't clean on my account," I told the one we'll be staying with. "I haven't cleaned my house in six months." And that is pretty close to the truth.
"Well, I already changed the sheets on your bed and straightened up your room," she said, and I started to get excited about going back. We talk on the phone a couple times a year, and she always says, "Comin' back home?" Tomorrow morning, I am, and I'm bringing my LoPro with me.
Speaking of the LoPro, he's either off playing tennis or getting hacked into manageable pieces by the serial killer who contacted him about the ad he posted on craigslist asking for a tennis partner. He should be home soon, barring murder. I miss him.
Since he got home from Nerd Camp, it's been like a honeymoon. We've spent all of our time together, laughing and snuggling, eating ourselves sick at the Indian buffet and hanging out at the diner in the middle of the night for cocoa and scrambled eggs, going out to the movies, grocery shopping, and making tea for each other in the morning. Also, we've been hanging out with medical professionals. He got his half of our HIV test despite his needle-phobia, after which a nurse had to come get me from the waiting room and he got a free ice pop, but that is a story for another post. I went to my family doctor to see about the itch in my ear and the rash on my leg, and was diagnosed with a mild ear infection and leg fungus.
LEG FUNGUS.
"It's everywhere," the doctor said. "It's on me, it's on that table, it's on everything." For a second I thought he meant that I had contaminated everything in the room, but then I realized that he meant that fungus is like bacteria. You can't get rid of it; it's just there. Sometimes, it decides to embarrass itself in public by making a scene.
"Why is it growing on my leg?" I asked.
"Who knows," he said, more or less, and wrote me out a prescription for anti-leg-fungus cream. I mean, I guess it will work on any body part, but in my case it's on a leg. Now, a couple days after starting to apply the cream, the rash is going away. It hadn't been doing much of anything, and didn't bother me while it was there. It didn't itch, flake, hurt, or ooze. It wasn't even that prominent. It just sat there. But now it must die.
My ever-compassionate doctor reassured me that I'd get better soon. I was unaware that I was, you know, unwell. There just happens to be stuff growing in my ear and on my leg, but that doesn't mean I was worried about getting better, per se. Rather, I'm terribly amused that the benign little rash that has graced the back of my left leg for something like six months- dude, don't look at me like that, I was waiting for it to go away on its own- is actually alive. What a revelation!
Aside from hanging out with medical professionals, we've also hung out with two of LoPro's friends, a young wholesome hipster-y couple on whom I've developed a serious couple-crush. Thursday night the four of us went to a local movie theater to see a double feature of awful B horror movies and then hung out at the diner, and we had a great time. Or, at least, LoPro and I did. I feel like we should pass them a note that says "Do u like us? Circle one: Y/N."
Meanwhile, at the CPRB, Twin 2 and I have been engaged in a brutal bake-off, and I think Saturday night baking is going to continue for the time being because the customers, as innocent bystanders who've shouldered the brunt of the pie-eating responsibilities, have been so pleased. I was going to make a peach pie tonight. The peach tree in my garden, which grew from a pit that fell out of a trash bag, produced scads of peaches this year, and I was waiting for the ones on my kitchen counter to get a little riper before pie-ing them. I have never seen mold grow so fast. Maybe it's just my house. In any event, I have to make alternate plans for a pie filling before going to work, and to that end have texted LoPro to ask if he could stop at the Cupboardsburg Acme on his way home from getting hacked to death by the Tennis Partner Killer.
In 24 hours I'll be halfway to Ohio. 24 hours after that, Logic Professor should be on an Amish farm, set far back in the woods up the road from my cousin's house. About five families came out to settle there, and decided to move back to where they came from this year, leaving a handful of huge, empty, beautiful houses and barns with no electricity. For sale.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
People In Hell Probably Want A Camel Ride, Too
Yesterday Logic Professor came with me to watch JQ and witness two developing facets of his three-year-oldness: relentlessly asking for things and relentlessly asking asking why. The three of us went out for pancakes ("Why?"), then stopped at the playground for a little bit ("Why?"), then went to see Wall-E ("Why?), which was FREAKING ADORABLE and brought me to tears twice. JQ has been to movies before and was mostly good, sitting on our laps and quietly asking questions (such as "Why?"), except those times when he explored our empty row of seats and tried nearly every one. This one folds down. And this one? It folds down! THIS ONE DOES TOO! Much to my horror and to JQ's delight, they can fold back up with a three-year-old still in them.
After the movie he wanted to play the video games in the lobby, which he did, and then he wanted mints. I explained that I did not have mints, and he wanted to know why not. Let it be noted that I have never given him a mint, nor indicated that I am fond of carrying them or anything like that. Answering "why?" is not as tough as answering "why not?" Why not? WHY ANYTHING?!
He can carry a string of Why?s farther than I would have thought possible, at times simply repeating the word anytime anyone says anything, especially if he's tired and not paying attention. I go to lengths to answer every "why?" until they stop making sense; then I'll suspiciously ask "Why what, JQ?" and if his response is silence or "I don't know," then I know it wasn't a sincere question, just repetition for Why?'s sake. Sometimes I'll ask "Why?" in response to something he says or does, and his response to my "Why?" is "Why?" Sometimes he asks why HE does things he does, and I am at a loss for words. Example:
JQ: I want pizza.
CUP: We don't have any, honey.
JQ: Why?
CUP: Because you ate it.
JQ: Why?
CUP: Why what, baby?
JQ: Why did I ate it?
CUP: Because you... did? Because you were hungry?
JQ: Why did I not ate something else instead?
CUP: You tell me!
JQ: Why?
CUP: Because I don't know why you ate what you ate and not something else.
JQ: Why?
CUP: Because I'm not you, and only you know why you do the things you do.
JQ: Why?
CUP: Because... why what?
JQ: I don't know. (pause) Why?
The persistent Why?ing is mirrored by constant requests for stuff. I'll say, look at that neat tree! And he'll say, Can I have a tree? It's not that he's legitimately asking for a tree. It's more like he's asking if it's possible for him to have a tree, and when someone says no he forgets about it. About one out of ten requests for stuff is real, though, and a "no" isn't enough, because it's met with a "Why?" then followed with a pitiful "But I want it." When I was a kid, my mom would respond with the classic conversation-ending "And people in hell want ice water," but it'll be a few years before I can whip that one out so I'm stuck explaining why wanting something isn't enough to make it spring into existence and become my nephew's property.
We were on our way home from the movies yesterday when, after a string of requests that were patiently rebuffed with logical explanations, I broke.
"I want chocolate milk," JQ said. In retrospect, this is one request I should have considered giving in to, because it's tradition for us to get chocolate milk on Our Special Day Together. Thing is, we'd just done pancakes. And the playground. And Wall-E.
"We don't have any in the car, honey," I said.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I brought a juice box for you, and we didn't have any chocolate milk. Want the juice box?" Deflection: always an option.
"But I want chocolate milk!" he cried. And then I just broke out laughing.
"Yeah, well, you know what I want? Camels! Dozens of them! A squad of camels to carry me everywhere I go! With streamers on their handlebars!"
There was a pause, and then a tiny voice from the backseat.
"I want a camel ride."
After the movie he wanted to play the video games in the lobby, which he did, and then he wanted mints. I explained that I did not have mints, and he wanted to know why not. Let it be noted that I have never given him a mint, nor indicated that I am fond of carrying them or anything like that. Answering "why?" is not as tough as answering "why not?" Why not? WHY ANYTHING?!
He can carry a string of Why?s farther than I would have thought possible, at times simply repeating the word anytime anyone says anything, especially if he's tired and not paying attention. I go to lengths to answer every "why?" until they stop making sense; then I'll suspiciously ask "Why what, JQ?" and if his response is silence or "I don't know," then I know it wasn't a sincere question, just repetition for Why?'s sake. Sometimes I'll ask "Why?" in response to something he says or does, and his response to my "Why?" is "Why?" Sometimes he asks why HE does things he does, and I am at a loss for words. Example:
JQ: I want pizza.
CUP: We don't have any, honey.
JQ: Why?
CUP: Because you ate it.
JQ: Why?
CUP: Why what, baby?
JQ: Why did I ate it?
CUP: Because you... did? Because you were hungry?
JQ: Why did I not ate something else instead?
CUP: You tell me!
JQ: Why?
CUP: Because I don't know why you ate what you ate and not something else.
JQ: Why?
CUP: Because I'm not you, and only you know why you do the things you do.
JQ: Why?
CUP: Because... why what?
JQ: I don't know. (pause) Why?
The persistent Why?ing is mirrored by constant requests for stuff. I'll say, look at that neat tree! And he'll say, Can I have a tree? It's not that he's legitimately asking for a tree. It's more like he's asking if it's possible for him to have a tree, and when someone says no he forgets about it. About one out of ten requests for stuff is real, though, and a "no" isn't enough, because it's met with a "Why?" then followed with a pitiful "But I want it." When I was a kid, my mom would respond with the classic conversation-ending "And people in hell want ice water," but it'll be a few years before I can whip that one out so I'm stuck explaining why wanting something isn't enough to make it spring into existence and become my nephew's property.
We were on our way home from the movies yesterday when, after a string of requests that were patiently rebuffed with logical explanations, I broke.
"I want chocolate milk," JQ said. In retrospect, this is one request I should have considered giving in to, because it's tradition for us to get chocolate milk on Our Special Day Together. Thing is, we'd just done pancakes. And the playground. And Wall-E.
"We don't have any in the car, honey," I said.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I brought a juice box for you, and we didn't have any chocolate milk. Want the juice box?" Deflection: always an option.
"But I want chocolate milk!" he cried. And then I just broke out laughing.
"Yeah, well, you know what I want? Camels! Dozens of them! A squad of camels to carry me everywhere I go! With streamers on their handlebars!"
There was a pause, and then a tiny voice from the backseat.
"I want a camel ride."
Labels: Dr. Thumbscre.ws
Monday, August 11, 2008
Fish Tacos and Plan B
I casually mentioned it over our morning tea. In fact, I can't remember how the bar's name came up, but what I most remembered about it was A) that time Mr. Mollusk and I walked there in the wet snow to meet his friends and my pants were soaked and frozen from my feet to my knees by the time we got there, and B) the fish tacos made up for it. I don't mean that euphamistically, either. There were tacos with fish in them and they were fantastic. It was the first time I had fish tacos, but not the last. I had them again at a hipster nightclub/diner with Logic Professor and again in Chicago when I went to visit le cirque.
When I got out of the shower half an hour later, there was a note hanging from a long string of paper clips attached to the corner of a skylight. Gone taco fishing! it said. That's my Logic Professor. The problem was, however, that we were supposed to leave in half an hour to go drop off some Plan B for R, who is not only careless but also carless and whose ride to band practice would be there in an hour and a half- sharp.
The other problem was the street fair. Seriously: who keeps the street fair open in the rain? That's what Logic Professor wanted to know when he got to a nearby town where there was a restaurant that sold fish tacos. The street fair held him up a while.
So did the restaurant. The three tacos weren't ready when he got there, even though he'd called ahead. When they were done, he held out a twenty and was informed that it wasn't enough. WHAT?! More than twenty bucks for three tacos? No, they had misunderstood him on the phone and given him three ORDERS of tacos, complete with sides of rice and cheesy beans. Now he had nearly forty bucks worth of tacos and had to navigate back through a street fair in the rain to make it home in the next... five minutes, actually, if he was going to take the ride to R's place with me. It I went alone, by the time I got back Logic Professor would already be at work, and I wouldn't see him again until I got home at 4:00 am. So while Logic Professor was trying to make his way back to Cupboardsburg with twelve gigantic fish tacos I picked up the Plan B on my own and texted R to say I would be a little late, if that was okay with him.
Logic Professor was looking a little defeated when he got home. It reminded me of the look on his face that time he tried to kiss me on the sidewalk outside of our favorite Indian buffet. It was nighttime, and it was going to be romantic except for how awkward the execution wound up being, with me trying to pull him off to the side and him getting confused and stumbling. "I ruined it, didn't I?" he had said sadly. It was so cute I had to laugh, which might have made it worse. But that was the same look he had on his face when he walked in carrying four times the tacos he'd requested, wet from the pouring rain, half an hour late to take a ride with me to R's, an hour after I'd gotten out of the shower.
It was cute and kind of heartbreaking at the same time. What can I say? I think I go for those types.
So I scarfed down a taco or two before kissing LoPro goodbye and flying out the door to go drop off the goods with R, who was getting nervous about the time frame. After he left for band practice, he probably wouldn't be back in the city until after the emergency contraception window was closed, and he'd promised his girl that he'd take care of it. But I made it there in time; R was standing on the sidewalk drinking a beer, which I instructed him to leave on the sidewalk before giving him a ride a couple blocks over to his girl's place to drop it off. Then I dumped him on the sidewalk back at his place where the ride to band practice was waiting, and headed home.
Now R will not be a father, and I have enough fish to feed an army because my Logic Professor is an angel.
When I got out of the shower half an hour later, there was a note hanging from a long string of paper clips attached to the corner of a skylight. Gone taco fishing! it said. That's my Logic Professor. The problem was, however, that we were supposed to leave in half an hour to go drop off some Plan B for R, who is not only careless but also carless and whose ride to band practice would be there in an hour and a half- sharp.
The other problem was the street fair. Seriously: who keeps the street fair open in the rain? That's what Logic Professor wanted to know when he got to a nearby town where there was a restaurant that sold fish tacos. The street fair held him up a while.
So did the restaurant. The three tacos weren't ready when he got there, even though he'd called ahead. When they were done, he held out a twenty and was informed that it wasn't enough. WHAT?! More than twenty bucks for three tacos? No, they had misunderstood him on the phone and given him three ORDERS of tacos, complete with sides of rice and cheesy beans. Now he had nearly forty bucks worth of tacos and had to navigate back through a street fair in the rain to make it home in the next... five minutes, actually, if he was going to take the ride to R's place with me. It I went alone, by the time I got back Logic Professor would already be at work, and I wouldn't see him again until I got home at 4:00 am. So while Logic Professor was trying to make his way back to Cupboardsburg with twelve gigantic fish tacos I picked up the Plan B on my own and texted R to say I would be a little late, if that was okay with him.
Logic Professor was looking a little defeated when he got home. It reminded me of the look on his face that time he tried to kiss me on the sidewalk outside of our favorite Indian buffet. It was nighttime, and it was going to be romantic except for how awkward the execution wound up being, with me trying to pull him off to the side and him getting confused and stumbling. "I ruined it, didn't I?" he had said sadly. It was so cute I had to laugh, which might have made it worse. But that was the same look he had on his face when he walked in carrying four times the tacos he'd requested, wet from the pouring rain, half an hour late to take a ride with me to R's, an hour after I'd gotten out of the shower.
It was cute and kind of heartbreaking at the same time. What can I say? I think I go for those types.
So I scarfed down a taco or two before kissing LoPro goodbye and flying out the door to go drop off the goods with R, who was getting nervous about the time frame. After he left for band practice, he probably wouldn't be back in the city until after the emergency contraception window was closed, and he'd promised his girl that he'd take care of it. But I made it there in time; R was standing on the sidewalk drinking a beer, which I instructed him to leave on the sidewalk before giving him a ride a couple blocks over to his girl's place to drop it off. Then I dumped him on the sidewalk back at his place where the ride to band practice was waiting, and headed home.
Now R will not be a father, and I have enough fish to feed an army because my Logic Professor is an angel.
Labels: Logic Professor
Sunday, August 10, 2008
But The Kitchen Sink
It was a fun-filled night at the bar last night.
Pictures of LoPro blowing out the candles on his birthday cake and whatnot should be forthcoming, as will the Promised Pie Post. Eventually.
- I got there half an hour early. So did Twin 2 (who was joined by Twin 1 n' Co. much later in the evening). He stayed at the bar drinking while the Tall Crazy Manager and R and I went to Wawa. TCM needed OJ for the bar, R needed a sandwich to counteract many hours' worth of drinking, and I needed both unspecified snacks for myself and a sandwich for one of the regulars, Thog. During the trip to Wawa:
- R revealed that he and his girlfriend did something fun and stupid and asked me about procuring Plan B. We've all been there. Well, except my dear beloved Jo.
- I ran into one of the old bartenders from the Strippery where I was a waitress and champagne room hostess, who told me that she'd been fired for, unsurprisingly, not sucking the owner's dick.
- I got Doritos, mango slices, and a sack of Swedish Fish to use as garnishes for shots!
- We returned to the bar triumphantly, with snacks and a plan to find Plan B for Mrs. R.
- Meanwhile, back at the ranch:
- A friend who was on trial got off with only probation and no jail time; he spent the night celebrating (which is to say, violating his probation and violating it HARD).
- However, a friend of all of ours got a DUI this week, a couple days after an incident at our bar in which the people around him told him he was too drunk to drive and he insisted that he knew his car, knew how to handle it, and knew what he was capable of. "Where were you drinking the night of the DUI?" I asked. The answer doesn't matter except that it wasn't my fucking bar and I don't have to feel guilty.
- At least three guys from The Gang are either having or have just had babies, steadily building the next generation of tattooed violent skateboarding crew members. R says that while he is happy for them, he does not need to included in the trend.
- It got intensely busy, and
- at one point all three of us- Cool Manager, Tall Crazy Manager, and I- were serving. It was cute how much fun Cool Manager was having, but unnerving how well he was getting tipped. Five dollars for a shot? Five dollar tip. Four fifty for a beer? Five dollar tip. WHAT THE FUCK?! "It's because they're afraid of him," said Tall Crazy Manager.
- The door guy was on the fucking ball. The last time we worked together, he let in four kids who looked so young that I asked them for ID, even though I knew there was someone carding at the door- and they didn't have any. I kicked them out so hard they didn't even make it back to the front door, instead opting to pile out the side door and climb over the rail that surrounds our outdoor tables, and then the door guy and I quietly had it out. "I was trying to give them a break," he said. I see. Last night he carded everyone under fifty and we're cool again.
- The bar filled up with greasers and fifties-lookin' chicks from my younger sister's on-again off-again boyfriend's crew, who were seeing a show across the street. I kept getting the same question.
"This is going to sound weird, but-"
"I'm her sister," I'd interrupt.
"Oh," they'd say, and they were a ton of fucking fun and all tipped well. - Letting off some steam at last call was the best EVAR: "Last call for alcohol, you fucking motherfuckers, and that does include takeout so get it now because I'm not selling you a GODdamned thing after two o'clock, last call for alcohol!" I sure do know how to cause a run for the bar.
- Right then, Thog- the guy for whom I'd brought the sandwich back from Wawa- punched Twin 2 in the face. Nevermind the fact that he once did a shot of Bailey's and clam juice (a clamslide, as we like to call it); I am now convinced Twin 2 is the toughest motherfucker in the bar because of his reaction to the hit. I didn't see it happen, I heard it happen. It was hard enough that in a crowded, crazy bar at last call, I heard the impact of the hit and whirled around to look. It's an unmistakeable sound. But Twin 2 didn't hit Thog back. He didn't flinch, fall down, or even reach up to touch his face. He stayed standing, silently glaring at him. It was kind of scary: what the hell do you do when you hit someone who's a full head shorter than you with everything you've got, and they... just stand there? A few seconds later the door guy, Cool Manager, and Tall Crazy Manager tackled Thog and dragged him out the back door.
- Also, some drunk girl fell down a back staircase that isn't supposed to be accessable to customers, breaking her arm in several places and necessitating an ambulance. She had already been kicked out of the bar, and was going up the rickety staircase with an off-duty bouncer for graf knows what purpose. Well, I think we can all guess the purpose, and I hereby wager that she's going to sue within a month or two.
- I made a fucking killing and was cleaning and counting money until almost 4 o'clock in the morning.
- Back in our home state, Logic Professor and I went to the diner and talked about our nights. It was his birthday, and although he doesn't drink, he and a bunch of his friends went out to a bar- it's a good place to get friends together. The bar turned out to be Douchetown, USA, and there was a brawl that ended with the arrival of 10 cop cars and the premature closing of the bar.
- We fell asleep in each other's arms for the second day in a row of what will hopefully be a long, uninterrupted stretch now that Nerd Camp is finally over.
Pictures of LoPro blowing out the candles on his birthday cake and whatnot should be forthcoming, as will the Promised Pie Post. Eventually.
Labels: Cool Punk Rock B4r, Insanity, Intoxicology
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Do You Know Who You Are?
I had an interesting talk with a cool customer Wednesday afternoon. We were discussing how a person's levels of self-awareness and self-confidence tend to pass each other going in opposite directions. At the very end of the night I kicked out a customer who demonstrated this very well, having an excess of the latter and a vacuum of the former. I'm waiting to see if he comes back.
That night there was a fight outside the bar right after we'd closed. The belligerent drunk kid who'd taken off his shirt with so much show and so little reason was left sprawled bloody, shirtless and unconscious on his back in the middle of the city street; the Voice of God, who is a regular at my bar and bounces at a couple other bars, went out to stand over him for a minute to take his pulse and make sure nobody else was going to hit him- though he wasn't necessarily going to help the kid- until two men dragged the unconscious party to the sidewalk by his wrists.
The Voice of God had been finishing up his beer and waiting for the last five guys to get out of the bar. He's handy to have around at closing time, as he's far more effective at getting people out than the actual employees of the bar are. "Do you work here?" many an indignant guy has complained while being pushed out of the bar, to which the Voice of God will reply "Kind of," or "Might as well," with a shrug, or if he's not feeling kindly toward the person he's evicting, "DOES IT MATTER?" Does it matter, when a man as large as he is with a voice like James Earl Jones' is asking you to leave? No. No, it does not. Drink up, fuckers.
When it became apparent that a bunch of guys on the street were going to throw down, the five guys- who were already getting on my last nerve- stood up to watch from the window, and so did the Voice of God. Two of the guys on the street each put a hand down the front of his respective pants, and it was then that I called tVoG away from the window. I didn't care if the other five guys wound up as innocent bystanders shot in an unfortunate case ofcontinuing to stand in front of glass, which as a substance does tend to carry a reputation for being particularly bullet-permeable, while several drunk young men attempt to compare dicks and, incidentally, handguns being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
When the fight finally wound down, the Voice of God was out the door before you could say "Try not to get shot" or, alternately, "Don't open our door." After last call, the front door gets locked, and time and again people who are still finishing up their drinks will open the door and lean out onto the street to watch an end-of-the-night brawl on the sidewalk, and two bartenders, a barback, a manager and three bouncers will all yell in unison "SHUT THE FUCKING DOOR!" Like we want someone to run into our bar for safety while being pursued with a gun, for the entire conflict to move indoors, for someone to take that opportunity to come in knowing we're taking the cash out of our registers at the end of the night, for the cops to come in and ask why people are still drinking so late, for more drunk customers to wander in and make themselves comfortable when we're all trying to clean up and put up barstools. Like we need any extra work.
One of the five kids who had been finishing up their beers when they were distracted by the festivities outside, Short Frat Boy, ran after him a second later, looking like a kid brother tagging along so nobody would make the mistake of thinking of him as a puny kid who let real men take care of business, which is exactly what he was, except for the familial relationship. Seriously? What the fuck was he going to do? "I didn't see anyone running out there while they were still fighting," remarked the Cool Manager. Exactly.
The fire truck showed up a minute later- no, really- followed by the cops. "Okay, you guys need to go," I said to the remaining guys in the bar.
"Oh, shit," said the Tall Crazy Manager, who had also been at the window. He looked at the clock. Not only was it past serving time, it was past the time when everyone needed to be the fuck off the premises. "Yeah, you guys need to go."
"Okay, we're just finishing up this-"
"Last call was half an hour ago- you're finished now! The cops are here and you need to get the fuck out," I yelled. They sure did.
Why do so many people think they're an execption to the rule? Everyone wants to hang out after the bar closes, being chummy with the staff. Newsflash: the staff wants to go the fuck home. Whereas half an hour before now I'd been in a great mood, now I was pissed.
With the cops on the scene to prevent anyone from getting their head stomped in, the Voice of God headed back for the bar. He, of course, was allowed back in to collect his stuff. The kid tagging along being him? Was absolutely not.
"VOICE OF GOD," I yelled when someone opened the door to let him back in. "That kid can't be in here right now."
"Oh, dude, you need to go," he said, turning around to catch the kid.
"It's okay," Short Frat Boy reassured tVoG with a wave of his hand and as much of an air of authority as a guy my height can pull off.
"NO, IT'S NOT OKAY," I said as he walked past me to where he'd been sitting, not to retrieve a coat or anything but to pick up his beer and continue drinking.
"Just chill, Cupcake," he said, holding up a hand. And that did it. He called me Cupcake? Like we were on a first name basis? Like he was anyone who could tell me to just chill? Who did he think he was? None of us knew him. None of us even liked him. None of us had been tipped well enough by him to even PRETEND that we liked him, and here he was telling an employee of our bar who was trying ot clean up and go home to "just chill" so he could continue to drink by our front window in plain view of the cops at a time of night when it was illegal for him to even be in the bar? Who the fuck did he think he was?
I let him know exactly who he was. I don't think he'll be back when I'm working, but I'm hoping that he will be so I can continue to tell him exactly who he is. The experience ranks in the Top 5 Moments I Was Most Pissed At A Customer.
When the Cool Manager and I walked out at the end of the night, we passed a pile of bloody clothes on the sidewalk.
That night there was a fight outside the bar right after we'd closed. The belligerent drunk kid who'd taken off his shirt with so much show and so little reason was left sprawled bloody, shirtless and unconscious on his back in the middle of the city street; the Voice of God, who is a regular at my bar and bounces at a couple other bars, went out to stand over him for a minute to take his pulse and make sure nobody else was going to hit him- though he wasn't necessarily going to help the kid- until two men dragged the unconscious party to the sidewalk by his wrists.
The Voice of God had been finishing up his beer and waiting for the last five guys to get out of the bar. He's handy to have around at closing time, as he's far more effective at getting people out than the actual employees of the bar are. "Do you work here?" many an indignant guy has complained while being pushed out of the bar, to which the Voice of God will reply "Kind of," or "Might as well," with a shrug, or if he's not feeling kindly toward the person he's evicting, "DOES IT MATTER?" Does it matter, when a man as large as he is with a voice like James Earl Jones' is asking you to leave? No. No, it does not. Drink up, fuckers.
When it became apparent that a bunch of guys on the street were going to throw down, the five guys- who were already getting on my last nerve- stood up to watch from the window, and so did the Voice of God. Two of the guys on the street each put a hand down the front of his respective pants, and it was then that I called tVoG away from the window. I didn't care if the other five guys wound up as innocent bystanders shot in an unfortunate case of
When the fight finally wound down, the Voice of God was out the door before you could say "Try not to get shot" or, alternately, "Don't open our door." After last call, the front door gets locked, and time and again people who are still finishing up their drinks will open the door and lean out onto the street to watch an end-of-the-night brawl on the sidewalk, and two bartenders, a barback, a manager and three bouncers will all yell in unison "SHUT THE FUCKING DOOR!" Like we want someone to run into our bar for safety while being pursued with a gun, for the entire conflict to move indoors, for someone to take that opportunity to come in knowing we're taking the cash out of our registers at the end of the night, for the cops to come in and ask why people are still drinking so late, for more drunk customers to wander in and make themselves comfortable when we're all trying to clean up and put up barstools. Like we need any extra work.
One of the five kids who had been finishing up their beers when they were distracted by the festivities outside, Short Frat Boy, ran after him a second later, looking like a kid brother tagging along so nobody would make the mistake of thinking of him as a puny kid who let real men take care of business, which is exactly what he was, except for the familial relationship. Seriously? What the fuck was he going to do? "I didn't see anyone running out there while they were still fighting," remarked the Cool Manager. Exactly.
The fire truck showed up a minute later- no, really- followed by the cops. "Okay, you guys need to go," I said to the remaining guys in the bar.
"Oh, shit," said the Tall Crazy Manager, who had also been at the window. He looked at the clock. Not only was it past serving time, it was past the time when everyone needed to be the fuck off the premises. "Yeah, you guys need to go."
"Okay, we're just finishing up this-"
"Last call was half an hour ago- you're finished now! The cops are here and you need to get the fuck out," I yelled. They sure did.
Why do so many people think they're an execption to the rule? Everyone wants to hang out after the bar closes, being chummy with the staff. Newsflash: the staff wants to go the fuck home. Whereas half an hour before now I'd been in a great mood, now I was pissed.
With the cops on the scene to prevent anyone from getting their head stomped in, the Voice of God headed back for the bar. He, of course, was allowed back in to collect his stuff. The kid tagging along being him? Was absolutely not.
"VOICE OF GOD," I yelled when someone opened the door to let him back in. "That kid can't be in here right now."
"Oh, dude, you need to go," he said, turning around to catch the kid.
"It's okay," Short Frat Boy reassured tVoG with a wave of his hand and as much of an air of authority as a guy my height can pull off.
"NO, IT'S NOT OKAY," I said as he walked past me to where he'd been sitting, not to retrieve a coat or anything but to pick up his beer and continue drinking.
"Just chill, Cupcake," he said, holding up a hand. And that did it. He called me Cupcake? Like we were on a first name basis? Like he was anyone who could tell me to just chill? Who did he think he was? None of us knew him. None of us even liked him. None of us had been tipped well enough by him to even PRETEND that we liked him, and here he was telling an employee of our bar who was trying ot clean up and go home to "just chill" so he could continue to drink by our front window in plain view of the cops at a time of night when it was illegal for him to even be in the bar? Who the fuck did he think he was?
I let him know exactly who he was. I don't think he'll be back when I'm working, but I'm hoping that he will be so I can continue to tell him exactly who he is. The experience ranks in the Top 5 Moments I Was Most Pissed At A Customer.
When the Cool Manager and I walked out at the end of the night, we passed a pile of bloody clothes on the sidewalk.
Labels: Cool Punk Rock B4r
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Qur'an Around The Clock
Yesterday my mom and I went out to lunch and to the bookstore, where we picked up matching copies of the Qur'an so we can read independently and then get together to discuss it each week. We sorted out our respective financial responsibilities over lunch: she'd buy the pasta, I'd pick up the Islamic holy books. It's not an everyday arrangement, to be sure, but how many Qur'ans do you really need? I wouldn't expect it to come up often.
I'm done my preliminary read through the first, second, and fifth surahs, and my respect and appreciation for Islam have already increased a thousandfold.
While we were at the bookstore, I also picked up a book called "Croc Around The Clock (with clickety clock hands)" to help JQ learn to tell time. I look forward to talking about clocks help us know what time of day it is, especially as it relates to ritual prayer.
Currently I have a pie in the oven for Logic Professor. As soon as it comes out of the oven I'll be hopping in the shower to scrape off the barnacles, then driving out to Nerd Camp to see him. Speaking of pie-baking, there are more pie contest winners, pictures to be posted and tiny pie-trophies to be sent out!
I'm done my preliminary read through the first, second, and fifth surahs, and my respect and appreciation for Islam have already increased a thousandfold.
While we were at the bookstore, I also picked up a book called "Croc Around The Clock (with clickety clock hands)" to help JQ learn to tell time. I look forward to talking about clocks help us know what time of day it is, especially as it relates to ritual prayer.
Currently I have a pie in the oven for Logic Professor. As soon as it comes out of the oven I'll be hopping in the shower to scrape off the barnacles, then driving out to Nerd Camp to see him. Speaking of pie-baking, there are more pie contest winners, pictures to be posted and tiny pie-trophies to be sent out!
Labels: Pie, Product Endorsements
Monday, August 4, 2008
Thankfully The Last Time This Will Happen
Well, it's 4:30 in the morning and Logic Professor just left for another week of Nerd Camp. Thank graf this is the last week. This time I made sure to get up and walk him to the door to avoid any more tragic crying-into-the-sparkling-cider incidents. Last week I was sick, and after he'd kissed me goodbye in bed and walked out of the room, I realized how thirsty I was, and thought about asking him to bring me a cup of juice before he left. But I was tired and disoriented, and by the time I decided that I should ask for something to drink and had called his name, he was already gone. Suddenly I wanted another hug, and I jumped out of bed to see if I could catch him. It ended in tears over the sparkling cider we'd bought to drink on the roof while watching the stars (which we didn't get to do, because the night of the planned star-watching I'd fallen asleep way early like THE ASSHOLE THAT I AM).
In place of sparkling cider, this week I have po-j (pineapple orange juice) and black forest cake. Twin 2, my baking buddy, brought the cake over yesterday afternoon. The cake was actually for Logic Professor.
Saturday night when I got to work I found the Tall Crazy Manager glassy-eyed and miserable; he had an ear infection and wasn't going to get to a doctor anytime soon. I admit that my motives were 75% selfish when I texted Logic Professor and asked him to see if the antibiotics I was given for MY last ear infection were still in the bathroom closet. By the time I'd dragged my ear-infected ass to the doctor it seemed to be clearing up on its own, so I'd squirreled away the amoxicillin for a rainy day.
I think LoPro had the same idea I did because he was quite enthusiastic about having to drop off the drugs for TCM. Really we just wanted to see each other.
So LoPro came up to the bar and hung out for the last couple hours we were open. Twin 2 was there and already in the "I love you guys" stage of drunkenness, and would have bought my boyfriend a shot but for the fact that LoPro doesn't drink. He then tried to buy LoPro a bottle of water, but LoPro was getting that for free from the bartender. Finally he attempted to buy LoPro a slice of pizza, but my boyfriend had just eaten. Twin 2 would not be defeated in his drunken quest to extend an olive branch, however, and decided to bake LoPro a cake. He left the bar at 2:30 and was awake by 6 A.M. ("I can't sleep when I'm drunk," he said). That's how he found himself baking a black forest cake at 7 A.M., still drunk, confused, and having forgotten why he'd started baking.
Thankfully he remembered and dropped the cake off that afternoon. Logic Professor's friendship cake is delicious. There is a slight chance that associating this delicious cake with my boyfriend leaving for Nerd Camp will ruin everything black-foresty for me.
This week is a little better than previous weeks because rather than leaving home at 11:00 at night and sleeping at Nerd Camp, he slept here first and got up to leave early in the morning instead. This way I got to fall asleep in his arms last night. Still, it's hard. I'm not looking forward to going back to our empty bed by myself. Let this be a lesson to me the next time I decide to run away with the circus or do anything else that would involve being away from LoPro for more than 24 hours at a stretch.
I can't wait for our life to be back to normal.
In place of sparkling cider, this week I have po-j (pineapple orange juice) and black forest cake. Twin 2, my baking buddy, brought the cake over yesterday afternoon. The cake was actually for Logic Professor.
Saturday night when I got to work I found the Tall Crazy Manager glassy-eyed and miserable; he had an ear infection and wasn't going to get to a doctor anytime soon. I admit that my motives were 75% selfish when I texted Logic Professor and asked him to see if the antibiotics I was given for MY last ear infection were still in the bathroom closet. By the time I'd dragged my ear-infected ass to the doctor it seemed to be clearing up on its own, so I'd squirreled away the amoxicillin for a rainy day.
I think LoPro had the same idea I did because he was quite enthusiastic about having to drop off the drugs for TCM. Really we just wanted to see each other.
So LoPro came up to the bar and hung out for the last couple hours we were open. Twin 2 was there and already in the "I love you guys" stage of drunkenness, and would have bought my boyfriend a shot but for the fact that LoPro doesn't drink. He then tried to buy LoPro a bottle of water, but LoPro was getting that for free from the bartender. Finally he attempted to buy LoPro a slice of pizza, but my boyfriend had just eaten. Twin 2 would not be defeated in his drunken quest to extend an olive branch, however, and decided to bake LoPro a cake. He left the bar at 2:30 and was awake by 6 A.M. ("I can't sleep when I'm drunk," he said). That's how he found himself baking a black forest cake at 7 A.M., still drunk, confused, and having forgotten why he'd started baking.
Thankfully he remembered and dropped the cake off that afternoon. Logic Professor's friendship cake is delicious. There is a slight chance that associating this delicious cake with my boyfriend leaving for Nerd Camp will ruin everything black-foresty for me.
This week is a little better than previous weeks because rather than leaving home at 11:00 at night and sleeping at Nerd Camp, he slept here first and got up to leave early in the morning instead. This way I got to fall asleep in his arms last night. Still, it's hard. I'm not looking forward to going back to our empty bed by myself. Let this be a lesson to me the next time I decide to run away with the circus or do anything else that would involve being away from LoPro for more than 24 hours at a stretch.
I can't wait for our life to be back to normal.
Labels: Logic Professor, Lovelife
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Four Quotes From My Nephew
Clutching a chocolate Munchkin: "It's a doughnut baby and it CAN'T BE EATED."
Upon finding a dead cicada on the back step:
JQ: Why did the cicada die?
CUP: I guess it got old.
J: Grandma gets old. Is she going to die now?
C: (horrified) N-no... not for a long time, honey.
J: When?
C: Probably not until you're a grownup.
J: Okay!
After we had been windexing the mirror and fish tank:
J: WinDEX, winDEX, winDEX! That's the winDEX song.
C: I like it! Sing some more.
J: winDEXwinDEXwinDEXWINDEXWINDEX (runs over and thumps fish tank)
C: Don't hit the tank! You'll scare the fish. Look, they're all scared.
J: Are they crying?
C: I... don't know. Do fish cry?
J: Yes.
C: How can you tell? The tears must blend in with the water.
J: (confidently) They're crying.
While windexing the back door: "Let's take a coffee break."
Upon finding a dead cicada on the back step:
JQ: Why did the cicada die?
CUP: I guess it got old.
J: Grandma gets old. Is she going to die now?
C: (horrified) N-no... not for a long time, honey.
J: When?
C: Probably not until you're a grownup.
J: Okay!
After we had been windexing the mirror and fish tank:
J: WinDEX, winDEX, winDEX! That's the winDEX song.
C: I like it! Sing some more.
J: winDEXwinDEXwinDEXWINDEXWINDEX (runs over and thumps fish tank)
C: Don't hit the tank! You'll scare the fish. Look, they're all scared.
J: Are they crying?
C: I... don't know. Do fish cry?
J: Yes.
C: How can you tell? The tears must blend in with the water.
J: (confidently) They're crying.
While windexing the back door: "Let's take a coffee break."
Labels: Dr. Thumbscre.ws
