If I hear Dr. Phil tell Judy that she just “needs a little Guy-Q” I might scream.
The one with the guy isn’t any better. I don’t know any guys who get distracted from playing sports because they’re thinking about finding the perfect girl.
In other sports news, you may have seen the Eagles kick some Dallas ass on Christmas day. It was a Christmas miracle…beating Dallas (and TO) in Dallas, on Christmas day.
Wrapping presents, writing cards, making peanut butter fudge and peppermint bark, tying ribbons around wreaths. These are the things keeping me busy of late. Christmas snuck up this year, and I am out of breath trying to get ready. And because I have no thoughts to share, I’ll leave you with a song:
It’s coming on Christmas,
They’re cutting down trees.
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace,
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on.
Joni Mitchell – River
In elementary school, romance was getting picked first for soccer, matching nicknames, sitting next to each other in art class, letting me use the purple cray-pas first.
At summer camp, romance meant splashing in the pool, blushing at each other across the hall at lunch, and playing cards together at the back of the rec hall on rainy days while the ‘little’ kids watched a movie.
In middle school, romance was listening to him play ‘Satellite’ on his guitar over the phone, awkwardly holding hands, dates at school plays, diary entries, slow dances, stuffed animals, seeing him ride off into the sunset…on his bike, and hanging out behind the bleachers at football games.
In high school, romance meant knowing my name even though I was the new girl, playing me ‘A Thousand Miles’ on the piano (even though his arm was broken), goofing off at work, long conversations backstage, tying the ribbon in my hair while telling me he liked it better down, wishing me sweet dreams every night, playing with my hair on a sunny day in the grass, hiding together during ghost in the graveyard (so close we’re breathing the same air but our lips never touch), and, in a moment of weakness, curling into him during a scary movie.
In college, romance was confused. It somehow lost it’s innocence and became a rarely seen ideal. But still, it meant studying side by side on his bed, correcting his papers, telling him his writing was better than it was, noticing when I wore a skirt, having ‘deep’ conversations over coffee, posing for pictures (because if we don’t take them, we won’t remember), pulling me close without thinking, letting me pretend I didn’t make a fool of myself, and then, (the most romantic of all) breaking my heart.
And now (a mere seven months post graduation) I’m not sure what romance will mean. I think it might have something to do with eating my burned cooking, telling me I look beautiful when I don’t, letting me whine without saying a word, walking through the park in silence, dancing in my living room, taking the train home with me and loving my family, and most of all — loving me. Because even though there’s been all that romance in the past, there has very rarely been love.
What a week ago would have made me want to scream doesn’t bother me today. It’s the way that New York chips away at you. Today was one of those days when everyone in the city decides to leave work and get on the bus at the same time, making the commute home intolerable. Or at least, it used to be intolerable on days like this. Two weeks ago, I would have been in tears by the time I got home. Today, the people bumping in to me when they didn’t have to are silly, not annoying. Silly because they have chosen to live their lives as though they are the only person moving through a crowd, and their path is the most important.
I waited for the cross town for 10 minutes, the whole time telling myself to just walk. It wasn’t that cold. It finally arrived, jam packed, and 15 more people were trying to get on. So I turned and walked. And that was okay. On my walk home, every light was green for me, every song that came on my ipod was the one I wanted to hear. It really wasn’t that cold, and there were even puppies in the window at the puppy store. In a movie, I would have been hit by a car as I crossed the last street by my apartment. I would have been smiling, singing along silently to whatever song was on, and wouldn’t have noticed the headlights of the approaching van. But it wasn’t a movie, it was just my walk home.
It seems that New York has finally gotten to me. All those months of being rubbed the wrong way by the sandpaper crowds. I would have thought I’d have been rubbed until there was nothing left, sanded away. But instead, I’ve come out shiny and smooth.
Because I needed a way to use the chicken, because I’d always wanted to try it, because now is the time in my life to burn dinner, if I’m going to:
Voila! Chicken Cacciatore
That’s smoke, not steam. And yes, the chicken looks black because it is black.
The colors are all screwy because I’m still learning how to use my new digital camera.
So, overall. It looked horrible. But it was DElicious.
Actual quotations from an email sent to me by Twinny McTwinnerson (w/ a few minor edits):
“Oh, I saw on your blog that you are writing a book. Is it about me? It should be about me? Unless the protagonist is depressing and makes horrible decisions, then it should totally not be about me.”
“Have you seen the xbox game commercial where they use the song “Mad World”? It’s kind of sad that that one song makes a video game commercial about killing monsters deep. I guess that is just the power of emo music. Like, I wonder, how good Garden State would be without the emo music. Probably still decent, but not as touching. Maybe I should carry around a boom box playing Frou Frou so that girls will listen to the music and see me, and get confused and think I am really deep or have deep caverns of wisdom about becoming a man in these cynical times. “
“Find the next great American novel, so that I can tell everyone that my best friend found the next american novel. Or write it, and include an awesome, deep character that is clearly me. It will help if you use emo music whenever he is around. This way, I can tell girls in bars that that profound character in the next great American novel by Jo Pickle is based on me. Okay you are right. I would not actually talk to girls in the first place. But I would definitely picture doing it in my head.”
Can you feel the love? We’re hotboxing it.
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