The Last Sunday in January

I awoke with the sun this morning. Jeremy just got up to have his morning pee. In the immortal words of my younger brother, “not everybody takes a shit every morning, but everybody in the world has to pee.” Indeed. Nearly as soon as he left my side the dog, which had been sleeping on the floor next to my side of the bed, stood up walked around the bed and without any introductions, jumped right onto the place Dan had just left warm with the heat of his slumber. Resisting the sun I moved closer to my new bed mate and attempted a few more minutes of rest. He was much smellier than I was used to sleeping next to, but then again I have refused to wear deodorant or perfume for years, a custom which has become so ingrained in our culture that to disregard that rule becomes almost as unspeakable as incest or parricide. It is hard to understand how wearing a substance that makes my underarms smell like rain became a necessary part of modern society, but that is where we’ve landed. Either way, the dog most certainly has slept next to people whose odor was sweeter than my au naturale scent I have been trying to promote, rather unsuccessfully, for years, but he has more than likely smelled worse, and he moved a little closer so as to absorb my heat more efficiently.

Virgil, our friend’s dog, is a nice companionable dog who is neither incredibly friendly nor incredibly unfriendly. He had never really noticed me before this week. I had met him several times during the summer and he never so much as looked in my direction, but he has recently decided that I would make a great partner in the crime of lazy weekends of which we are both huge fans.

I was invited to breakfast with Dan and Ryan, his best friend from the age of three,, before their hiking epic of the day. So I dressed, or dressed in a fashion by throwing on a pair of socks and ambling downstairs in my pajamas without saying much of anything to the man I share my bed and much of my life with. I waited for Jeremy to take Virgil out to pee, and hopefully poop as he had neglected to do so all day yesterday, until I realized that he was too caught up in packing and planning and did it myself.

Even though I grew up in the middle of nowhere in the cold and frozen parts of the country, I am always caught unawares by just how cold it is the morning after a cold night during the deepest depth of winter. My mind refuses to this day to believe that the sun does not always mean a warm day, and in the winter without the insulation of the clouds, a sunny day is usually even colder. Virgil didn’t like the cold winter air either judging by the fact that he didn’t want to stop moving long enough even to pee until we were nearly back to our house when he must have decided it would be better to be cold for thirty seconds than have to pee all day. It was sunny, so by noon when or if I was ready to hike it would be much warmer. We both shuffled back into the house frozen. Still no poop.

In our coastal town there are few establishments of any kind open year round. Most businesses just stay open for the summer and cut their losses and hole up in little houses with wood stoves, or if they’re lucky, they escape to warmer and more civilized locales during the winter. I prefer a lack of civilization myself, so I chose the former. This morning in particular I mildly regretted my decision. The three of us Ryan, Dan and myself, were looking forward to a delicious breakfast made at what I am convinced is the most underrated breakfast location in the country, Two Cats. They are open all year; use fresh and real ingredients and have a well lit and laid back dining area. They also have the most deliciously innovative recipes and new takes on your traditional favorites. And did I mention delicious yet? The first time I went there was the morning after the Fourth of July and I was so hung over that I threw up the carrot and water I had used to try to quiet my stomach until the food arrived. The wait staff, if they noticed, seemed not to be bothered by this, as if that sort of thing happens all the time, which I doubt. My vomit wasn’t repulsive being made of two benign ingredients and the food that arrived at our table shortly thereafter was so good as to entirely shadow the experience of throwing up carroty water behind a restaurant at ten in the morning. “It’s going to be so delicious it will be like four cats” Ryan kept repeating all morning. “It will be five cats it’ll be so good.” But when we arrived there were no cats. They were 'unexpectedly closed for the season and will reopen in April,' so we went to the only other place that was open, a crummy diner-like place attached to a convenience store, gas station, laundromat bonanza. The food was average and we all left full more of butter than of real food. “Well that was definitely Five Cats” Ryan remarked as we headed to separate cars. They went for their hike, and I headed back to my house and the dog.

I had planned on hiking all day with a friend who lived an hour North, but he never showed up, and I was able to enjoy the soul of a Sunday that can only be felt while doing nothing and basking in the glory of that nothingness for hours. He had visited me at work yesterday on my lunch break and mentioned something about his roommate finally deciding to move in tomorrow. He asked where we were hiking tomorrow. “Beech Mountain, it is the last mountain on the island that I haven’t hiked. The last that has trails on it at least.” Now that it was tomorrow, I can only assume that he either decided to help his roommate move in or he happened to go outside and realized that it was too cold for a short walk around his house not to mention a long hike which would be light and enjoyable during the summer or fall months, but made arduous by the wind, crusty snow, and freezing temperatures of January.

Sunday and January two such intimately related concepts that it is hard to think of a January without Sundays. Of all the January’s I remember during my childhood I can only remember Sundays. January Sundays are always cold and usually gray and windless. All of my January Sundays were at least, but this Sunday was the exception; unseasonably cold, sunny and beautiful and still all I wanted to do was cuddle with the smelly dog and read books until Dan came back so I could bake bread and drink beer. It’s no wonder that Sunday is a day most people reserve for God. As Virgil twitches from his dreams on the floor and I lay in a sunlit room on an overly large couch it is hard to see anything else but a profound spirituality in the still of a cold and sunny Sunday alone.

Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea

This is the second Chelsea Handler book I have read. There are only two, so I will have to read something more intellectually stimulating than stories about midgets, redheads, the horrors of aging parents next, but this, if possible is actually even funnier than the last one. I especially liked the chapter about when she dated a redhead. I myself am dating a redhead, but he refuses to admit to his handicap. It’s true that his hair has gotten to be a color closer to a sand color as he’s aged, but his beard and pubic hair are both still a little too red to be called ‘dirty blonde’ like he wishes they were. I remember having a conversation about how he is most definitely a redhead while getting drunk with my friends. After numerous attempts to deny his gingerness, I started yelling “Red. Your hair is red! I find them in my vagina!” while my friends laughed uncontrollably at him. I mean the guy has red pubes. That makes him a redhead.

Anyways, this memoir (I call it a memoir because I am assuming that the stories are at least partially true, and if you want to purchase either of her novels at your local Borders you would look for them in the memoir section) was much less depressing than the first ‘My Horizontal Life,’ which was upbeat about how silly and slutty her actions were at first, but ended with her feeling like she should put an end to her shenanigans and get married but doubting if anybody could ever take her seriously when she can’t even take herself seriously. I mean she is a comedian… She doesn’t need to be serious. She is paid not to be.

I was once again left with the impression that I could have written this if I were funnier, crazier, and more willing to share the stories that literally make me sick to think of. I have stories that are just as funny, embarrassing, and insane as hers, but I don’t feel like sharing them with the world. Chelsea Handler has balls. Also, every time I tell a story that is funny in my head it comes out sounding like total idiocy. I have taken to letting other people tell my stories for me because they do a better job with them and usually embellish just enough so as to make my craziness seem likable and fun rather than off-putting and offensive. But those things aside, I could totally have written this. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

The bottom line is similar to that of her first novel/memoir. This is not a piece of literature nor is it intended to be. It is hilarious, interesting, a quick read and totally worthwhile. As long as you do not intend your brain to get any exercise while reading it most anybody will be able to enjoy this book. Unless you’re a prude, then you should probably just be a social recluse and not burden society with your lack of a sense of humor and ability to allow anything to be fun. Or you can join the Republican Party.

My Horizontal Life

The same day that I bought Ana Karenina I finished reading Chelsea Handler's collection of one night stands and barely remembered vodka induced shenanigans. I feel like I could easily have written this book. It certainly makes me miss my vodka induced shenanigans and one night stands and just drunken whoreishness (not a real word, but should be). Like the time that I got so drunk that, on the way to the bathroom, I pulled down my own pants, peed on the floor, and then passed out in my own piss where campus security found me much later. My friend Ben then tried, unsuccessfully, to start a rumor around campus that I hadn't actually peed in the hallway but that Ronnie, another friend, pulled my pants down and peed on my and then ran away. I'm not sure which version is worse, but neither is flattering. This was, of course, during my vodka and wine phase where I would drink shitty cheap vodka out of a plastic jug and chase it with box wine. I would love to go on for days like this but this is probably one of the highlights so we'll leave it there.

Either way, Chelsea Handler has an honest and hilarious perspective on the world and reading her sexploits makes me miss both my own sexploits and my drunken idiocy. MEMORIES! Not good ones, but they're... well they aren't there. I do remember the after effects. I am looking forward to reading her next novel Are You There Vodka, It's Me Chelsea.

Bright Lights, Big City

This is a book I have been meaning to read for a long time. It is post beat style writing, and like much of the work of the Beat Generation also about New York City, drugs and loss. It is about the City, and pointless jobs and more loss. The writing style was mostly in the second person. It was interesting to read. I heard Mark Twight compare one of the essays he wrote about some mountaineering trip to the style of this novel. It makes sense now. I got a staff copy for free from Vintage Books and now refuse to part with it. It is a super quick read, well written and laugh out loud funny (if you have a dark sense of humor). I believe the commentary inside called it a 'modern classic' or the like. I entirely agree.

This Poem is a Cliché

I washed my hands for ten minutes today to watch them turn red like lobster’s claws. The change over time isn’t even noticeable. Time, it’s just sand in the wind. Don’t let them tell you life is short. It took forever to turn my fucking hands red under a faucet of scalding hot water, and I’ve had one hell of a ride so far. I think I’ve lived twice as much life as you and you’re the one saying it’s short. You still have that pretty girlfriend right? The one you’d rather fuck than me. The one you can’t leave because she’ll have a nervous breakdown, an emotional meltdown, and while we’re both down, in the dumps that is, hows about we talk about this. No, I want to talk about it I don’t see anyfuckingreason not to. Let’s bake this Clam, and blow this Popsicle stand, and while we’re at it ‘Ahoy, there’s land.’ Let’s get out for a walk. I’ve always liked sunset walks on the beach. That’ll be my personal ad in the paper ‘loves sunset walks on the beach with you.’ I don’t believe you when you say you love me. Beauty can be measured by looks, that’s what beauty is, skin deep, and we both know I’m no brown eyed girl, no buxom beauty, no dream girl. I bet if you’d let me though, I’d make your toes curl. But love is the most beautiful flower of all, even more than the red red rose. When I want something to grow, I put shit on it. Real shit’s the best. So let’s shit on our love and watch it grow, baby. If I live twice the life, I wonder if that means that I only have to do it for half as long? Seventy is the average life expectancy; I’m shooting for thirty-five. Fuck it, thirty. Who wants to live forever? I’d use the sorcerer’s stone to throw through your window to see you look out at me. They thought Florida held the fountain of youth. Tell that to the retirement communities down there. Doesn’t seem to do them any good. You think this is how I feel, and you think I hate your smile and smell, dear. But that’s what I am, and I’m really just caught in your headlights. The cornered animal fights the wildest, and like a caged beast I’m fighting against you, so hard you can see my fingernails scraped off on the side of your cage. There isn’t a key, because I gave it to you, and it was lost before it was gone, and my heart is gone, too, but what? Is it just my fingertips or is it all of the parts you’ve touched? Your hands are an acid to my skin that burns forever after it’s gone. My hands are white now, the water dry, and you don’t even know how much I’ve hated you in your absence. You don’t know how much I’d love to smell your skin, and I am just a walking cliché when it comes to you. A comet may only come once in a lifetime, but I don’t know of any lifetime that has what we had. Just throwing caution to the wind, don’t give away any part of yourself that you need to survive. A pound of flesh, but what part to give, I like my ears, my eyes. I need my hands, my feet, so I gave you the thing that makes us bleed. And you still have me hypnotized. Your bones and flesh my home. I’ve given my heart with both hands.