7

months

peacocky

a

x

what andre just said

you know, there's a part of me that feels like i'm having the time of my life . . . but there's another part of me that feels like i'm just going to the dentist.

oh god.

it's just like effing pee wee's play house (up in here, yes, i just said, up in here)

word of the day:

ecards

So, then Andre said . . .

"It's not that, really. It's just that I'm really needy, and you're the best fan I've ever had."

Booze and Hot Chocolate

[walking down the nighttime sidewalk]

me: you know, i think the last time we were walking to the store after having a few pints we were out for the same thing.

andre: oh god. [laughs.]

me: we're a wreck. but, that would make a pretty funny blog post.

andre: [still laughing.] we really were though, that's the ridiculous part.

me: i know.

andre: you just couldn't make this stuff up, could you?

me: nope.

Observation: weirdo

Yesterday the wind chill where we live was below zero. And when I say below, I don't mean close to zero degrees Fahrenheit or minus 2 or 3. I mean 30 below. But we still managed to meet up after work (read that: Andre walked the 20 minutes to where I was and then we walked the 20 minutes back together while I waffled on about an afternoon meeting I'd been in and some XSLT work I'd gotten some help figuring out), and we even managed to make it to the shop for some groceries--which is not, by the way, on the way home.

As I paced up and down, greedily checking out the choices, Andre finally exclaimed, "You're such an addict!"

I ignored him, a little, and made some selections. And we shuffled around.

"No," he said in some sort of disbelief, "I mean, you're really really addicted."

"I know," I said, blush-filled and guilty already about the choices I'd made.

We were standing in the potato chip aisle.

too many disasters, so little time

yesterday at the grocery store, i realized that there are several (gross American-ish) things that andre has never had (but probably should):

Rice Krispies treats
Ding Dongs
Twinkies

oh the processed sugars and calories!

out for Mexican food

I've been too sick to tell stories lately

and it reminds me how lucky I am to have Andre living here these days. It can be difficult (read that: impossible) dealing with my illness long-distance, and I am not looking forward to our steadily approaching stint of being apart. It's funny to think that when the book breaks in America, we'll both be in England. Strange, strange.

There's so much to do in the between time, for both of us. I have courses to plan and websites to build. And I'll be starting work with a new digital archive project soon. But really, all I want to do is sit in the crook of Andre's arm while he messes around on the computer and stare out the french doors into the quiet winter sun-shine street. And try not to think about how he's going to be gone soon. Or how incredibly sick I feel.

This morning I ran across the wood floor, from the bedroom to the living room, in my socks. Sliding and screaming, my arms raised and waving above my head like a crazy person, shut UP! shut UP! I'll shut your shutting it up! and jumped onto his lap laughing and covering his mouth with my hands and lips and face. He'd been making fun of me for some reason or another. And I collapsed into him and the couch. And we smiled at our faces. And he clinked and pecked on the laptop. And said, You know, the problem with me, really, is that I'm just so prolific.

Oh god, I moaned and rolled my eyes and laughed so hard I drooled all over the front of his shirt.

Oh god.

Today: Incident 2 of 2

[excerpt from a conversation that just took place in the living room]

Andre:

i can't kiss you! [waves arms exasperatedly]

i'm worried that if i kiss you, you'll come out a different size. and it will take 4 bloody hours to edit you in blogger-dot-tosspot-dot-com, and then a man will phone up and say he wants a scan of you, and it will take another 4 days to do using your wanky fucking scanner -- for a PC -- by which time we will hate each other and be filing for a divorce. and from that point on, i shall wear a t-shirt that says: i blame blogger.tosspot.com for everything.

so, please stop asking me to kiss you!


can you make me a hot dog now?

Today

we are experiencing what I can only describe as:

the scanner incident

That is all.

(I've even resorted to kissing and chocolates and cooing as attempted distractions.)
((It isn't working.))

trying to get used to using f-words

Okay, so, maybe we have random conversations that most people wouldn't be able to follow. Maybe that's precisely why we're together. [shrug.] But the other night when we were trudging home to the quiet one-bedroom apartment that we share at the moment on an unassuming street in the middle of middle-of-nowhere-usa, we found our footsteps falling into projections into the future. When we're out of here and living together somewhere we both want to be. Where our friends are. And family.

Maybe those things don't always come out of us in the way some people can understand. Left us, mostly for most of our lives alone or unhappily engaged. But I giggle sometimes into the snow-glow pavement about just how much, now, I'm glad that I have for so long gone so misunderstood. Thank plastic-jesuses for being such a complicated "psychotic" fuck.

First, I laugh into his back as we walk single file down the icy sidewalk, you're going to have to make me pregnant.


Is that right? He asks the wind and the passing cars.

And I run pushing passed him shouting: Yeeeeessssssssssss! My arms wide flung like bat's wings and childhood playgrounds.

Yes;

baby cakes and alien sandwiches

yes.

The truth is -- I probably wouldn't get out of bed that early to make you coffee

At first, leaving for work in the morning was kind of -- well, I hate to say this -- sweet. (That even made me vomit a little bit.) My boyfriend got up with me and made me coffees to drink whilst getting ready and to take with me in my handy travel mug to work.

And after I left, I'd feel all buzzy and happy. Not just from the coffee. But from that silly-sick feeling you get when you have to leave someone for a little bit that you really savor being around. Knowing that it's just the divide of economics and a few working hours until you're back home.

Then we'd spend the day periodically smattering conversations over chat-mails. As you do.

But now, leaving for work in the morning is just kind of -- well -- maddening. I don't want to go. Then, as soon as I get to work, I want to go back home. Maybe we're borderline obsession. But I don't mind. (As long as he doesn't try to kill me or something.)

Off to archive and feel sorry for myself.

pontikis and other things that go bump in the night

we've been busy all weekend wrecking the house and not taking time for much else than making things. and occasionally sleeping.

lately i've had so many ideas that i've felt like my head was going to bust wide open. which, i'm going to go on faith and say that that's probably a good thing. andre is lovely to be around when he's being creative. and when i say lovely, i mean he goes all equally obsessed and constant about what he's working on. it's refreshing to see someone who gets it. (the fact that he doesn't think i'm a disastrous nut job doesn't hurt, either.)

i thought two creative people in the same house might mean constant drama and lots of mood crashes. but really the only slight negative thing that seems to be happening is that there's loads of clothes piled around that need putting away and there's some neglected washing up to do.

better go.

i've got monsters to make.

What Would You Ask For?

BestFriend: I think Andre should make a doodle of Gus's* poop being prophetic
Me: OMG
that's genius and also totally disgusting
BestFriend: not sure if he's into scat humor
Me: for sure i like the phrase "scat humor"
BestFriend: scat prophecies?
Me: snort
fantastic

* Gus, theDog.

So, I wonder, if you could ask Andre to make you a doodle . . . what would it be?

snippets and things overheard: just now

from the kitchen he says:

but i just want to be awake
so that i can get full pleasure out of it

really. i couldn't make this stuff up.

but then i have to be careful

not to assume that everything (or anything) is actually about me.

what? i'm *not* moody. what!

the fantastic in-box benefits of being in hearts with an arty Cult

The things I can tell you about the night . . .

My boyfriend took me out for fantastic birthday dinner at posh restaurant. We had champagne to celebrate things. But that's all I'm going to say. About it.

(!)

Gator by the Tail?

Sometimes I'm just not quite sure what comes over me. I sit at work and code and write and talk to my lovely doodlerMan on the_Instant_Messengers and think . . . you know . . . we should really go out and drink cheap beer from a can at an awful seedy restaurant. Yes, that would make a lovely evening.

So, in spite of the impending rain storm, we set out for a place neither one of us had ever been. The first step inside the joint was noxious. Filled with greasy covered tschotskies and waxed animal heads. Even before the cool canned beer swilling, we both set easy comfortable into laughter and too many elbow pokes.

Our food was inedible. Fried alligator (which we theorized later must have actually been feral cat whacked with a salty haddock) and possibly maybe the most tragic vegetarian sandwich either one of us have ever encountered. We were quite sure when the waiter asked us that we didn't need a box for the leftovers. Then we chased the sound of our laughter bouncing around downtown. All the way home.

And on the couch later, clutching our stomachs and talking and ignoring the television, I felt buzzy. I've got some kind of best-life.

This morning, I woke up to my boyfriend moaning . . . "Happy Birthday, darling." And I laughed and laughed through bedsheets and promised to never take us for alligators, again.

Off to drink more coffee and watch cartoons in my girl-pants.

Got 2 Cents?

In case anyone has anything to say--messages to leave--I've added a chatter box to the bottom of the page.

Scroll you, message-ward! If you fancy.

Yesterday

Andre spent the afternoon making robots with Imogen.

Supra.Way.More.Cooler.

[I drank wine and hoovered up the metal bits that got dropped on the carpet.]
[[I might not be a cult-blogger, but I'm an ace girlfriend.]]

My Boyfriend is unable to speak to me for most of the night

because he is distracted by making doodles about 'Fat Sex.'

uhnnuhnnoh . . . don't ask me?!

It's Okay Dear

Ahem.

I've had my regular blog since 2002.
This site has been up for one day
(and it's already generated more hits.)

Sigh.

We're RICH!

I spend my days at university teaching writing and working as an assistant editor for a digital archive. To do these things, I don't make very much money.

My boyfriend gets paid to sit around and doodle all day.

Seriously.

For Example

on the way to the supermarket, just now, for wine and other necessary staples, we spent the entire below-zero walk laughing and trying to come up with ideas for a new project called "notes my girlfriend left me."

my suggestion wasn't received all that well:



i'll file this one under--that's why i'm no cult blogger.