… you'd best learn to bite down and suck hard, because your chances of ending up with lemonade are slim and none.
(This lesson in socioeconomics has been brought to you by the letter F and the number U, and was made possible by a grant from the Consortium for the Bitterly Laid Off. Tune in next week for another exciting episode. No twins were harmed in the creation of this photography.)
(Dinner at Castle TwoBusy. The Hurricane and Rabbit have already decamped to greener pastures, leaving behind debris-strewn plates and cups crusty with Nestlé Quik residue. TheWife sits quietly in her chair, swirling a half-full (or is it half-empty?) glass of New Zealand Pinot Noir, pondering the day that was. TwoBusy is hunched over his place setting, his arm wrapped protectively around the front of his bowl, looking very much like a prisoner wary of a shanking. Butterfly sits happily on her chair, head bobbing from side to side to the rhythm of some unheard song, shoveling the last of the night's share of Hallowe'en Skittles into her mouth.)
Butterfly (as she finishes tasting the rainbow): "I'm done!"
(She hops off her chair, then immediately bends over to pick something up. Two seconds later, her head pops back up above table level. In her hands, she holds Hamilton the stuffed tiger. She is holding him upside-down — his black t-shirt hangs loosely over his face, his tail droops over his back, and his legs stick straight up in the air.)
Butterfly (looking down at Hamilton's exposed flank): "Yuck! A butt!"
TwoBusy (suddenly coming thisclose to shooting beef stew out of his nose, bursts into hysterical, choking bursts of laughter): "Oh. My. God."
TheWife (looking warily over the top of her wine glass): "That would be your daughter."
(curtain)
One more place. One more memory.
6. Southern Maine — 2000
We are gathered here together, in the growing cool of this evening, to witness something spectacular. To fill our lungs with the salt on the breeze, the faint sweetness of sugars growing heavy in the leaves, the garlands of bright and brilliant flowers fading into periphery as you come into focus and walk down the aisle. White dress. Orange-red hair. The grass, green and lush beneath your feet. The sky shifting into deeper and deeper shades of blue. Your lips are pursed, as if you are trying to hold back a smile.
Your father holds your hand, looking proud and proper. I follow his gaze, and see your mother — she is radiant with joy, eyes wide and smile wider. And then I look one step beyond, and see him seeing you: a man witnessing his bride in full bridal splendor, and helpless to do anything other than break into a great grin of pure, dumb happiness.
I have known you for a long time, and from the beginning I have known how you longed for someone to share your life with. (I get that. I've always gotten that. Which may be a reason why we became friends so quickly, and remained friends for so long.) And as I look at him standing there – rented tux, hair tied back, one hand holding the other steady – I think: and there he is. You created an archetype, sent out to central casting… and here, today, more than a decade later, he has arrived.
When you come to the front of the aisle, he takes your hands. Holds them for a minute. Smiles at you, and you smile back at him. Then you turn together toward the Reverend, and wait for him to begin speaking. In one hand, you hold a bouquet. In the other, you hold his hand. Two best friends, helping each other get through this thing in once piece.
(I can't stop smiling as I watch, and as I look around me I see that most of your friends have the same expression on their faces: This is wonderful.)
The Reverend speaks for a minute or two, and then says something to the effect of, "And now, a reading." And TheWife looks at me and squeezes my hand, and I mutter "showtime" and stand up and walk to the front.
I've never enjoyed speaking in front of groups, but when you'd asked me to do a reading for your wedding… well, hell: of course. And when you asked me to help you find the right thing – the very right thing, just for your wedding – I took it as a task of honor. I spent dozens of hours reading, and researching, and working for an answer. In the end, I offered you four choices. No titles, no attributions: just four options.
You read them all together. And in the end, you said, "This one is perfect. This is what we want to hear." And I hemmed and hawed and tried to talk you out of it, because I was suddenly terribly embarrassed, because the one you chose was the one I wrote but didn't tell you I wrote, and never should have even offered, but there it was and you chose it without ever knowing what it was. So…
So.
So I walk to the front, until I'm standing where the Reverend had been standing. The two of you, the wedding party behind you, then the seated guests fanning out behind… all pointed like an arrow directly at me. Bullseye. I take a deep breath, then look at you both. You look happy, and nervous. I flash you a quick smile, and ask, "How ya doin'?" You both laugh, and say good. I nod my head, unfold the sheet of paper I've been holding in my hand, and then begin reading.
It is a small life. I didn’t ask for more.
But when I thought of love
I thought of something weightless and wondrous
and quick, like a taste of honeysuckle on wind —
once angular, then soft,
warm and crystalline
brittle and alive with the tensile strength to bend steel
melt stone
or crush coal to diamonds.
I had no idea
that somewhere in a city brushed with emerald and
thick with rain
there could be a finer answer.
One that said “love” is not enough
but that deep between the pines and beyond the islands
there might be words
big enough to capture this
life
this bold hope
this breathless rush of blood and adrenaline
and suddenly all I can think is
of the Mississippi, a few years back
when in what seemed like a heartbeat
the twisting miles of surging, swirling
brown and blue motion tore free of
the levees, the dams,
rose beyond the breakwaters and victory gardens
to embrace a new world of earth and wood,
and with an exuberance and fury most
eyes had never seen
brought seascape to land that had never known the sea.
I think: I know how that feels.
I have found a river of my own,
bounded only by gardens of sound and light,
and the promise of you.
There is nothing to hold me back.
Let’s begin.
Then it is over. My heart is pounding wildly in my chest. I fold the paper in half, and look up.
You are crying. Happy crying.
And I am so happy for you.
Another place. Another memory.
5. Outside Dublin, Ireland — 1994
Dusk. Maybe a bit afterwards. I am walking alone on a road, listening to the city bus as it pulls away from my stop. Moving on. It brushes past me, and for a moment I am illuminated by the soft fluorescent glow of its interior, a figure bathed in passing light diffused through flickering rhomboid frames. Then it is gone, and the growing darkness of the evening gathers around me like a blanket. I may be lost, but I am unworried. It is a comforting, strange feeling.
It is Ireland. And while I don't know this slice of the island as I know others — the streets and pubs of another city still feel fresh and real in my mind, a mental map rich with peet smoke and warm memories — I cannot feel concerned. Somewhere ahead of me is a hotel. (I think.) Inside of which is a large, black suitcase, which I have spent the better part of a week filling with treasures. Small things. Stones and baubles, fine cut glass and thick, woolly sweaters. In my hand, safely wrapped in a plastic bag, is another: the softest, most elegant and beautiful scarf in the entire country. I know, because I have looked. It will look perfect wrapped loosely around your neck, framing your pale face.
I am alone, and I am in love.
I walk slowly on the road, my hands pushed deeply into the pockets of my coat. I didn't remember being this cold here, at this time of year. Funny, the details that slip away. I imagine my hand in yours, and smile when I think of how cold you'd be — your arms pulled fast against your body, your hands clutched in fists clutched in gloves, your grip so tight on mine. I smile when I think of you here. I have so much I want to show you.
I imagine you, back in Boston. Sleeping, when I think of it. Evening near Dublin = dead of night in New England. Time becomes slippery, when oceans separate your mind and body. I wish myself there, you here, us together.
I do not suspect the growing doubts in your mind. The worries, and anxieties. That all of this is a happiness you do not feel you deserve. I imagine you only dreaming of me, warmed by thick blankets and the promise of my return. It is a wonderful thought. I smile again, and as the darkness grows around me I pick up my pace a bit. I am alone, but I think I know where I am going. I follow the road where it leads.
(post title swiped from here.)
They say it's one of the things that can keep a marriage healthy. In any case, hope you and yours had an appropriately spooky and sugar-saturated one…
(Scene: dinner in the newly-painted dining room at Castle TwoBusy. All five members of Clan TwoBusy are huddled around the table, consuming their roast beast with great and vigorous passion… except for Butterfly, who is busily describing what she learned in school that day.)
Butterfly (karate chopping on hand into the palm of the other): "This is how you say stop…"
Butterfly (wrapping one index finger around the other, then switching finger positions and repeating): "And this is how you say friend…"
TheWife and TwoBusy: (chewing but intrigued)
Butterfly (doing something with her thumb and her face): "And this is how you say boy!"
TheWife: "Sweetie, that's terrific! Who taught you that?"
Butterfly: "Miss (daycare lady whose name I've already forgotten)… and this (doing another finger/face thing) means thank you!"
TheWIfe (turning to me, beaming with pride): "Isn't that incredible? She's so smart!"
TwoBusy: "You know, if you were deaf and you broke your hands… that would totally suck."
TheWife (glaring at me with the white-hot hatred of a thousand blazing suns for a full minute)
TwoBusy: "Am I wrong?"
TheWife (long pause, then): "You can stop talking now."
(curtain)
My baby takes the morning train. She works from 8 to 5:30, and then she takes another home again… to find this waiting for her:
(as swiped and then gently modified from the terrific San Francisco Chronicle Cookbook…)
PASTA SAUCE WITH VODKA
Ingredients
2 white or yellow onions, diced
6 (+/-) cloves of garlic, chopped
2+ TB olive oil
Kosher Salt
Fresh-ground black pepper
3/4 Cup vodka, mixed with 1 TB vinegar (I use white vinegar)
2 lbs. lean ground beef
2 large cans tomatoes (I prefer fire roasted – thanks, Whole Foods – and use 1 can of crushed and 1 drained can of diced)
6oz (+/-) mushrooms, cleaned and diced (I use portobellos)
Basil
Tobasco
Directions
1. Heat olive oil in a large pot (high heat), then saute diced onions and garlic until limp (10ish minutes). As you saute them, add lots of salt and fresh-ground black pepper.
2. After about 10 minutes, add 1/3 of the vodka mix and stir. Let it reduce to a glaze over the onions/garlic, then add 1/3 more… repeat the process until you've used and reduced it all.
3. Add your beef and saute until browned.
4. Add tomatoes, mushrooms, a few shakes of basil, a few healthy splashes of tobasco, more salt and pepper, and maybe a splash more vodka for good measure. (Go on… do it. Do it. It builds character. Trust me.)
5. Simmer for 2-3 hours. Generally, the longer you let it simmer, the better it becomes. Feel free to add seasoning (and feel free to define "seasoning" however you see fit) to your taste.
6. As it simmers, sit next to the phone and wait for someone to call and offer you a job. (This part is optional—at least, it is for most people.)
Serve over hearty pasta… something wide and solid enough to really hold the sauce. A little bread and a bottle of red wine are also probably a good idea. (But that's almost always the case.)
Um… yeah. That's it. I know: these posts suck. Sorry.
In lieu of actual content, I've decided to present you with the illusion of entertainment in the form of your old friend and mine… the high school meme. (Courtesy of my sister and brother-in-law, albeit without their knowledge.) Please use only as directed.
1. Who was your best friend?
My best friend was my sister! We used to do each other's hair, apply Lee Press-On Nails, and talk about New Kids on the Block until all hours of the morning! Oh, wait… that was someone else. Never mind. I guess the appropriate answer actually lies in two guys I'm still friends with now—the recently be-twinned Angus and my crazed artist friend Shinowski.
2. What sports did you play?
Soccer and whiffle ball. And badminton. Really hardcore, badass badminton. The sport of kings.
3. What kind of car did you drive?
A sky blue 1979 Chevy Malibu Classic, which featured a speedometer that didn't actually work above 35 mph and semi-detached ceiling uphostery, which meant that there was a great gaseous light blue bubble of fabric the size of half a beach ball that hung off the ceiling and down over the driver's seat. Sexy, sexy car.
4. It's Friday night, where were you at?
First, don't end a sentence with a preposition. It's unseemly. Secondly… probably in my girlfriend's basement. But we won't talk about that.
5. Were you a party animal?
Ha! Uh… no. Only in the most low-key manner possible.
6. Were you considered a flirt?
Despite my best efforts, that would be a solid no.
7. Ever skip school?
Only once — for Senior Skip Day! Omigod, you guys, it was like, soooo cool! We, like, all drove down to the Cape, and hung out by my friend's pool, and then I threw this guy into the pool because he was hitting on my girlfriend and, beyond that, was pretty annoying, and he got all mad, but he, like, didn't do anything about it because he knew I was looking for an excuse to hurt him. Omigod, it was, like, just craaaaazy. You should've been there!
8. Ever smoke?
No. The surgeon general said it was a bad idea, and I was raised to respect my surgeon general.
9. Were you a nerd?
Only on the inside.
10. Did you get suspended/expelled?
Ha! No. Law-abiding youth, I was.
11. Can you sing the Alma Mater?
Honestly, if there was a school song, I was unaware of it. Ignorance is bliss.
12. Who was your favorite teacher?
My senior year Poly Sci teacher, who inspired me toward the heights of academic excellence before my 50-page term paper on the 1988 presidential election caused him a heart attack. Thereby more or less ending my affiliation with him.
13. Favorite class?
English. Reading is fundamental, y'all.
14. Did you go to the Prom?
Yes, although for the life of me I can't remember anything about the senior prom. Seriously… I'm not trying to be evasive. I know I wore a tux with black Chuck Taylor high tops… I know I went with my girlfriend… and I have absolutely no idea where it was or what took place. What the hell is wrong with me?
15. If you could go back and do it over, would you?
Yes — and this time, I'd rule with an iron fist.
16. What do you remember most about graduation?
Actually, I don't remember anything about my graduation, either. How is that possible? I'm pretty sure I graduated.
17. Favorite memory of your senior year?
Given that I seem to have blanked out much of what transpired that year, I'll stick with the first time I walked the campus of my future college and thought, "hey — this seems pretty nice. I could do this."
18. Were you ever posted up on the senior wall?
What the hell is a senior wall? Who are you people?
19. Did you have a job your senior year?
CVS, bitch. Stockin'. Cashierin'. Rockin' the aisles old school.
20. Who did you date?
Ah, well… that would be my high school girlfriend, who was 6' tall, very rich, and who would ultimately tear my heart into tiny, bloody pieces like a pack of hyenas shredding a wounded baby antelope. Good times.
21. Where did you go most often for lunch?
The cool kids' table in the cafeteria.
(laughing hysterically)
22. Have you gained weight since then?
This is a cruel and, presumably, rhetorical question. Let's move on.
23. What did you do after graduation?
I went to college, where I survived the hyena attack referenced in question #20, fled to Ireland, learned to drink, and then came back and met TheGirlWhoWouldBecomeTheWife. The end.
Okay, so that was completely pointless. But please, by all means… feel free to waste your own time along similar lines. Be my guest. (And let me know if you do.)
As I apparently feel a compulsive need to share my accomplishments with the world, I offer the following before and after photos of my freshly painted dining room. (To go with the new table, chairs and rug — all purchased back in the days when paychecks fell from the sky like rain.) Coming soon: Roman shades.