April 05: Misty. First Star to the Right.

Let’s talk about romance. If you want. (Well, I don’t think you really have a choice. Why? Because it’s my blog / book / journal / thing, and you don’t really get a say in what I choose to talk about. Hey, cool your jets, alright? I spent my life pretending an interest in a myriad of things chosen by others as something to illuminate and raise up their lives, especially when they were drunk, so this is my chance to actually say what I actually think in black and white without having to edit it because it doesn’t fit with what I think someone else’s idea is just in case that upsets them or causes a problem or makes them think I don’t think like they do, gawd forbid. Got that? No? Well, I admit. It is convoluted.)

Back to romance. When I was a kid, Harlequin was the rage. I read them avidly. Every cheezie-laden page packed with the hallmarks of romance. She meets him, dislikes him, starts to change her mind and womp. An old girlfriend shows up. It appears he's done something extremely underhand and her first impression was totally correct. The game’s afoot my friend. She tells him in no uncertain terms that’s it, the end, get out of my life for good, now. But no. In the end, her dislike of him is up-ended by a yearning she can’t shake and before you know it she’s kissing the lips that she once disparaged. (I’m sure romance novels have evolved since then, I’m being simplistic. I was a child, remember? They were pretty PG, as I recall, so get your mind out of the gutter and back to the point. Or your hands out of the fridge, that cake was for tomorrow.)

But really I imagined, in every case, with every possible crush-from-afar, that we would walk in a sunny long-grassed meadow in the height of summer, my long-tressed hair lifted by the breeze whilst he turned his gorgeous black eyes on me and smiled his endless love while our little blonde toddler held our hands and swung. No one prepared me for dates who expected you to sleep with them because they bought you dinner. That one stunned me. So naive, so naive. Set free to meander through life without any real idea of how it worked.

I lived in my imagination, really. When I did meet someone, at long last, and start a relationship, at long last, it didn’t last long. My idea of what we should be and what actually existed was, not to put too fine a point on it, radically different. If he were silent, I imagined he had deep feelings and was musing on things deeply while contemplating the vernacular and the possible usage of proper synonyms to use in his expression of same. (Really, who knew there was another ‘r’ in veRnacular. Thank goodness for Google.) I contemplated his silence with a sympathetic appreciation of his continued angst. I served him meatloaf. Ironed his jeans. Purchased his favourite beer at the liquor outlet. And waited patiently for him to turn one day and say, with gentle certitude, that I was the best thing since sliced bread, he’d figured out the meaning of life, and could he have a meatloaf sandwich for lunch. Toasted.

~~~

April 04: Murky. Heading unknown.

Yeah, missed a day. What’s it to ya? Keeping tabs? Ha. Here’s me talking to myself again. That gets old. The hardest person to live with is sometimes the one right inside your head. If you’re a human, you know of what I speak. Eh?

I’m just jabbering though. I have no insight. If you came here looking for some answers, you better order pizza. Might be a while and you’ll need the protein. Then you might want to have a nice long lie down, because, well, all I have is questions. You know?

Why do we have these talk shows with exhibit A accusing exhibit B of cheating because, well, A cheats and ergo B must cheat and is lying when she/he says he/she doesn’t. Lie detector tests notwithstanding, you will find no real answers with reality tv. If you must air your grievances on international television, requisite with name calling, pointing fingers, yelling over each other, and the threat (or perhaps actual) need for fisticuffs, well. What is the point? How does that help the human race, your country, your city, your home, or, indeed, your relationships? I suppose if you make enough cash to pay for some therapy, there might be something in it that’s worthwhile.

Hey listen, I’m no relationship expert. No. Not at all. Last thing I should be doing is giving advice. I’m just saying, why is it what we now entertain ourselves by airing our failures and hurts to everyone else? Isn’t it bad enough to get through a bad relationship or feel that you made less than successful choices for yourself? Why tell a few million people as well?

I had a thought, though, when I was making my peanut butter and banana sandwich just now. (What? Oh, tea. Yes, tea and a sandwich. Late lunch. Afternoon snack. Writing fortitude. Anyway.) It occurred to me that I should stop telling you that there is no point to this. If I keep impressing that point upon you, you might start thinking there is no point to reading this, and then give up reading it, because, well, what’s the point.

Which brings me to the topic of time changes. Ever since we were young, for the most part, those of us who were young and had watches, ever since then, we’ve had this routine unilateral imposition imposed upon us: the time change. For some reason, in the Fall, they want us to leave work in the dark and turn our lights on before ‘The Young and the Restless’ even starts. (Which leads me to point out that Eric Braeden is no spring chicken, but that’s another subject entirely, best reserved for another time when we may discuss the relative merits of ‘young’ soap stars, and laundry. No, I shudder to tell you when I first started watching it, but I can confess that Nikki and Victor were not yet acquainted. Jill was Katherine’s maid, as I recall. Yes. Long in the tooth. Quite. Now, may we get back to time?)

Spring forward, fall back. Lose an hour, gain an hour. It all evens out in the end, doesn’t it? Well, does it though? Think about it! Spring comes around and you dutifully change all the clocks that don’t change themselves or resolve to remember to deduct an hour from those you are scared to change, like the clock on the stove, which will then decide it’s frozen in time and refuse to allow the oven to work. Or the clock in the car which, if you set the wrong buttons, will resolutely remain on the local country music station. (Oh, nothing. It’s just a joke really. Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to offend anyone who likes country music. I like it myself. Shania, Faith, you know. What? They aren’t true country? Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know. Well, consider me properly corrected. Shall I change that to classical music? What? Oh. Well.. all news all the time? Okay? Okay. Whew.)

Where was I?

Alright, so every spring you spring forward and lose an hour. Would be nice if you could lose a few pounds then too. What if every spring all doctors offices and clinics and hospitals and home scales all automatically corrected themselves to be ten pounds lighter? Then you truly could spring forward, very happily, despite the loss of sleep. I think that should become law. Anyone want to take up a petition?

Every fall, things even up again. You get to sleep an extra hour to make up for the one you missed all those months ago. Yay. Now you don’t have to worry about changing the clocks that you couldn’t change last time for fear your life would tumble out of control and you’d end up cooking things in your toaster oven or chronically late for appointments. (What? OK. Chronically later. Satisfied? Sheesh.) The fact that darkness is closing in is mitigated by the fact that that hour that was so coldly wrenched from you has been returned.

But wait.

What if you stuff it between April and November? Seriously. Someone owes you an hour. It might be an important hour too. They might have just come up with a vaccine, or the surgeon gets back from the golf course, or they find out if you brew a tea of swamp grass all will be resolved. But you miss the news because you went too early, bereft of an hour. That’s not really fair, is it?