"You must remember this…"

She was lying on her back. On her bed. By the open window, which let in the cool night wind. It was March. Or April. I had been coming over like this for a few nights. After work. After midnight. I was never sure if her parents were OK with this. Or if they even knew. I would find out later the answer to both was no.

I wasn’t sure what this was. But I knew I liked it. I knew I didn’t want these nights to stop. We would just talk. For hours. About everything or nothing at all. Then I would leave.

On this night, there was a pause in the conversation. I couldn’t tell you now if it was five seconds or five minutes. Probably somewhere in between. The radio played softly in the background, as it always did on these nights. The room was dark, as it usually was. But I could see the silhouette of her face. Against the background of the moonlit night. Which I had never noticed being so bright.

I looked at her. She appeared to be looking straight up toward the ceiling. I supposed she was thinking. I wondered what about. Her lips were slightly parted. I just sat there. Staring at her.

Then without even thinking, I leaned over her body and pressed my lips to hers. It just seemed right. I kissed her. For the very first time. She didn’t kiss back. Told me later it was because she was so surprised.

It was the most truly spontaneous first kiss I’ve ever experienced. Never wondered if I should. Never wondered if she wanted me to. I actually don’t remember thinking about it much at all. Which is odd for me. I usually overthink everything.

I don’t remember if we kissed again that night or not. It’s irrelevant anyway. But from that moment on, our relationship was never the same. A little over two years after that kiss, we were engaged. Two more years, and we weren’t anymore. Four times around the sun is a lot for anyone.

Sometimes a certain wind. A certain time of the year… I’ll be driving with the windows down. And that same cool night air will hit me. And remind me. And I can almost see her silhouette. Just beyond the headlights. Just beyond my grasp.

It wasn’t my first kiss. Nor my last. But out of ten thousand kisses, there are a precious few that you never forget.

“I worked so hard for that first kiss. And a heart don’t forget something like that…”

“You must remember this…”

She was lying on her back. On her bed. By the open window, which let in the cool night wind. It was March. Or April. I had been coming over like this for a few nights. After work. After midnight. I was never sure if her parents were OK with this. Or if they even knew. I would find out later the answer to both was no.

I wasn’t sure what this was. But I knew I liked it. I knew I didn’t want these nights to stop. We would just talk. For hours. About everything or nothing at all. Then I would leave.

On this night, there was a pause in the conversation. I couldn’t tell you now if it was five seconds or five minutes. Probably somewhere in between. The radio played softly in the background, as it always did on these nights. The room was dark, as it usually was. But I could see the silhouette of her face. Against the background of the moonlit night. Which I had never noticed being so bright.

I looked at her. She appeared to be looking straight up toward the ceiling. I supposed she was thinking. I wondered what about. Her lips were slightly parted. I just sat there. Staring at her.

Then without even thinking, I leaned over her body and pressed my lips to hers. It just seemed right. I kissed her. For the very first time. She didn’t kiss back. Told me later it was because she was so surprised.

It was the most truly spontaneous first kiss I’ve ever experienced. Never wondered if I should. Never wondered if she wanted me to. I actually don’t remember thinking about it much at all. Which is odd for me. I usually overthink everything.

I don’t remember if we kissed again that night or not. It’s irrelevant anyway. But from that moment on, our relationship was never the same. A little over two years after that kiss, we were engaged. Two more years, and we weren’t anymore. Four times around the sun is a lot for anyone.

Sometimes a certain wind. A certain time of the year… I’ll be driving with the windows down. And that same cool night air will hit me. And remind me. And I can almost see her silhouette. Just beyond the headlights. Just beyond my grasp.

It wasn’t my first kiss. Nor my last. But out of ten thousand kisses, there are a precious few that you never forget.

“I worked so hard for that first kiss. And a heart don’t forget something like that…”

Shirt and shoes required

I have a friend, who I’m fairly sure does not read this blog. This friend, we’ll refer to him as Screech, has a problem. He has this one green shirt. Well, mostly green. And I’m almost positive he’s had it since high school. I’m not exaggerating. He still wears it. A lot. In public.

You probably know the shirts I’m talking about. Long-sleeved. Sort of polo style. They sometimes were multi-colored. The collar was usually like a white or a tan. Worst of all was that horrible denim-colored collar. Well, the collar on this one is sort of ridged. And the shirt is so old and has been washed so much that the collar curls up underneath itself.

So anyway, he has this green shirt and one other shirt. And those are the only two long-sleeved shirts I can ever remember seeing. Other than Alabama tshirts or sweatshirts. Like I stopped by Friday night for a bit. And he was wearing an Alabama tshirt. Those are fine. But I guess he considers those his casual wear for around the house or something. When it comes time to go out, here comes Mister Green Shirt. It’s like that’s his nice, going-out clothes. Ugh.

So what do I do? What can I do? I’ll be the first to admit I’m not on the cutting edge of fashion. Don’t really care to be. I know the basics. Black belt, black shoes. Brown belt, brown shoes. A few other things. But not much more. Everything I know or have learned about what’s in style, I’ve learned from girls. That’s where you come in.

Ladies, this is my plea to you. Help your guy friends. We can’t help ourselves, for the most part. And we sure can’t help each other. I can’t very well say to another guy, “You’re not gonna wear that shirt with those shoes, are you?” Or “I think you need to have one more look in the mirror, mister. I’m not going out with you looking like that.” I can’t. I won’t. It’s awkward. It’s wrong. But you, ladies. You have the power. We’ll listen to you. Heck, I’d probably still be walking around in Levi 505’s right now had some girl not shown me the light.

After all, why do guys even buy clothes? Why do we even care in the slightest what we wear? Simple. For women. That’s the only reason. If it was up to us, we’d all be walking around in our underwear and a white tshirt. Unshaven. Hair uncombed. It’s not like we’re trying to impress the other guys. You don’t believe me, go to a prison. No women there. No one shaves. No one combs their hair. Or stop by my house on any given Saturday. But, if you tell us you like it. And us in it. Chances are we’ll wear it. At least once.

So back to Screech. The problem is he’s not dating anyone. And I’m not sure how many female friends he has. But apparently the ones he does have aren’t doing their job. And as previously stated, I simply can’t say anything. That would be a direct violation of the hetero bylaws. So what’s left?

How about a fashion intervention? I think interventions are grossly underused in our society. Why should they be limited to alcoholics, addicts, and suicidals only? I say, if someone has a bad haircut, get some friends together, bring a mirror, and tell them about it. Someone’s house always a pig sty? Boom! Intervention. Bring some Endust. Someone still wearing his tapered leg jeans from 1989? Get a few friends together and confront him. Nothing like a Friday night with the guys, hanging out, and talking fashion.

Besides, there’s safety… and heterocity… in numbers.

Now, when and if the shirt issue is resolved, then we can get to work on the shoes.

“If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife. So from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you…”

Shirt and shoes required

I have a friend, who I’m fairly sure does not read this blog. This friend, we’ll refer to him as Screech, has a problem. He has this one green shirt. Well, mostly green. And I’m almost positive he’s had it since high school. I’m not exaggerating. He still wears it. A lot. In public.

You probably know the shirts I’m talking about. Long-sleeved. Sort of polo style. They sometimes were multi-colored. The collar was usually like a white or a tan. Worst of all was that horrible denim-colored collar. Well, the collar on this one is sort of ridged. And the shirt is so old and has been washed so much that the collar curls up underneath itself.

So anyway, he has this green shirt and one other shirt. And those are the only two long-sleeved shirts I can ever remember seeing. Other than Alabama tshirts or sweatshirts. Like I stopped by Friday night for a bit. And he was wearing an Alabama tshirt. Those are fine. But I guess he considers those his casual wear for around the house or something. When it comes time to go out, here comes Mister Green Shirt. It’s like that’s his nice, going-out clothes. Ugh.

So what do I do? What can I do? I’ll be the first to admit I’m not on the cutting edge of fashion. Don’t really care to be. I know the basics. Black belt, black shoes. Brown belt, brown shoes. A few other things. But not much more. Everything I know or have learned about what’s in style, I’ve learned from girls. That’s where you come in.

Ladies, this is my plea to you. Help your guy friends. We can’t help ourselves, for the most part. And we sure can’t help each other. I can’t very well say to another guy, “You’re not gonna wear that shirt with those shoes, are you?” Or “I think you need to have one more look in the mirror, mister. I’m not going out with you looking like that.” I can’t. I won’t. It’s awkward. It’s wrong. But you, ladies. You have the power. We’ll listen to you. Heck, I’d probably still be walking around in Levi 505’s right now had some girl not shown me the light.

After all, why do guys even buy clothes? Why do we even care in the slightest what we wear? Simple. For women. That’s the only reason. If it was up to us, we’d all be walking around in our underwear and a white tshirt. Unshaven. Hair uncombed. It’s not like we’re trying to impress the other guys. You don’t believe me, go to a prison. No women there. No one shaves. No one combs their hair. Or stop by my house on any given Saturday. But, if you tell us you like it. And us in it. Chances are we’ll wear it. At least once.

So back to Screech. The problem is he’s not dating anyone. And I’m not sure how many female friends he has. But apparently the ones he does have aren’t doing their job. And as previously stated, I simply can’t say anything. That would be a direct violation of the hetero bylaws. So what’s left?

How about a fashion intervention? I think interventions are grossly underused in our society. Why should they be limited to alcoholics, addicts, and suicidals only? I say, if someone has a bad haircut, get some friends together, bring a mirror, and tell them about it. Someone’s house always a pig sty? Boom! Intervention. Bring some Endust. Someone still wearing his tapered leg jeans from 1989? Get a few friends together and confront him. Nothing like a Friday night with the guys, hanging out, and talking fashion.

Besides, there’s safety… and heterocity… in numbers.

Now, when and if the shirt issue is resolved, then we can get to work on the shoes.

“If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife. So from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you…”

Falling

One lesson learned from yesterday’s post: Less is more.

Pia at Courting Destiny has been nominated for a Koufax Award for best writing. And no, she’s not paying me to mention it. Far as I know. We have a NYGH relationship. She whets my appetite for New York. I give her daily synopses of General Hospital. Hopefully she’ll never realize she’s getting the short end of that stick. Now on with today’s post…

The names you call me, I haven’t heard in so long. You make me feel interesting. And good. I’m beaten. Broken. Torn and tattered. But somehow you see through all that. You see something. What is it that you see? Could you show me, so I will know that’s still someone I could be?

I’m at the edge of a cliff. I have peeked over a time or two. You’re at the bottom. I think I want to fall. I think you’ll catch me. But what if you don’t? What if you can’t? What if you change your mind? I’ve taken this leap before. You might think it would get a little easier each time. But it gets harder instead. It feels safe here. But lonely. So I look again. I think I see your arms outstretched. Waiting for me.

Why do I feel like I’ll be drawn to your lips the instant I see them? I think I want to watch you breathing. I think I want to feel your heart beat. I think I want to know. I think way too much.

Wait. Don’t leave now.

Don’t ever…

“Darkness hangs overhead. Close to the point where angels fear to tread. I close my eyes and think of you instead. And pray you’ll be here soon…”

Falling

One lesson learned from yesterday’s post: Less is more.

Pia at Courting Destiny has been nominated for a Koufax Award for best writing. And no, she’s not paying me to mention it. Far as I know. We have a NYGH relationship. She whets my appetite for New York. I give her daily synopses of General Hospital. Hopefully she’ll never realize she’s getting the short end of that stick. Now on with today’s post…

The names you call me, I haven’t heard in so long. You make me feel interesting. And good. I’m beaten. Broken. Torn and tattered. But somehow you see through all that. You see something. What is it that you see? Could you show me, so I will know that’s still someone I could be?

I’m at the edge of a cliff. I have peeked over a time or two. You’re at the bottom. I think I want to fall. I think you’ll catch me. But what if you don’t? What if you can’t? What if you change your mind? I’ve taken this leap before. You might think it would get a little easier each time. But it gets harder instead. It feels safe here. But lonely. So I look again. I think I see your arms outstretched. Waiting for me.

Why do I feel like I’ll be drawn to your lips the instant I see them? I think I want to watch you breathing. I think I want to feel your heart beat. I think I want to know. I think way too much.

Wait. Don’t leave now.

Don’t ever…

“Darkness hangs overhead. Close to the point where angels fear to tread. I close my eyes and think of you instead. And pray you’ll be here soon…”

I always believed…

I always believed in love. Always believed if I loved someone enough, I could win her over. I’ve poured my heart out in letters. Tossed pennies into fountains. Left notes under windshield wipers. Fought losing battles. Trusted. When every sign and everybody told me not to. All for the chance. The hope. I always believed in love. But maybe I’ve been poisoned by movies and fairy-tale endings. Always just wanted to be Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle.

So why do I always end up feeling more like Bill Pullman?

“Sometimes you can still lose even if you really try…”

I always believed…

I always believed in love. Always believed if I loved someone enough, I could win her over. I’ve poured my heart out in letters. Tossed pennies into fountains. Left notes under windshield wipers. Fought losing battles. Trusted. When every sign and everybody told me not to. All for the chance. The hope. I always believed in love. But maybe I’ve been poisoned by movies and fairy-tale endings. Always just wanted to be Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle.

So why do I always end up feeling more like Bill Pullman?

“Sometimes you can still lose even if you really try…”

This blog is not meteor-proof

Monday night has become my TV night. My night to unwind and recover from the weekend. After 24, which was better than last week but still getting increasingly far-fetched, and not in the ways you might think, I watched the replay of General Hospital on SoapNet.

Robin has apparently caught the virus. Near the end of the episode, someone had sent a vial of the antidote to GH. They switched from them opening the package to a shot of someone in black gloves. With like a whole box of vials. Then, they showed her. I wasn’t for sure who it was, but only one name came to mind. Could it be? It’s been years. So I went here. Sure enough. It’s her. Holly is back.

Since probably 98% of you have no idea who that is and/or don’t care, I’ll move on now and spare you my full three-page synopsis of yesterday’s episode. I’ve been in a creative drought lately. I sit and stare at the blogger create-a-post screen. My mind is barren. Empty. Like the pages of Gary Coleman’s little black book. Then when I do type, it ends up reading like the minutes from an Elks Lodge meeting. Boring.

I have enjoyed the johari/nohari windows from yesterday. Although I wonder why several people picked “embarrassed” as one of my weaknesses. Even though I also picked it for myself. Then I was wondering about calling myself modest. Is that some sort of paradox in itself?

Changing gears… Something I don’t understand is all these impossible, cartoon-like truck commercials I’ve been seeing lately. Perhaps you’ve seen some of them. In one, a truck gets hit by a meteorite. In another, a truck gets washed out to sea. Then there’s one where they dump a ton of trash on a truck. Completely bury it. And in all three cases, the trucks drive away.

First of all, they all start with some sort of message saying this is a dramatization, or this isn’t real. So, basically, what they’re saying is, “Our truck won’t really do this. We just thought it was kinda cool lookin.” Second of all, what planet are these people on that meteorites are such a concern to the prospective truck-buying public? And lastly, who are they marketing to? Although I’m sure there’s some redneck watching, who has no idea what dramatization means, and thinks he’s getting a meteor-proof truck.

I guess I just don’t understand the purpose. Maybe I’m too logical. Whatever happened to horsepower? Payload capacity? Towing package? Miles per gallon? Cost? You don’t see jeans commercials where some guy in a pair of Levis gets attacked by a pack of rabid wild dogs, then set on fire, finds himself in the middle of a gang war, gets shot in the leg. Yet escapes, gets home, and his jeans are like new.

Oh, and there’s one more where this truck is getting slightly crushed from the front and back by two bulldozers. Yeah, thanks for that. If I ever find myself sandwiched between two bulldozers, each creeping towards me at 2 miles per hour, I hope I’ll have enough swiftness (and incentive) to undo my seatbelt, remove my Hans device, and climb out the window.

Yep, it’s NASCAR season…

“We took one more trip around the sun, but it was all make believe in the end. No, I can’t say where she is today. I can’t remember who I was back then…”

This blog is not meteor-proof

Monday night has become my TV night. My night to unwind and recover from the weekend. After 24, which was better than last week but still getting increasingly far-fetched, and not in the ways you might think, I watched the replay of General Hospital on SoapNet.

Robin has apparently caught the virus. Near the end of the episode, someone had sent a vial of the antidote to GH. They switched from them opening the package to a shot of someone in black gloves. With like a whole box of vials. Then, they showed her. I wasn’t for sure who it was, but only one name came to mind. Could it be? It’s been years. So I went here. Sure enough. It’s her. Holly is back.

Since probably 98% of you have no idea who that is and/or don’t care, I’ll move on now and spare you my full three-page synopsis of yesterday’s episode. I’ve been in a creative drought lately. I sit and stare at the blogger create-a-post screen. My mind is barren. Empty. Like the pages of Gary Coleman’s little black book. Then when I do type, it ends up reading like the minutes from an Elks Lodge meeting. Boring.

I have enjoyed the johari/nohari windows from yesterday. Although I wonder why several people picked “embarrassed” as one of my weaknesses. Even though I also picked it for myself. Then I was wondering about calling myself modest. Is that some sort of paradox in itself?

Changing gears… Something I don’t understand is all these impossible, cartoon-like truck commercials I’ve been seeing lately. Perhaps you’ve seen some of them. In one, a truck gets hit by a meteorite. In another, a truck gets washed out to sea. Then there’s one where they dump a ton of trash on a truck. Completely bury it. And in all three cases, the trucks drive away.

First of all, they all start with some sort of message saying this is a dramatization, or this isn’t real. So, basically, what they’re saying is, “Our truck won’t really do this. We just thought it was kinda cool lookin.” Second of all, what planet are these people on that meteorites are such a concern to the prospective truck-buying public? And lastly, who are they marketing to? Although I’m sure there’s some redneck watching, who has no idea what dramatization means, and thinks he’s getting a meteor-proof truck.

I guess I just don’t understand the purpose. Maybe I’m too logical. Whatever happened to horsepower? Payload capacity? Towing package? Miles per gallon? Cost? You don’t see jeans commercials where some guy in a pair of Levis gets attacked by a pack of rabid wild dogs, then set on fire, finds himself in the middle of a gang war, gets shot in the leg. Yet escapes, gets home, and his jeans are like new.

Oh, and there’s one more where this truck is getting slightly crushed from the front and back by two bulldozers. Yeah, thanks for that. If I ever find myself sandwiched between two bulldozers, each creeping towards me at 2 miles per hour, I hope I’ll have enough swiftness (and incentive) to undo my seatbelt, remove my Hans device, and climb out the window.

Yep, it’s NASCAR season…

“We took one more trip around the sun, but it was all make believe in the end. No, I can’t say where she is today. I can’t remember who I was back then…”