Nothing worth placing in the cyberspace firmament for all to see from here till eternity (or at least till the next big spyware-worm-virus thing crashes the 'Net).
Sure I have some internal ruminations....
- Who is more self centered: Johnny Damon with his painting of the Last Supper hanging in his dining room - with his head painted over that of Jesus - or Paris Hilton who is so enamored with herself that she can find romantic love only with an eponymous being who (despite his similarly vast wealth) also sports less than convincing blonde ambitions?
- Is there a cosmic significance to the fact that Michael Jackson also has a child named Paris?
- Is it weirder that Michael Jackson named 2 of his children Prince Michael or that he has kids at all?
- Maybe it's just me, but does it seem less than wise to call Kobe Bryant as a character witness in your defense at a child molestation trial or is my questioning this strategy (as well as the Barry Bonds & Greg Anderson BFF displays) just yet another indication that perhaps lawyering should not be my chosen gig?
- And would the fact that George Forman named all of his sons (and one of his daughters) George outweigh the bizarro nature of the fact that another Jackson - big brother Jermaine - named his youngest child, Jermajesty?
- Who do I feel sorrier for: the Spe-derline bebe or Pvt. Lynddie England's genetic offspring?
- Why would the Runaway Bride's jilted fiancee take her back - as somehow, an "oops, I'm sorry honey I went for a run and ended up on a Greyhound bus" just doesn't seem to be enough? How were people so surprised by her behavior as those "crazy eyes" just seem to say it all?
- By the way, when was it decided that Jessica Simpson was ever fat? Must have missed the memo on that one.
- And is the panel of people at People picking the Most Beautiful People blind or are they just really big Lord of the Rings fans - otherwise I don't understand the Marc/J.Lo Most Beautiful Couple designation? No. Really, I mean it.
- Are Nancy Grace and Bill O'Reilly the same person?
- Exactly what is it about the T. Cruise/K. Ho coupling - other than the slightly Koreshian/Napoleonic overtones it takes on - that causes chills to run up and down my spine?
- Is a fifteen pound hamburger necessary for the betterment of the world?
- Do the perennial "stars" of MTV reality shows realize that, by your fourth iteration of the Inferno-Road Rules-BOS challenge the world is not laughing with you? Eric Nies, I am talking to you.
- David Hasselhoff, David Hasselhoff, David Hasselhoff.
...but in the end, are these earth-shattering questions of our day? Probably not, though I do feel that they are worth asking.
Aye, there is the rub. Perhaps this may be a contributing factor to my continuing residence in the land o' spinster: population 1. I discovered long ago that one of the things on my List of actual, necessary, deal breaker qualities was that I needed a man who, while he did not need to be cogniscent of it himself, did not mind that I know that Britney Spears' birthday is on December 3.
Shallow? Perhaps. Laughter-provoking? Definitely. But my love of celebrity trash - large and small, momentous and insiginificant - cannot be denied. If a man cannot embrace it, he needs to at least be willing to do the "nod-and-smile" and play along with my interest in it. I work in an office damnit - I have to do something with my day! I would not have thought this an issue, but I have been on a semi-date (or at least a meal where I got the feeling a boy was trying to impress me) where I was decrying the viscissitudes of Bennifer I and said boy had the nerve to tell me that he thought discussing such things was shallow and a waste of time. Certainly a perfectly rational and well-founded opinion when trying to make a point in the halls of academia etcetera, but if you are trying to get your game on, not so much. 3 words: Nod-and-smile. Nod. And. Smile.
I would have written this off as an isolated incident set off by an unfortunate soul who happened to be raised by wolves, but no... another friend of mine was recently raked over the coals by her significant other for pontificating on the Brad-Jen-Angelina love triangle and People magazine's coverage thereof. And before the pious out there go decrying all the cover-babes of People as socially insignificant-morally bankrupt schlubs, one of the most recent people to grace the cover of said magazine was none other than Pope John Paul II. Is it scandalous and devoid of social gravitas to discuss the Father-Son-Holy Spirit triangle?
But I digress.
Get a little lonely here at the end of the day.
Click. It's 4 p.m. It begins.
Pulling and tugging.
It is about 5 pm and it starts to occur to me in earnest that no one is expecting me home. And that the only one truly disappointed by the sizable mountain of work on my desk is me.
It is then that it rolls itself up into a little ball that I can kick around with my feet. I try to do my work, but I am batting around the little ball on the floor.
Foot to foot.
Sometimes I grab it and toss it around.
Hand to hand. Back and forth.
Up.
Up.
Down.
It is firm, hard even. Definitely tangible. I think the loneliness has been hard-baked by resignation and set in a fine glaze of disappointment.
Disappointment in the fact that even if I could leave earlier. I don't need to, and ultimately, I probably don't want to because the truth is, I can't think of anything to do.
It makes me sad.
I always say: My life is not much, but it's mine.
I say this matter-of-factly and without embarassment. I should be embarassed. I should be greatly shamed. I should be outraged, enraged, assuaged. Something. But no.
My life is not much, but it's mine.
This is not a simple state of being humble. This is a half-baked explanation for not engaging. A life devoid of private jets, fancy parties, and rivers of bling, is still a live well lived, a life with an embarassment of riches.
A simple life lived without need of explanation is a humble and beautiful life.
But my life, such that it is, appears so unfinished. So unraveled at the edges. It begs for an explanation. Half-baked as it is.
My life is not much, but it's mine.
If it's mine, it can be more. What do I want?
In the land of make-believe, sunshine and light, what would my life look like?
I am not sure.
I already feel the barely perceptible, yet omni-present twinge of feelings that is so indelicately called "getting set in your ways." Once people start saying this out loud about you (or worse, you start saying it about yourself), you are pretty much 6 days away from purchasing the 12 cats, the rocking chair and the shotgun. "Set in your ways" is clearly code for "spinster."
That being said, you live on your own long enough and you do start to set into a rhythm of your own life. You get used to being the totalitarian of your own regime. Any day can be laundry night, happy hour, or cultural endeavor. Every day is of your own design, at the whim of your schedule, at your beck and call.
But even despite these "set in my way" twinges, my perfect day would be wrapped around someone else. It would be couched in compromise.
I would be harried getting out of the office because I was pushing to get out on time. I have to be home. I have to pick up some cheese and some veggies. He's bringing the tuna steaks. We're grilling. Cooking out on the deck. Hoping the grill holds up. He put it together. I "helped." Neither of us really knew what we were doing. There were tools involved, borrowed of course, contained in a shiny red tool box. Dutifully the directions for assembly had been spread out, but we'd only read half of them. Every other step. Too smart to have to read it. Much prefer the scientific term "thingy" for that pivotal screw and joint. Never mind the four extra pieces we couldn't make use of. It's a beautiful summer evening and we are going to grill out on the deck. 2 glasses of red wine. Sitting out in my favorite soft green khaki pants, little white t-shirt, no shoes. Feet tucked under me, lounging in a deck chair.
Watching him. Wrestling the big, shiny new grill. Assuring me this is a "piece of cake." Attempts to be fancy with the marinade, resulting in a dribbling down his button down shirt (a remnant of the work day) and onto his jeans. He doesn't notice. The concentration on the intricacy of the battle of wills between man and grill complete.
I laugh. He smiles. Finally noticing the marinade. I hand him a paper towel. He laughs too.
8 minutes - give or take - till the steaks are done.
He sits down next to me. Brushes his hand past my cheek, then grabs my hand. Squeezes it, looks at me. Just looks. Says nothing. And then like fireworks spreading across a pristine night sky, a smile. And the sun slowly sinks, melting the day around it into a haze of gold and gauzy orange, drawn together with ribbons of violed. And I am warm. Warm, safe and loved. Inside and out.
That is it.
It would not be too much, but it would be mine.
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