In the middle of the night, I woke Esteban up to tell him to roll over because he was snoring. Under the down comforter, his hand found mine and opened it. I figured he was going to hold my hand while he slept (something we do sometimes… I know, most of you just retched because it’s so cute), but instead he deposited something hot and heavy into my palm.
“Here.” He murmured. “I found that in my underwear.”
It was a quarter.
I threw it, figuring that it was saturated with testicle residue or some other vague schmeng that would give me nightmares. It hit the wall and fell behind the bed.
“Why did you throw that away? It was good money.” He was already snoring before I could answer.
The whole thing was surreal. And apparently, there are some checks that his ass CAN cash. Imagine my surprise.
The weather has gotten nasty here. Dark, rainy, cold crap. It was snowing on Monday, with actual white accumulation in some places. We continue to battle a freezing bedroom at night. It’s my fault, really. I like to have fresh air and an open window for as long as humanly possible. Right now, the window at the top of my bed is open exactly a quarter of an inch and quite honestly, you could store meat in there. Last night, as I was trying to convince myself that it didn’t feel awkward to try to sleep on my back so that I didn’t crush my knee/souffl’ and after 21 days, a habit has been established so stop feeling like a hand is going to swing up from under the bed and slice my throat, I heard in the distance weird rusty noise. And then I decided that it was coyotes, because in actuality, I was indeed half asleep, despite being on my back like an upended turtle, and had forgotten that we don’t have coyotes in Green Bay.
No, it was a flock of geese. Stragglers, I’m guessing, honking their way south across the prairie. The big Vs in the sky are getting fewer and fewer. I used to encounter at least one each morning while sipping my mocha on the way to work, but now, there’s nothing filling the big expanses of sky but sparse mackerel clouds.
I always enjoy seeing geese in the fall, even though their appearance hearkens the beginning of winter. There is just something awe-inspiring about the way they regiment themselves, about their perfect Orville Wright Meets Pythagoras task.
You know why they fly in the V shape, right? It’s because a flying goose will throw a burst of air diagonally to the rear, and if another goose is there, their wings catch that air and they don’t have to work as hard. And for years, I always sort of envied the head goose flying in the juncture of the two angles, but now I realize that he’s the work dog of the flock. The cushy spot is to the rear. And when they honk when they fly, they’re giving encouragement to the geese up front. It’s honkspeak for “You can do it! Almost there!” Apparently, when the lead goose gets tired, it falls back and another one takes over.
One of my favorite fall memories: when I was in high school, our marching band had sporadic early morning practices. Nothing used to give me a sicker feeling than walking to school and hearing the sound of a tuba bouncing off the century old brick of the high school because it meant that I had forgotten a practice and would probably get a snarky remark from my band teacher. And I liked early morning practices. I always have been a morning person and something about the coldness of your instrument slowly growing warm in your hands, and the wetness of the grass and the crunch of leaves beneath your feet, it’s a lovely thing. And there was always a weird sort of camaraderie with our marching band. During the inevitable standing around and waiting while one section’s steps were being revised, the drummers would be pounding out something you’d recognize as a riff from an REM song and then someone else would answer back with some Violent Femmes and it would be this weird early morning punk Name That Tune.
On one of those crisp archetypal fall mornings, we were doing one of the songs, complete with dips and spins and the marchy marchy feet thing and the band major (my friend Will, for those of you who keep large charted outlines of reoccurring players on Dumber Than A Box Of Rocks) was sniping at the clarinets for being half a beat off and then there was this weird dissonance happening. I didn’t really notice it, but then Will was waving to cut and the band teacher was reaching for his megaphone and in the slow disintegration of the song, we could hear something else resonating in the air. And by the time the final trombone clued in that we had stopped playing now, there was with it a beating of wings and a honking unrivaled by anything I’ve seen yet. They came from behind us, filling the morning upended bowl of sky with literally thousands of beating wings and graceful necks. Nostalgia is not coloring my recollection when I estimate that there had to have been ten thousand of them. It wasn’t even a V shape anymore; it was a cumulonimbus cloud of birds. One hundred and fourteen snooty teenagers wearing pegged acid washed jeans and Chuck Taylors and the United Colors of Bennetton and the random Vision Streetwear and Body Glove could only stand aghast, looking up like turkeys in a rainstorm, unable to even discern where the geese ended and the sky began. We let them pass, unable to compete with their raucous honks. When the last of the stragglers was overhead, Will raised his baton and the drummers sounded the eight count and then we were spinning and doing the pinball flapper, as though nothing out of the ordinary had even happened.
Apparently the planets are in a super-special alignment because I managed the impossible.
I’ve convinced Esteban that we absolutely need to visit London this spring. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the fares were obscenely cheap. Actually, my fare to London is less than was my fare to Austin. Note to self: investigate emergency rooms in greater London area.
One of my coworkers is also making a trip to London. In fact, we will be coming home on the very plane he’s taking to get there, and we’ll likely wave at each other at the gate in Heathrow. I was telling him about the cliffs of Dover, and how the British air attack was planned from caves and how in Pearl Harbor, when Ben Affleck goes to England and then gets shot down in the channel, that’s where it all happened. And then how he could take the ferry or the Chunnel and go across the channel and see Omaha Beach, just like in the beginning of Saving Private Ryan. And then realized that I just sounded exactly like the stupidest girl in all the world.
Oh yeah, there was a war there too. Between some people and some other people about something to do with a list that Liam Neeson had. And I think Giovanni Ribisi was there maybe? Something. Yeah.
Anyway, I’m stoked. I mean, unlimited HobNobs and Fuse bars and a Body Shop on every corner! And I can buy a replacement pair for my Doc Martens, which actually still look quite nice considering that they have been in heavy rotation for the last seven winters. Yay! Shopping! Weird VA taxes! Shitty exchange rates! Excitement!
Esteban is a bit nervous. We realized last night that this will essentially the first vacation we’ve ever taken together, for no reason other than to take a vacation. And also, the first thing we’ve ever done on our own. We never went on a honeymoon. When we went to Atlanta, most of his family was there. When we went to New Orleans and Key West, he was officially working and thus, there was always a buffer of friends and acquaintances there. But this’ it’s a whole new thing. We’re both hoping he can keep his Burgermeisterism under wraps and doesn’t get all curmudgeonly and want to just sit in the flat (I’m desperately trying to secure a vacation rental in the same area of Little Venice I stayed in the summer of 97. Hey, if it’s good enough for Jude Law and Madonna, it’s good enough for the Weet), otherwise I may throttle him before the jetlag wears off. Also, how will he deal with the fact that I am apparently irresistible to British men? Because I have never had as much flirting with strangers and unsolicited attention from men (who would see me coming and actually thrust their genitals in my direction and sometimes into my very hand), even when I was hanging out with my guy friends. But then, maybe my Anglo-catnip wore off in exchange for the Lesbian catnip? Maybe the Britons won’t be enamored of my curvy round hotness?
Oh look. I made a funny.
It’s a good thing that Esteban is not a jealous man. I’m just saying. Because I’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened and Jude Law’s pretty face got damaged.
The Unit is having psychotic episodes.
It refuses to pause live television. It seems like it’s recording things but then when you look, OOPS! not there, too bad so sad. It actually does record some things, but then suddenly they are gone from the list. Also, for reason’s known only to The Unit, it decided to start recording ‘Family Guy’. Last night, it was recording Survivor, but as I was trying to cook dinner (roast whole tenderloin massaged with olive oil, freshly ground black pepper, garlic, and Chicago Steak Seasoning, baked potatoes, asparagus, and Fat Biscuits’ nothing like one last blow out before reinstating Operation Hottie), I tried to pause it. And then everything went black. So I might have missed Hagrid’s ass crack or testicles or something and now I will just never know.
I’ve decided that The Unit despises us. The Unit senses that there is another recording device on the premises, can hear the cheery little BaBoops and grumpy Bonks with its microscopic Unit listening devices. The Unit wants to punish us for our laughter and the fact that we breathe and also have a cat that stares at The Unit for hours on end until The Unit begins to feel a little selfconscious. The Unit wants us to close the pod bay doors, Dave. The Unit feels that we do not pay it enough respect. The Unit has taken it to the mattresses.
Esteban, in a rare bit of humility, has admitted that The Unit, once lauded for style and grace and affordability, is, in actuality, as technologically reliable as’ um, something really unreliable. I don’t know. All of the writing earlier this week broke my metaphor mojo. Anyway, he’s shunning The Unit and apparently it will be exchanged for a New Unit. Which hopefully won’t hate us as much. And have a friendlier remote control, because I still can’t change the channel in the dark.
Maybe if they’d make a movie about it, I’d understand how it all worked.
