L'esprit de l'escalier

It's all about the timing.

Name:
Location: Memphis, Tennessee, United States

I'd rather be somewhere else most of the time and I'm a huge practitioner of staircase wit.

3/05/2005

Why won't you shut up?

There's this Colgate commercial with this girl all close-up and intimate on tv lately, talking about brushing her teeth in the morning. She's talking and all the sudden she says something about seeing "a little pink in the sink". I swear this is the grossest fucking imagery in a commercial. It's a toothpaste commercial for crying out loud, don't be so gross.

I'm a little bit hungover this morning. David and I drank Brandy and Gin and Sparkling water with a hint of lime last night and talked until it was almost light outside. We also ate Girl Scout cookies- Thin Mints- that I bought from some Girl Scouts in the parking lot outside of the grocery store, yesterday. I remember being the girl standing out there begging people to buy my cookies, and now I'm the buyer. It's a first for me. I told my husband this was a monumental moment. He said I've come full cirle, but I told him no, not yet. Full circle will be when I'm standing out there with my own daughter.

We talked last night until our throats hurt. Until we couldn't talk anymore, until we could barely keep our heads up, until our mouths were too dry to swallow properly. I learned things about him that I didn't know before. He's not usually that talkative when it comes to the way he was raised or his childhood. I'm usually the one talking someone's head off. Instead I listened. I asked probing questions and I listened, but I wish I would've had a tape recorder.

I also received my diploma in the mail this weekend from the University of Memphis. Here's what's funny. I live in an apartment where the mailboxes are too small to put large packages in so when something oversized comes, the mailperson will stick a key in your box which tells you to go to the right where there's a larger box and that's where you'll find your package. I'm not accustomed to this setup, however, so when I opened the mailbox and saw a key, I was all, "Who the fuck put a key in our mailbox?" In fact, I was still pondering this question while David was excitedly pushing past me to find out who sent us a package. It was my diploma. Telling me how smart I am. Ha- silly them. So, I actually finished my degree over a year ago but there was some trouble paying off my debts that were not technically loans so they were holding onto my shit for me. They're very thoughtful that way. My parents eventually tired of my excuses and paid the rest of my debt last fall for me and now I have a diploma to frame and put on my wall. But I probably won't, I'll just leave it on the bookshelf where I placed it immediately after I hugged it and kissed it for awhile and love it from there. It took me 10 years to get that piece of paper, but I goddamn earned it, and I LOVE it. Thanks mom and dad.

3/02/2005

English Genius

I took the Commonly Confused Words Test and was told I'm a genius. Then surely I will get this job, right? Maybe I should email my score to the hiring manager. He needs to know what a genius I am, too. Here's what the website told me:

You scored 100% Beginner, 86% Intermediate, 87% Advanced, and 77% Expert!
You did so extremely well, even I can't find a word to describe your excellence! You have the uncommon intelligence necessary to understand things that most people don't. You have an extensive vocabulary, and you're not afraid to use it properly! Way to go!

Do you wanna see how smart you are? Pat yourself on the back to get your day started? Click on the title. And wish me luck on the job. Thanks

2/28/2005

Living with a recovering addict

I came home last night, his first completely smoke free day, supposedly, glanced over to the end table and spied a cigarette butt in the ashtray.

"What's this cigarette doing here?"
He yells from the kitchen, over the dishwasher, "I smoked one today."

Hmph.

"Do you still have a pack?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"On the bookshelf, behind the bubbles."
He didn't even try to lie, because that's not his style. But maybe he should have.

I held them under the faucet and threw them away. I asked him first, if he really wanted my help with this. He seems to, by the way he's not hiding anything. Like he knows he'll sneak if they're here, but he won't if I don't let him. He said yes, he wants my help.

Great.

This morning I took his debit card out of his wallet and hid the change jar before I left for work. Now, I'll have to do some investigating when I get home. He looked so sweet this morning, sleeping with that patch on his shoulder. People look so sweet while they sleep. Why is that? It's enough to break a girl's heart, sometimes. The pressure of the feeling.

2/27/2005

Got a light?

My sweet husband is trying to quit smoking. He’s been a smoker since he was probably still in high school or just beginning college. This was about 15 years ago. He’s not coughing up blood yet or anything, but I’ve been increasingly concerned about this habit of his and thankfully, so has he. Since we started dating, he’s made it clear that he WILL quit in time, as soon as he's ready. I’ve learned that there’s no coaxing that monumental moment, however. I just have to sit tight and support whatever whim he decides to catch and go with it. I may not know first hand how difficult kicking this addiction can be, but I believe he has whatever it takes within him somewhere. He’s a strong man, an incredibly determined soul when he wants to be. I just hope he wants this bad enough.

It won’t be easy going, though. He’s pretty temperamental as it is. All he needs, to send him through the roof, is some un-relievable stress. But I’m strong, too, dammit. I can take whatever shit he wants to give me. Yes, I love him that much.

So, yesterday morning we woke up and planned our day - racquetball, movies, Rosita’s Mexican restaurant and drinks. I made some pancakes, we ate our vitamins and he had his morning cigarette. He announced to me very ceremoniously, this would be his last one. He was quitting. I told him to enjoy it. He decided there was no longer an excuse to continue. He quit his job where for the past year, he's been working with a bunch of smokers; I envision packs of winged, glorious cigarettes flying around the workplace all day and all night. Who could blame him? Alcoholics don’t remain bartenders for a reason.

The movie we went to see was Constantine. The first scene, where Keanu Reaves lights up and walks in the girls house to excorsize her, he leans over and says, "I picked a bad day to quit smoking." I wanted a cigarette when that movie was over, never mind the blood spitting and the black lungs, and I don't even smoke. It was akin to going to see Coffee & Cigarettes while trying to quit cold turkey (a MUCH better movie to spend your money on, by the way). So, on the way to the restaurant, David warned me. He said he was feeling anxious, antsy and thought it would be a good idea for me to just be mindful of the needles. I can respect that so I kept my mouth shut, for the most part. Dinner went well, with the help of a couple Negra Modelo’s. On the way home is when things got difficult. I wanted to stop for a box of Nicoderm patches and wine, he wanted to be dropped off at home so he could go ahead and have one more smoke. It was too late for the patch, he said, he needed a cigarette. One. Last. Cigarette. I tried to be convincing and sneaky, I tried to get him to just hold tight and come to the store with me. At the light where I should’ve turned to go to our apartment, but was heading straight instead, he saw I was holding him hostage and opened the car door right there at the light and walked home. I went on the store for the stuff and when I came home he was sitting on the step. I was a little nervous, considering his state of mind at the light. Apparently he forgot about the key we hid above the door. But the walk did him good and he felt much better. He did smoke that last cigarette, but his belly hurt from it and he followed it up with his first patch.

Good luck, baby.

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