Friday, December 7, 2007

Episode V: The Empire’s Stripe’s Black

Funny-haha is me coming home tonight and realizing the house is empty. Now, I live with three other people. Co-workers, to be exact. Sometimes there is more depending on who's staying in the backroom (that's not a euphemism, there really is a backroom . . . ) or in the apartment also in the back of the house. Actually, you might call this place more of a hostel than a house. And even then, there's a lot of people here.

Anywho, Law of Averages dictates that with that many people living in one place at any given time you will always come home to SOMEONE already being there. So imagine my surprise when I waltz in the backdoor (no, I mean it – seriously – that's not a euphemism either) to an entirely empty house save my kitten. Once her angry yells expressing exactly how upset and generally displeased she was with being left alone yet AGAIN were sated (usually done by picking her up and snuggling just long enough to remind her she's angry at me), I realized there was only one thing I could do in an empty Victorian house the size of a small Greek city-state: Run around tearing my clothes off and sit upon things inappropriate to sit upon when one is naked. What with the weather turning colder, you might expect this to be a chilly experience but let me tell you that once you start building up a sweat, you really don't notice the breeze. Our new couch has a texture I can only describe as, "sensuous."

See, what's REALLY funny-haha is that I'm fairly certain my roommates read my blog. Right now, as you read this, they're silently trying to decide if I actually DID race around the house buck-ass nude singing, "Magic" by the Cars or not. Not satisfied with simple dismissal, at least one of them will wrestle with this idea (and likely cringe as it sprouts and takes seed in their minds – no pun intended) for much longer than they will ever feel comfortable doing. I can guarantee that right now at least one of them sitting on the same couch, ye likely in the same spot, as sat my unclothe-ed butt only hours before. Right now, she is likely (and quickly) contemplating whether or not it's inappropriate to throw her laptop clear across the living room, leap from that spot yelling, "Unclean! Unclean!!!" then tear into her room to shower, change clothes and then burn the sofa cover. True glee is knowing this - and knowing she is powerless to decipher the truth.

Alright, I won't say what I actually did but I will admit that Bob Seger was playing and I may or may not have actually been in my socks & underwear . . . No one but my kitten knows for sure; and I'm managing to buy her silence with saucers of lactose-free cat-milk. . . . What? Like you wouldn't? C'mon, the floors here are perfect.

I'm trying to keep this entry fairly BRT Comment-free. I do so partly because a person's experience is not solely limited to their experience at their job, even when they've moved to a new area specifically for afore-mentioned job. But mostly because, with my current mindset, the blog entry would be something like, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" and who wants to read that?

Details would bore you, trust me. No one's job is without trials. No one's lives are without hardships. If I spent every blog entry bitching about how this is difficult or working that long to make that silly thing was dumb, I'd have less friends reading my blog and I'd probably have less friends. Frankly, though it solves few problems, I'm tired of crying and moaning and bitching about my job this week (I know, it's only Monday). Yes, it's stressful. Yes, this show will suck. I'll deal with it. Still, not to withhold all details of the ongoing saga of Mrs. Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge, allow me to tell you of my job these past two weeks by way of an Expressionist piece:


"When will our garden grow, Jake?"

"You want a garden NOW? It's autumn. Usually perennials are planted . . ."

"When will our garden grow, Jake?"

"Well, the soil's not right here to grow the kinds of flowers you're asking me to grow. Now, . . . "

"When will our garden grow, Jake?"

"See, I really don't have enough seeds to grow an entire garden. A flower bed, maybe; or some nice window treatments. . . ."

"When will our garden grow, Jake?"

"One watering can won't be enough . . . "

"When will our garden grow, Jake?"


"When will our garden grow, Jake?"



On a much brighter note, I HAVE A NIECE!!! I'm an uncle!!! Yes, October 4th my sister-in-law gave birth to Elizabeth Rose Rothermel. Izzy (as I will insist she be colloquially known) weighed 6lbs and 7ozs and looked like a water-logged sponge in most of her pictures. I'm sorry, but newborns are not cute. What we see on television are not newborns. At best they are a few weeks old. Even this past weekend when I went out to
Elizabethtown (my brother swears to me that wasn't on purpose, but I have my doubts) when she had successfully past the one week mark, she still looked a little too pink for my tastes. I thought of asking if she could be put back to cook a little longer but decided that would have been in bad taste.

Still, despite the wrinkle factor, she still managed to be the cutest damn thing I've ever seen. Let me say that while newborns themselves may not be collectively adorable in all their traits, their pinkies are. Izzy has the cutest little hands. It is not often I will become soft and sappy during my ramblings here, but when talking about my kitten or my new niece I will fully avail myself to the more sugary language.

My brother, not usually one to seem soft himself, looks completely at ease and natural being a father. I thought it would weird me out, but I found I was actually very comfortable with the idea. Like many things in his life, my brother has always managed a very Zen outlook. Maybe it was being home with his wife and newborn for a straight week that forced him to come to terms with fatherhood. Maybe he's spent the past nine months really psyching himself up for it all. Maybe it all just clicked. I don't know. But seeing him this past weekend holding his daughter like she was both the most normal thing in his day and simultaneously like she was the most precious commodity he'd ever hold in his life, it became clear to me that Fate chose the right Rothermel to hand a child to. I understand Izzy's martial arts classes start next week. Sam apologized to me for letting them start so late. Under the circumstances, I said I could understand how he could have let them slip this long. She'll just have to train all the much harder to make up for the lost time. He agreed.

Relax Stef, I didn't actually sit naked in your spot on the couch . . . Or did I?

Good night. And good luck.

No comments: