Went to my pal Doug's birthday party the other night. He has (and many of his friends have) kids and the kids were invited.
Because of how I am, I spent most of my evening with the vodkas and tonics and the kids.
At one point, I was invited upstairs to see the Lego "drop ships" Doug's son had constructed. We were quickly followed by the three other boys at the party, who had factionalized against the girls and were determined to find weapons and armor.
"What team are you on?" I was asked.
"I'm on the girls team," said I "I'm not a moron."
"What team are you on?" and a Nerf brand machine gun was pointed at my face.
"Boys team. Boys team," said I.
I asked what the plan was. The tallest of them said it was to write a Valentine to Doug's daughter. I told him it seemed like a good plan. He had construction paper and a pencil. I looked over his shoulder while he composed his message. The other boys were busy strapping whatever plastic items they could find to their chests and arms.
Here, with his name changed to protect his dignity, is the entirety of what the tall boy wrote in his Valentine:
Kevin Like Pie
Kevin Like Pie
Kevin Like Pie
Kevin Like Pie
Kevin Like Pie
Kevin Like Pie
I mentioned to him about a job I thought he would be well suited for as the winter custodian of the Overlook Hotel, but he was too engrossed by the elaborate folding and packaging his Valentine then required.
Later, after refilling my vodka tonic and rejoining the girl's team (as I said - not a moron), I asked Doug's daughter how the Valentine had played. She pitched her head forward, slumped her shoulders, dropped the tip of the sword she was carrying to the ground, rolled her eyes as hard as she possible could and said in her most exasperated tone:
"I just threw it away."
I told her that it was probably for the best, as he seemed rather disturbed. I suggested the possibility to her that "Pie" was a cipher for her and that he was wooing her with metaphor. She cocked her head at me and gave me an expression of impatience and disbelief.
"He's an idiot," she said.
"You realize that this is like a microcosm of the next fifteen years of his life, right?"
"I don't care. All he wrote was 'I Like Pie'. Ugh."
"Yeah, you're right I suppose," I conceded, "but go easy on him, okay?"
She just rolled her eyes again and went back to the living room to collect the Nerf gun that someone had carelessly left unattended on the sofa.
Showing posts with label Romanticism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Romanticism. Show all posts
Monday, February 14, 2011
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Chiara versus the Moon
When you are single for a long time and possessed of a certain temperament suited mostly to actors, English majors, and suicides, you coat your future romantic relationships with a kind of high-gloss shellac.
You lie in bed and imagine lie-ins with girls whose faces you meticulously construct from those of b-list celebrities. You picture yourself reading a poem or two aloud and her rapt with interest. You fantasize about the conversations you'll have about cinema and the arch witticisms she'll make from behind her novel that she's reading in only her underwear and her knee high socks.
In any case, you prepare yourself for romantic interludes and you imagine you'll be so good at them.
Real life is a series of shatterings of fantasies like these. If you're lucky you'll realize that you are much better off without these things.
Chiara is, in so many ways, superior to any girl I was ever with. She's lovely and sexy in a calm, collected, sultry way that never tries too hard or poses for the camera. She's smart and commonsensical and self-assured. She's easy going enough to forgive my neuroses, but neurotic enough herself to charm. One thing she is not, often to my great delight, is sappy or very much interested in traditional notions of romance.
I tried once or twice to read a poem I particularly enjoyed to her. I even tried in bed. Mostly this was simply tolerated. In the event that the poem in question was any longer than a stanza or three, she'd probably ask me if I could keep it down as she was trying to watch "The Biggest Loser" on television.
So I don't know what I expected would happen that night with the moon.
It was late - the middle of the night. I woke up thirsty and padded down the hall to get a glass of water. On the way back from the kitchen I passed by the window and caught a glimpse of the moon and it was fucking huge. I never saw a moon so full and so large. It was as big as a house seen from across the street and as bright as a searchlight pointed at your head. It positively hummed with proximity and I could feel its gravity tugging on the hairs on the backs of my arms. I remember thinking for the briefest of moments that something had gone horribly wrong in the Earth's orbit and that the moon would crash into us at some not too distant hour.
I rushed to the bedroom and woke Chiara. She'd never have believed me if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes.
She swam slowly up from unconsciousness and asked me what was the matter. I told her that she simply had to see the moon because it was the most amazing moon she'd ever see. Groggily, she got out of bed and allowed me to tug her into the living room where I positioned her between the window and myself. My mouth was slack and I beamed at the back of her head.
"Isn't that the most amazing moon! Did you ever see a moon like that?!" I whispershouted in her ear.
"It's the moon," she said, and turned to shuffle back to bed, "I've seen the moon before."
And I don't know why - now it seems so stupid - but at the time that felt like a real rejection to me. I was hurt and felt like I'd taken some wrong turn in my love life. I stayed a while to look at the moon. As it rose higher in the sky it shrank and faded and I got tired again and went to bed. I felt cheated for a while after that.
But now it all seems so dumb. Every emotion and event and vision and idea isn't going to be experienced by one and one's wife in the same way or with the same force. I know that Chiara would be insufferable to me if she were one of those hearts and roses and diamond rings sort of women. I even know that the story wouldn't exist at all if it had turned out just how I'd hoped that night, and I know that the story is better than some gigantic fucking moon four years ago.
And I further know that if Chiara was prone to my whimsy and impulsiveness and romantic flights of fancy, we'd probably be professional balloonists by now rather than urbanites who pay our bills on time.
Come to think of it, ballooning might not be so bad. I could have a balloon painted to look like the moon. But not the real moon. The sort of Edwardian moon of Little Nemo comics or early silent films. The one with the horrible face and the greenish tint (from the cheese, I expect).
After I finish writing this blog, I'm going to get in bed and tell Chiara my idea for a hot air balloon and she is going to get the most quizzical expression on her face and then she will roll her eyes and nod in that way one does to lunatics when one wants to mollify them.
I'll love her all the more for it.
You lie in bed and imagine lie-ins with girls whose faces you meticulously construct from those of b-list celebrities. You picture yourself reading a poem or two aloud and her rapt with interest. You fantasize about the conversations you'll have about cinema and the arch witticisms she'll make from behind her novel that she's reading in only her underwear and her knee high socks.
In any case, you prepare yourself for romantic interludes and you imagine you'll be so good at them.
Real life is a series of shatterings of fantasies like these. If you're lucky you'll realize that you are much better off without these things.
Chiara is, in so many ways, superior to any girl I was ever with. She's lovely and sexy in a calm, collected, sultry way that never tries too hard or poses for the camera. She's smart and commonsensical and self-assured. She's easy going enough to forgive my neuroses, but neurotic enough herself to charm. One thing she is not, often to my great delight, is sappy or very much interested in traditional notions of romance.
I tried once or twice to read a poem I particularly enjoyed to her. I even tried in bed. Mostly this was simply tolerated. In the event that the poem in question was any longer than a stanza or three, she'd probably ask me if I could keep it down as she was trying to watch "The Biggest Loser" on television.
So I don't know what I expected would happen that night with the moon.
It was late - the middle of the night. I woke up thirsty and padded down the hall to get a glass of water. On the way back from the kitchen I passed by the window and caught a glimpse of the moon and it was fucking huge. I never saw a moon so full and so large. It was as big as a house seen from across the street and as bright as a searchlight pointed at your head. It positively hummed with proximity and I could feel its gravity tugging on the hairs on the backs of my arms. I remember thinking for the briefest of moments that something had gone horribly wrong in the Earth's orbit and that the moon would crash into us at some not too distant hour.
I rushed to the bedroom and woke Chiara. She'd never have believed me if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes.
She swam slowly up from unconsciousness and asked me what was the matter. I told her that she simply had to see the moon because it was the most amazing moon she'd ever see. Groggily, she got out of bed and allowed me to tug her into the living room where I positioned her between the window and myself. My mouth was slack and I beamed at the back of her head.
"Isn't that the most amazing moon! Did you ever see a moon like that?!" I whispershouted in her ear.
"It's the moon," she said, and turned to shuffle back to bed, "I've seen the moon before."
And I don't know why - now it seems so stupid - but at the time that felt like a real rejection to me. I was hurt and felt like I'd taken some wrong turn in my love life. I stayed a while to look at the moon. As it rose higher in the sky it shrank and faded and I got tired again and went to bed. I felt cheated for a while after that.
But now it all seems so dumb. Every emotion and event and vision and idea isn't going to be experienced by one and one's wife in the same way or with the same force. I know that Chiara would be insufferable to me if she were one of those hearts and roses and diamond rings sort of women. I even know that the story wouldn't exist at all if it had turned out just how I'd hoped that night, and I know that the story is better than some gigantic fucking moon four years ago.
And I further know that if Chiara was prone to my whimsy and impulsiveness and romantic flights of fancy, we'd probably be professional balloonists by now rather than urbanites who pay our bills on time.
Come to think of it, ballooning might not be so bad. I could have a balloon painted to look like the moon. But not the real moon. The sort of Edwardian moon of Little Nemo comics or early silent films. The one with the horrible face and the greenish tint (from the cheese, I expect).
After I finish writing this blog, I'm going to get in bed and tell Chiara my idea for a hot air balloon and she is going to get the most quizzical expression on her face and then she will roll her eyes and nod in that way one does to lunatics when one wants to mollify them.
I'll love her all the more for it.
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