Finally, I have an observation...
...that is not succinct enough to post to Twitter, and not too private to be relegated to the paper journal or an e-mail to a friend. These things are rare these days, my friends.
I hosted Jess for brunch today. I'm a terrible breakfast eater these days (worse if you know what a nag I can be about the importance of that meal); do I need to make breakfast for someone every morning to make sure that I eat it myself? (If you're local and I don't hate you and you're willing to take me up on this, please! Let me know! If you're not local and/or I hate you, SHUT UP please thanks!) Made cornmeal pancakes, spread with chevre and honey and fruit she brought from the produce stand on Hawthorne, plus the cantaloupe Jenndolan brought over last night. Scrambled a few eggs with cheddar, tossed them with fresh arugula from my garden. We split a pitcher of mimosas (OK, Matthias helped) and stretched our toes out on the porch and giggled. We hadn't seen each other (and she couldn't receive incoming texts! and had limited access to the Internet! translation: WORST THING EVER) in two weeks. Two eventful weeks. (We had to send Matthias away for a certain portion of the gossip. He was, I think, glad to go.)
Then, dinner fell together: Martin texted asking for a chore assignment. I asked him to come over and help make dinner. Kim came home after a manic spree at the farmer's market downtown. Matthew made a lemony herby fava bean salad appetizer; Kim made a green bean salad with almonds and a mustard vinaigrette, and caprese salad; Martin and I made strawberry shortcake with lemon curd. Ariel called and announced she was hungry. I told her to come over. We ate, we stressed about the rather-poorly-written shortcake recipe that nonetheless turned out delicious. We had a round of cocktails. We caught up. Jenndolan came over after dinner with blueberries. One by one, we drifted off to our beds.
So there is a bit more than this going on in my life. As I told Ariel a few weeks ago, on my porch on a warm night, I don't know what I have to say to this audience anymore. The small of it is so much better shared over mimosas on the porch with one or two others, or across crowded rooms, or in my damn notebook, or in an IM chat window, or tightened into 140 characters and spat to Twitter and Facebook. Some of the large of it, too. And it seems anything that doesn't fit any of the above might as well get writ up over at my long-neglected public-facing blog. The one my father finds when he Googles me. You know, after the essay about me masturbating in the bathtub.
The truth is that I have nightmares still. And bone-cold moments, night sweats, nasty reminders that she really isn't ever coming back. And too many days when I listen to the voice that tells me getting out of bed is kind of a shitty idea. And I'm jobless and broke. And my goddamn cat's dying. And I feel less and less capable of that thing called A Normal, Committed Relationship all the time (upshot: I also feel less and less interested). And all manner of other things suck so hard I can barely breathe sometimes.
But you know? Most of the time, I can't think of a way to describe my daily life that doesn't sound like gloating. Look at me, in my gorgeous craftsman home in my gorgeous city, cooking and eating fucking terrific food (some of which I grew! Because I have enough space to have a goddamn garden!) with terrific fucking people, and watching drunk punks and families and jugglers and basketball players in the park across the street instead of television! Look at me, I'm young! I'm (mostly) healthy! I'm desired! I'm trusted! I'm cared about! I have awesome cats who love me so much I sometimes wish they'd take up video poker or something and leave me the fuck alone!
Translation: I may not have everything I want, but everything I do have is something I've wanted for a long time. Fuck.
I hosted Jess for brunch today. I'm a terrible breakfast eater these days (worse if you know what a nag I can be about the importance of that meal); do I need to make breakfast for someone every morning to make sure that I eat it myself? (If you're local and I don't hate you and you're willing to take me up on this, please! Let me know! If you're not local and/or I hate you, SHUT UP please thanks!) Made cornmeal pancakes, spread with chevre and honey and fruit she brought from the produce stand on Hawthorne, plus the cantaloupe Jenndolan brought over last night. Scrambled a few eggs with cheddar, tossed them with fresh arugula from my garden. We split a pitcher of mimosas (OK, Matthias helped) and stretched our toes out on the porch and giggled. We hadn't seen each other (and she couldn't receive incoming texts! and had limited access to the Internet! translation: WORST THING EVER) in two weeks. Two eventful weeks. (We had to send Matthias away for a certain portion of the gossip. He was, I think, glad to go.)
Then, dinner fell together: Martin texted asking for a chore assignment. I asked him to come over and help make dinner. Kim came home after a manic spree at the farmer's market downtown. Matthew made a lemony herby fava bean salad appetizer; Kim made a green bean salad with almonds and a mustard vinaigrette, and caprese salad; Martin and I made strawberry shortcake with lemon curd. Ariel called and announced she was hungry. I told her to come over. We ate, we stressed about the rather-poorly-written shortcake recipe that nonetheless turned out delicious. We had a round of cocktails. We caught up. Jenndolan came over after dinner with blueberries. One by one, we drifted off to our beds.
So there is a bit more than this going on in my life. As I told Ariel a few weeks ago, on my porch on a warm night, I don't know what I have to say to this audience anymore. The small of it is so much better shared over mimosas on the porch with one or two others, or across crowded rooms, or in my damn notebook, or in an IM chat window, or tightened into 140 characters and spat to Twitter and Facebook. Some of the large of it, too. And it seems anything that doesn't fit any of the above might as well get writ up over at my long-neglected public-facing blog. The one my father finds when he Googles me. You know, after the essay about me masturbating in the bathtub.
The truth is that I have nightmares still. And bone-cold moments, night sweats, nasty reminders that she really isn't ever coming back. And too many days when I listen to the voice that tells me getting out of bed is kind of a shitty idea. And I'm jobless and broke. And my goddamn cat's dying. And I feel less and less capable of that thing called A Normal, Committed Relationship all the time (upshot: I also feel less and less interested). And all manner of other things suck so hard I can barely breathe sometimes.
But you know? Most of the time, I can't think of a way to describe my daily life that doesn't sound like gloating. Look at me, in my gorgeous craftsman home in my gorgeous city, cooking and eating fucking terrific food (some of which I grew! Because I have enough space to have a goddamn garden!) with terrific fucking people, and watching drunk punks and families and jugglers and basketball players in the park across the street instead of television! Look at me, I'm young! I'm (mostly) healthy! I'm desired! I'm trusted! I'm cared about! I have awesome cats who love me so much I sometimes wish they'd take up video poker or something and leave me the fuck alone!
Translation: I may not have everything I want, but everything I do have is something I've wanted for a long time. Fuck.