30 June 2009

The Things I Can't Do Alone

The move from our our awful, depressing, one-bedroom apartment in "up-and-coming" MacArthur Park to our cozy, cared-for, 2 bedroom home in Mt. Washington has provided a wealth of blog material, which I'm sure will be evinced in upcoming entries. For now though, I am most surprised by my reliance on my not-husband. Moving is stressful; as a number of our close friends can attest to, stressful situations can bring out the asshole in both Seth and I. We've had our moments over the last few days: the awkward silences, the swallowed criticism, and the criticism we couldn't let go unvoiced. But today I was putting away dishes (well, my version of putting away dishes), and I had one of those moments of clarity that make you realize why you put up with it all.

Taylor: Honey. I made it through a whole box.
Seth: uh, good. Me too.
Taylor: (starting next box of kitchen stuff) Ugh, how do you put away pots and pans?
Seth: What do you mean?
Taylor: How do you put away pots and pans?
Seth: You just put them away. On a shelf.
Taylor: No, I know. But how?

I know it's simple. Anyone should be able to do it, but I can't put away pots and pans...or utensils...or office supplies...or clothing. I'm daunted by organizing the objects in my immediate life. I love when everything is neatly in its place-I have a strange sense of awe and appreciation for precisely situated and tidy belongings-but I am incapable of organizing.

I look around me and each unpacked box feels like a symbol of my willingness to settle. I close my eyes and see a beautiful new home around me, and then I open them and see towers of opened moving boxes, piles of memorabilia, saved mementos, and dirty laundry. And I realize that things would remain right where they are for months if it weren't for Seth. I guess I love him for that.

I think I'm turning over a new leaf. Maybe.

25 June 2009

Death and stuff (a story of loss that is not about Michael Jackson)

Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett are dead. And I am at home, alone with my dog, crying. I am not emotional because I am a fan of MJ or Fawcett, but because their deaths remind of the fragility of the stupid, mortal human body. I'm not sad because they are dead, but because they remind me that my friends and loved ones could be.

Premature death is no stranger to my family. I normally push these thoughts to the back of my mind, but now the television, radio, and internet will not let me forget that our bodies will all inevitably succumb to the call of mortality, and I think about my poor , young brother Charlie (R.I.P 1993), my grandma Patsy (R.I.P. 1997) , and my Aunt Vicky (R.I.P. 1999). I have my nose buried into the tiny little spot behind Tula's ear; it's wet because I can't help but think about the fact that there will be a day when I cannot smell her salty, sweet, doggie scent, which I have come to adore. Tears run down my cheeks. Tula is unusually docile and loving as she bears her belly and licks at my chin. And then she farts. I know that she has farted because her butt is resting on my arm and I can feel the wind on my arm hairs. I burst out laugh-crying, and then, suddenly, I weep.

23 June 2009

thoughts, musings, and arts.

When Seth first asked me what we would possibly include in our blog, I, aided by 3-7 beers, told him, "thoughts, musings, and arts." (of course!) I guess it's my turn to fulfill our oBLOGations (he he he!):

Thoughts: I have to call the moving guys today ugh I hate moving Do I have to pack everything tonight I should just wait and pack it all on Thursday night I can have "alone time" for three nights and pack on Thursday There's not THAT much left to pack I can totally do it the night before Seth gets home ehhhh I'll do that and then for some reason I won't be able to pack on Thursday night and then Seth will come back and say so what packing did you do while I was gone Just pack a little tonight Why do you always procrastinate Stop it with the packing already - you'll be fine Just pack some stuff tonight and you'll be so relieved if it's all ready to go Tula hates me right now I GOTTA walk her when I get home I wonder if she actually watches TV when we are gone or if she just sleeps or attempts to eat cardboard Sonny With A Chance is actually not that bad it's really good kids programming I don't think this molding paste is all that special My hair just flattens by 11AM anyway Did Emily get my email I sent it to the right address I think Maybe she's just using a different address now I should tweet more ughh I hate updating things I should learn photoshop I bet I could golf if I tried I wish I could fart in my office

Musings: Now that Manny Ramirez is back in the mix, I am going to have to refer to him in conversations with other baseball fans. By what humorous name do I call him? There are several options:

A. Manny "Tub-o-lard" Ramirez
B. That fat tub-o-lard
C. Manny TUBirez (that may rely on vocal performance way too much for my lazy self)
D. Ol' Tubby
E. Just call him "Manny" and forget that he's a fat-ass, steroid using, crowd pleasing, piece of saturated shit-fat who can't steal a base to save his life - just revel in his home run count and shut the eff up. Go Dodgers!

(body)Arts: I think tattoo number 2 is going to be on my left inner arm:

Not so sure about the ubiquitous and ugly courier font, but it will be something like this. I will have to constantly remind people that Chekhov was really a comedian, but I'm okay with that.

Hearing Voices in the Heartland

It's not an exact science, and certainly not predictable. As with most relationship phenomena, things happen at a pace all their own. But given enough time, there will come a day when you wake up with two voices in your head. Like an old bar television used for Keno around the clock, it's burned into the mind's ear; snickering with you at the wall-eyed woman who fell across the street from you, pointing out that Italian restaurant you should both try, reminding you that there's another beer in the fridge and could you bring it to me on your way back from the kitchen? 

This, as you might imagine (or know of already), is quite a nuisance. Because now you have three voices to contend with-the two in your head and his "real" one (and, if you're like most of us, an occasional fourth voice when company is over and you have to speak eloquently and remember not to tell that joke about the prostitute having a laparotomy). 

In the beginning it's horrendous-you can barely carry on a civil conversation. Think of those cell phone calls that send your own voice back to you. You're caught in this one-sided echoing chaos chamber. The conversation is barely intelligible, but the madness is a private one unless you let the other person know what's happening and end the call.

The common result is that you trim the fat and start having the conversations internally, consequently ending actual conversation altogether. You don't really notice the silence.

But then, one night, when you're all alone in a defunct condo turned hotel suite in Lincoln, Nebraska, drinking cheap wine and staring at the stain on the ceiling, you hear a familiar voice calling your name. Without thinking you turn around and look into the kitchenette and-ah, there it is, that pang of appreciation and gratitude for that noisy mental invader.

Taylor: Seth...someone left a jar of relish in the fridge!

20 June 2009

I apologize for the prefixes

This will only be a micro-post, and on top of that, a bit of a meta-blog entry (I know, but I've already communicated my feelings about the preceding with my entry title).

I was going through my unpublished drafts this morning, trying to find something usable, when I came across this:

Things that have recently caused spontaneous happiness:


Should I be concerned? I'd like to exercise my broad interpretive skills and say that at some point a hyphen caused me overwhelming joy. Fine, let's just say that. Because honestly, what would the alternative be?

Play me out, Keyboard Cat.

19 June 2009

Hire Movers

Moving is not healthy for one's consciousness. If necessary,  one should move in as little time and with as little effort as possible. The slow recession of our belongings into boxes and suitcases. All of the treasures and photos and whatnots turned into little piles of shit all over the floor. That drawer in the kitchen that acts as an orphanage for menus, keys, screws, and some votive candles. 

For a couple, things can get especially dangerous. Those little piles of shit are mentally separated into "Mine" and "His". There may also be an "Ours", but that disappears after the first few boxes are packed. Unfortunately, it always comes down to a two party system.

It's not long before lines are drawn, and a giant invisible scale appears inside of the apartment. "Mine" one one side, "His" on the other. If the former is larger, "Mine" feels a little self-conscious for having so much more, perhaps even a bit guilty for taking the lion's share of space. "Mine" may decide to pare things down. This inevitably leads to resentment of "His".

Or, "Mine" sees how substantial his material contribution has been to this relationship, while "His" has coasted along with a pair of sweatpants and a microwave. And that neck-slimming thing he bought online. And that other thing he hid in his drawer when they had company. This also leads to resentment.

If, however, "Mine" has less on his side of the scale, he may feel threatened or lessened somehow, as if "His" was slowly swallowing him whole with that love seat from EQ3 and plastic bin full of cowboy belts. As if each new thing of "His" meant a sacrifice, a concession, a retreat. This leads to... well, you know.

Taylor: I don't understand-how did the fire start?
Seth: You're the one with the belt thing!
Taylor: What?
Seth: Don't worry, it's over now.

17 June 2009

This might be the last post.

This is two people and one blog. One of them is trying very hard to make this work, while the other is pursing his lips. This is what makes for a compatible couple. Here is an excerpt:

Seth: What should we post?
Taylor: Ooh, how about "Two fags, a dog, and a blog"?
Seth:...(read as pursing lips)
Taylor: "We are going to bring you musings, thoughts and arts"?

The brainstorming is interrupted by a CSI rerun (which they only put on to ignore) and the need for a glass of Southern Comfort (which was only in the house because of company the week before). Don't worry, you'll get used to the excuses. 

There's some talk of seeing a singalong production of Funny Girl starring Bette Midler (oops, not Bette Midler-Barbara Streisand), the dog bites everyone, and the SoCo begins to take effect. Then it becomes two fags on a couch picking their noses, and an eight pound mutt watching them both. Write what you know.

Taylor: Where's my phone charger?
Seth: I don't know.
Taylor: have you seen it honey?
Seth: I said-

Does the above qualify as bringing you "arts"?