Category: Uncategorized

A perhaps silly and random bit of happiness

You know how there are breakups, bad breakups, and then breakups that are so catastrophic to your nervous system that you wonder if you’ll actually survive?

I’ve had only one of those Category 3 breakups, and I remember a lot of being led around by other people in the aftermath. I made some dreadful decisions and choices and failed to do a lot of right things. But I did survive, and it was all so long ago that I rarely think about it anymore. I’ve had a lot of wonderful, intense life in the interim, and at some point everyone deserves to forgive herself for her stupidity and bad judgment.

Tuesday I discovered a certain TV show thanks to Netflix and while watching an episode or two of it, one of the actors kept tickling my memory banks. Then a name came to me, a name I hadn’t thought of in years and probably couldn’t have remembered if I’d tried. The actor in this show reminded me of a person I met during the post-Category 3 period.

One night friends took me to a bar–in Auburn, Alabama, of all places; boy, was I out of my territory–and I kept catching a tall, somewhat lanky guy watching me. He was cute and looked good leaning against the wall of the bar, beer in hand. Considering the breakup I’d just been through, however, my reaction was to ask my friends if we could leave. Immediately. Instead, they invited him to join us. And he was a super, super nice guy. Smart. In graduate school in one of the more mathematical/scientific fields. (I was a graduate student in English at the time–rival university, of course.) Anyway, we went out a few times, and there was no way he could avoid hearing some of my shell-shocked back story. And it was fine, because he was recently divorced. He hadn’t wanted the divorce. It was obvious he was still in love with her.

In time, he suggested that I might be getting too serious about him, and geography and where we both were in our lives made that not such a great idea. I could have laughed and told him there was no danger of that; I was still way too emotionally invested in the relationship I’d so recently lost. But sometimes it’s better just to go with grace; not all truths have to be told. So it ended gently, no hard feelings, not even a Category 1. I doubt that I’ve thought of him more than half a dozen times in the years since, and then always with gratitude that he was a gentleman who never said or did an unkind thing to me. He was a reminder that men of his caliber existed at a time when I needed to believe it.

When his name came to mind because of the TV show, on a whim, I googled him. It’s not an uncommon name, so I wasn’t too hopeful. But I found him almost instantly, including photos, because he’s part of a group of people drawn together by a somewhat adventurous, outdoorsy pastime, and one of those people blogs. And I was THRILLED when this blogger also mentioned Mr. Gentleman’s wife’s name–because hers IS an unusual name, and it lets me know that he and his ex got back together.

She must have realized he’s a keeper. I hope they’ve had years and years of happiness with each other.

Celebrity Rehab

In the days when I used to work outside my home, I would wonder why anyone who didn’t have to would be on the roads, particularly during rush hour. And when it rained–forget about it. So now when we have a dreary, rainy day like Houston is experiencing today, I do commuters and errand-runners a favor and stay home and out of their way. You’re welcome.

However, having a pot of soup simmering on the stove, a few warm canine bodies around me, and the sound of the rain outside makes me want to sleeeeeep. But I’ve been good. Lots of business-type stuff taken care of, then it was–SEWING HOUR! Sewing hour-plus, in fact.

Sometime last summer, when I was in the thrift store from hell, I looked into their bin o’ battered Barbies, and found a couple of celebrities. Today seemed like a good day for the two to get baths, shampoos, a blow dry, and some touching-up with the curling iron. Then I dug into a clean stack of worn socks that Tom donated a while back, went to the sewing machine, and VOILA! Celebrity rehab!


Mattel’s 1999 Mary-Kate Olsen doll, released when the twins were 13,
and Yaboom/Play Along Toys’ Christina Aguilera doll from 2000.

Photo taken in front of an unfinished painting by Timothy J. Lambert.

And just like that, he became the rainman of puzzles

Loyal readers (you’re still here, right?) may recall when we went through a period of doing jigsaw puzzles at The Compound. Tom’s parents sent us one this past Christmas, and one Saturday morning, Tom started it, getting the entire outside of the circle and the innermost center part done before I even dragged myself out of bed. It stayed that way about a week, and each time I passed it, I’d think, Hey, I should do some of that puzzle. On one of those occasions, I walked by it about an hour later, and the thing was completely done. Tom’s like a puzzle savant!

For some reason, that rapid puzzle thing made me think of tests, and how I never do well when asked to figure out shit like this:

If + =

then

+ =

a.
b.
c.
d.

Whatever. Or word tests that say things like: refrigerator is to food as wallpaper is to
a. llama
b. tooth
c. taxi
d. astronaut

One time I had this roommate who was getting her degree in some education field and whatever class she was taking, she needed volunteers to take IQ tests. And even though I hate these kinds of tests with every fiber of my being, you do stuff for your friends even when you know you shouldn’t. At least this one wouldn’t end up with police questioning or an empty bank account. Not that I have any experience with those consequences.

I took my test and I scored about what I thought I should score and nobody was going to give me any Nobel prizes for physics but who cared because I could use physics correctly in a sentence and I was the Supreme Ruler of Apostrophes. How much glory can one person handle?

However, I made a fatal error. I also let her test my mother. What was I thinking? Because then, of course, I was consumed with the desire to know how my mother’s score compared to mine. Therefore I began a campaign of roommate torment that would only end if she would JUST TELL ME ALREADY, I CAN TAKE IT.

Moral of the story: No children, unless they are born to Marie Curie or Susan Sontag, need to hear that their mothers got a higher score than they did on an IQ test.