Repost: Something Old Made New Again

You might notice that after some suggestions about readability and the overwhelming appearance of some of my posts I’ve change things up a bit around here.  I’m quite pleased with the final effect, although deep down I feel a bit sneaky hiding the real length of my posts behind a break.  Oh well.

So…two things:

  1. Tonight starts the new season of funnies on TV, and I’m watching How I Met Your Mother (my third favorite show on network television) plus the good stuff that comes after it while I wait for Castle (my second favorite show on network television).  I kinda miss having Big Bang Theory (my favorite show on network television) on Mondays as well, but thanks to the power of DVR, it’s not like it actually matters most of the time anyway.
      
  2. Less fun, I’ve had some issues recently with stuff being hijacked off of deadcharming.com which escalated over this last weekend.  In order to prevent those posts from appearing abandoned, I’ve decided to repost the choice pieces here and eventually mothball that old site altogether.Which also happens to let me TOTALLY cheat out tonight and repost something, thereby fulfilling my wordcount requirement and still letting me watch primetime.  Yay for cheesing the rules!

To be fair, I’ve significantly re-edited this post, as well as composed a new afterward that explains how things stand today compared to how things stood when I first wrote it.

I was in the same classroom with Miss V from the second grade until we graduated together from academy. Eleven years. She basically encapsulates my childhood and the journey to whatever was supposed to be beyond.

Assuming 40 weeks in a school year, at least eight hours a day, and add in time for Pathfinders camp-outs, church events, and the various non-school things we did together; I’d guesstimate that we spent about 20,000 hours together over the course of our lives. Of that, I hated her for roughly 10 hours; and I was completely in love with her for every minute of the remaining 19,990.

Number of times we talked on the phone: I’d guess over 100

Number of times we rode the ski-lift together: more than I can count

Number of times we “held hands” while ice skating: 8 (I only know this because I recently found one of my childhood journals)

Number of times we “officially” dated: 0

Number of times we kissed: 0

Number of times I saw her undressed: 2 

number of times she knew I saw her undressed: 0 (maybe 1, I’m not completely clear on all the details of the second time. I might have been “supposed” to see her that time, we were about thirteen…I’ll probably never know.)

Number of times she wrapped her arms around me in a swimming pool, grazed my neck with her lips and let me slide my hand under the “fun” part of her bikini bottoms: 1

Age of participants: 18

Number of significant-other’s that were CLEARLY cheated on during that event: 2

Moments of regret that I touched her while dating someone else: a few, but they’re fading every day.

Minutes of regret that we never really talked about how we felt about each other: exactly 9,161,280 (and counting).

There are so many memories about Miss V that trying to explain everything starts to whorl together in some kind of mental tornado of images and sounds and tastes and smells…and then her face, smiling at me like it did as a thirteen-year-old girl washes over everything. For a moment, I’m back to being that skinny, unconfident outsider I always felt like as a kid. And I’m comfortable, because we were always outsiders together.

In the summer before the second grade, my parents completed the process of moving me away from my friends and a school where I was comfortable in a class of dozens spread out into several classrooms; and off to a tiny little outpost of humanity and a school where I was one of six kids in my grade. There were three grades to a classroom…so my overall class size was about twenty, but my direct peer group was six kids. Three boys and three girls.

I will never forget the first day of school, the cliques had already been established, and I wasn’t a part of them. And let’s be honest, I didn’t want to be there, and they didn’t want me there because I didn’t want to be there…ah, vicious circles, aren’t they fun. I was the outsider. I didn’t fit in.

I didn’t fit in at all. I ate meat, I watched movies, my parents had cable and let me watch HBO, I was allowed to read fantasy stories (the teacher confiscated my copy of “The Black Cauldron” because it was EVIL!!!). I was WEIRD. Because I was different.

At lunch on the second day of school I opened my brown paper bag and discovered I had three Oreo cookies. REAL Oreo cookies, not the fake sunshine versions that weren’t made with lard. Miss V was sitting at the desk next to me, she took one look and asked if she “could have an Oreo.” There was an audible gasp in the room. Real Oreo’s were evil. NO ONE should eat real Oreos! They’re MADE WITH LARD!!! (another classmate actually said that out loud). I reluctantly gave her one, waiting for her to use it to make fun of me. She smiled at me and said “thanks,” and then turned back to her friends and kept talking like nothing was out of the ordinary. She ate the Oreo. I loved her from that moment on.

As time went on, things got better. I made friends, I found my place, I tried to become a normal part of the school/group/place I was in; but I never quite made it. I was never the “best friend,” I was never completely at ease, I was never totally a part of the clique. I never felt just like everyone else. I always felt just a little bit like an outsider.

It would be many years before I realized that half of the people in that room felt the same way. Like something was off, like the picture was just a little bit crooked. But I knew instinctively that Miss V shared that feeling with me. We didn’t talk about it for another twenty years, but from that first day, it bound us just a little bit together. Just a little.

The two of us were competitive. VERY competitive. If you could compete at it, we did. If you couldn’t compete at it, we still found a way. We always pushed each other, if not physically then figuratively. There were people who thought we hated each other because we never let up.

Only once did it ever cross the line from pushing to hurting; and though it tears me up, I was the one that hurt her. In the fourth grade girls are very sensitive to anything that might draw attention to ANYTHING about their bodies or their physical cycles. Using that knowledge I said one of the things I regret most in my life.

In small classrooms with few students, collective punishment is probably pretty common. In this case conflict that had cropped up between “the boys” and “the girls” had spilled over into some heated exchanges between several classmates during recess and the ultimate resolution was to sit all of us down in our desks and have us talk it out. There were only six of us after all.

The teacher left the room and instantly the arguments resumed. I have NO idea what we were arguing about. Trivial couldn’t possibly begin to describe it. All I know is that the two sharpest tongues in the room went into combat like a pair of fencers…mine and Miss V. I remember she told me that if I was “going to be a stupid child” that I “should just shut up.” To which I replied calmly that she should “shut up and take a Midol.” The guys both gave me a hearty “YEAH”…as though congratulating me on the power of my counter attack. Miss V recoiled like I had physically hit her, and then broke down into sobs and fled the room.

For the record, I was pretty hazy on what a Midol was actually USED for, but that wouldn’t have been any consolation to a young girl who had just had her first menstruation start the day before. Obviously, I didn’t know that…

I’d say it was about a month before she spoke to me again. I never got a chance to apologize, even though I felt terrible about it. It wasn’t until the first ski-day of the year that things started going back to normal. I rode up in the car with her, and by the time we got to the lodge, things were better. We competed on the slopes, and we rode the chairlift together all afternoon. We were back to pushing each other, and helping the other one up again.

A couple of years later she was doing children’s theater and she would call me after rehearsals. She told me they were doing “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” and I was excited because it was one of my favorite fairy tales from an old book my mom had given me. She wanted to know if it was any different from the story they were putting on, so I read it to her. Over the phone. As I’m writing this, I realize I have NO idea why I didn’t go see her perform, my parents certainly would have taken me…I was just too dumb to think of it I guess.

In the eighth grade I made another foolish comment that I would desperately like to take back. For whatever reason boys will pick on other boys about the girls they like. And no matter how much they like the girl, the boy will deny it. Why? I have NO idea. It was a small social circle, and maybe that was just exposing too much that was too personal…I don’t know.

I do know that after PE my friends were giving me “the business” about how much time I spent with Miss V, and teasing me that I liked her (which was painfully obvious to anyone) and for reasons I still can’t explain I said (with too much volume and intensity) “No I don’t! I like Emily you idiots!” Which was a lie. But since every single girl in our class heard it, I was pretty much stuck. I remember seeing the look in Miss V’s eyes as she walked out of the hallway where she’d heard me deny her. It still makes me physically sick, more than twenty years later.

Another thing we did together was Pathfinders. It’s a co-ed denominational version of Boy Scouts with all of the expected issues of hauling a dozen boys and girls ranging in age from eight to fourteen out into the woods. Hazing, tent raiding, ghost stories, sneaking off into the woods together…all that stuff. Miss V’s mom was a leader and that meant she didn’t miss a camp-out, no matter how uncool it was to head off to the woods. Somehow we always ended up spending about ninety percent of the time walking off together talking and laughing and ignoring the rest of the world.

All those hours together, all those hours alone with her, and not once did I tell her how I felt about her. Not once did I just take her hand and look her in the eyes and tell her I liked her. I was always afraid I wasn’t good enough, afraid she’d tell me I was just a friend, just blah. That I was just the uncool, unattractive little boy I was afraid I was. She was the only one who would call me on my shit, and it scared me too much to tell her how special I thought she was, how beautiful I thought she was, how wonderful every word she shared with me was.

Towards the end of eighth-grade, four of us went to a youth-rally in Portland. It was a long drive and we were leaving early in the morning, so her mom (who was the chaperon) decided all of us should spend the night at her house and leave together in the morning. The four of us spent about eight hours sitting on Miss V’s bed talking silly, laughing and enjoying time together. I came within a hair’s breadth of telling her everything, but there were other people there…it was both heaven and hell at the same time…I wanted to tell her, but I was too scared to do it in front of our friends.

Later that weekend, she bought an ice-cream sandwich. Sitting next to me in the front of the truck, practically on my lap, she finished half of it…licking the end of the ice-cream out of the cookie…and then asked me if I wanted to finish it. As stupid as it sounds, it was as close to a kiss as I ever got from her. I could taste her lip gloss on the cookie, and I can still smell her hair in my face.

I started high-school a week late. It’s a long story, but lets just say that once again, I managed to be the outsider. The first person I saw on campus was Miss V. It was the first moment of relief in a long uphill climb. High school sucks. High school where you live on campus with the entire student body (of about two hundred), shower in front of every guy you know, eat institutional vegetarian food, and can’t have caffeine in any form is just BRUTAL.

No matter what might have passed between us in the past, our circle of friends wasn’t particularly close at first. But we did work together for four hours every morning. She was the Boy’s Dean’s secretary and I was the desk monitor. I sat about ten feet away from her and as there was NOTHING else to do, once again, we spent many hours talking. And a few fighting, but mostly it was pretty relaxed. I heard about her boyfriend, about her girlfriends, about life away from home…and I pined for her silently. I smiled, we talked, same as always.

Our Sophomore year she tried going to a public high school near her mom, and I moved on and tried not to think about her as much as I had the year before. I had a couple of girlfriends, an absolutely crazy roommate, a better haircut, and a chance to realize that “cool” was as subjective as everything else. I found my footing, ran for class president, started working for the radio station, drank a WHOLE LOT of shitty beer, and discovered that life is good.

I don’t remember exactly when she came back…I’d guess it was around Christmas, but it might have been sooner. Regardless, neither of us was the same person by the time she returned. I think I caught her eye a couple of times, but I never knew at the time.

My junior year I met the girl who I would eventually marry and have children with, Miss H. We started a long distance relationship and for an entire year I was happily “off the market” and writing letters and making multi-hour phone calls every night. So much of that year is caught up with her that nothing else really penetrates. I know Miss V was there, and a friend, but everything is washed out in my memories with Miss H.

As a senior Miss H joined me at academy. I’ll talk about all that in other posts…what is relevant here is the last week before graduation. The senior class takes a trip together for a long weekend. As a group we went to central Oregon and stayed at a resort. Six to a condo, we really had the run of the place.

The last evening of the trip about half of us were in the pool, and Miss H was off with her friends enjoying some girl time. I was against the wall of the pool with one my close friends when Miss V and her best friend swam up and joined us. My friend had always been interested in Miss V’s friend, and they paired off as best they could. Miss V and I began reminiscing about all the years together. We talked for about an hour, and at one point she put her arms around me. For balance or support or…whatever.

Our friends got cold and hopped out of the pool to head off for the Sauna. Miss V and I climbed out and went off to the empty hot tub. After a few minutes sitting next to each other she climbed up over me a few inches to look over the wall and see if anyone was watching us. As she slid back down against me she grazed her lips over my neck and intentionally straddled my hand as it was resting on my leg. She looked into my eyes as my hand slid under her bikini bottom. As I touched her, her eyes half closed and she began to lean towards me…and then we heard the voice of one of the class sponsors and she slid away and sat down next to me.

I don’t write this part of our story to expose what was a really personal moment between us, but to highlight just how big of a dork I really was (and probably still am).

The next day Miss H (who didn’t suspect ANYTHING was between Miss V and I) sat on the bus home with her best friend and I ended up sitting with Miss V. We shared buffalo jerky, a couple of Dr. Peppers, and talked the whole way home. We talked of old times, funny things we remembered from grade school, and honestly, we were saying goodbye. We just didn’t know it. In a week we would graduate, and we didn’t know when we might see each other again. This was goodbye.

That night I gave Miss V a ride home. She asked if she could smoke and I said I didn’t care. I drove her back to her mom’s apartment and we stood outside for a few more minutes talking. Right at the end, I leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled back. I’ve never known why. I never had the strength to ask. The moment wasn’t right, and it didn’t happen. We were both dating other people. I never told her how I had always felt about her. I was still afraid I wasn’t good enough for her. Still afraid she’d reject me. And that was that. I will never forget the sound of the door closing behind her.

I saw her once, a year later. Miss H and I were on our Honeymoon at Disneyland and out of nowhere Miss V was calling our names. We stood and talked with her and her roommate for about ten minutes. When she found out it was our honeymoon she was clearly surprised. I was afraid she was going to say something about that moment in the pool…but she just smiled and politely found a reason for her and her friend to go.

As she walked away, I saw her give me a look…a look I hadn’t seen since the eighth grade. When I said I like Emily more than her.

Since then it’s been 9,161,300 minutes. And counting.

Like many stories we dredge up from our personal history, this one bears the chisel marks and rough edges that come from reshaping our history from what it was to how we remember it.  And like so much of our past, Facebook and social media means that not only do we all now live in a perpetual high-school reunion, our past become less what we want to remember it as, and more what other people perceived it to be.

Miss V is now a nurse who works in the neonatal unit of a large regional hospital (a detail that is personally significant to me) with a beautiful son and a happy marriage, which makes me unspeakably happy.  We want the best for the people that we love, and obviously I’ve truly loved her for a very long time.  I say that with a clear conscience and no conflict of personal interest.  Some people we can love as much for who they are as who they were in our personal history.  We just have to remember to see past the chisel marks and remember the real person underneath.

[Word Count: 880 (new) / 3447 (total)]

18 thoughts on “Repost: Something Old Made New Again

  1. To be honest, now that I’m indeed FIRST, I’ve never understood the concept. Is it supposed to increase a person’s own popularity and recognition amongst other readers (the idea being that if my comment is first, it will likely be read by every other commenter that follows)? Or is it an attention getter for the blog poster? A kind of “Hey look at me! I’m such a big fan of your blog that I was the first person to read and comment on what you’ve written! We should be best friends.” Either way, limiting the comment to a single word (followed by any number of !!!!!!!!s) seems to defeat the purpose.

    Carry on…

    /end query/

    Old forums (and even older newsgroups) had a sort of hierarchy of nerdness based on obsessive lurking. Remember that in “the olden days” lurking generally meant being in the computer lab waiting for someone else in a computer lab to post something (literally, lurking about the lab).

    Those who could claim “First” were the ones who NEVER LEFT. They were also why computer labs started providing deodorant and free hotel sized bars of soap in a little basket by the door…

    Then the internet became something people had at home.

    Then came slashdot and 4chan.

    Now kids who have no concept of a time when the internet was the province of large rooms on college campuses gather around and post “FIRST!!!” because someone else did. Sorta like why people hit each other when they see a volkswagon…

  2. This was beautiful. Really beautiful.

    Thanks, I’ve always thought this was the third best blog post I ever wrote.

    And yet it made me feel like crap.

    Um, that’s not the feedback I usually get…wow, I’m not sure what to say. Sorry?

    Oh the paradoxes of life

  3. No sorry necessary- well, not from you. From me, yes- Sorry! It’s my own issues making me feel like crap, really.

    Hmmm…not sure what to say. My issues make me feel like crap all the time, so I guess just sympathy from someone who’s been in those shoes.

    No sorry necessary, I’m honored that my writing had impact, even if it wasn’t the impact that I expected.

    If I had words of consolation or encouragement, I’d give them; barring that, I would give you daisies, because they’re the friendliest of flowers.

  4. Third best? Which posts come in first and second? Must. read. immediately.

    The best (and the most personal, and the hardest) thing I’ve ever written is titled “He Knows the Hour and the Day” and is also the saddest and most painful thing I’ve ever written.

    The second best (and the funniest and most often stolen) thing I’ve ever written is titled “Secret Confessions of a Normal Guy” and I stand by every word of it three years after I first wrote it.

    Both of those posts will be reposted here in the next couple of weeks, re-edited and with some additional thoughts and updates…so if you want to wait and comment here, I won’t leave you hanging for long.

  5. I think I read Secret Confessions of a Normal Guy before, but I’ll wait until you repost to find out for sure!

    Yeah, I’ve already started working on the update, so hold out for that. I warn you that “He Knows the hour…” has made some people cry…some of whom I’ve never seen cry before. So if you’re “a crier” as one reader put it, you might want to decide if something unspeakably depressing is really what you’re up for.

    Every time I write something it becomes my favorite. For like a day. And then I hate it and can’t believe I thought such drivel up! And then another couple days later, I like it again. :)

    I’ve actually felt pretty badly about my stuff for about the last six months. I’m finally feeling better about it again, as a whole and especially my recent stuff. I’m actually really proud of the “What I’m Looking For” sequence as a whole, and I’m excited for it to be finished.

    I like your stuff, and I’m sorry I don’t comment more than I do…I’ll try to get better about that.

  6. Your writing is AMAZING! Why do you think I keep coming back? I have a short attention span, but you keep me engaged, so, yeah…

    I think of myself as the worst possible blog writer for anyone who has a short attention span to have to endure. I deeply and passionately love words, and I love the feel and flow of language; and the end result is that I end up using a lot of words and language to make my point…whatever point that might be. I’m sure that for the vast majority of people in the world, if they are confronted by the sheer length of my posts, they will simply whack the back button immediately. It’s probably why I have like six regular readers. I’d write less, I really would, but that’s not my voice…that’s not how I communicate. Not in writing or in speech.

    Don’t worry about my stuff. It means nothing. I know that this is patently untrue. More importantly, YOU shouldn’t believe this either…

    I tend to blog about what I think and it’s never very important or interesting! …Still patently untrue…

    But! …I’m so VERY glad there was a “but” in there, or we would have had to have words…

    I will be posting either a serial story or my novel starting in October. I know people say you shouldn’t post stuff like that for fear it will be stolen (and obviously you did have your work stolen), but I’m not worried about it- I just want people to read it!

    I’m looking forward to it! My issues with theft were much more on the “hey, this looks abandonded” front, than on the “hey, let’s steal from someone who’s obviously paying attention” front…so I think you’ll be OK as long as you don’t leave one blog silent when you move on to another.

  7. Rachel,

    I’m with you. I blog about what I think and it’s often not important or interesting. Once in a while I shoot for funny. But, in our family, my husband is the writer. I’m just the farmer. :-)

    Just like my response to Rachel, I simply MUST point out that this is patently untrue. You’re a fine writer, and many of us see that, even if you struggle to believe it sometimes.

    Write what you want to write. As long as you are writing, then you are a writer and that’s all that matters.

    I heartily concur!

  8. My dear, sweet husband, (…at this point I assume that either you went crazy on ebay and just want to soften the blow, or there’s some rediculously expensive horse/dog/cat product that you’ve got your eye on. The only time I’m your “dear, sweet” husband is either when I’ve done something classically wrong or you’re about to spend an egregious amount of money…)

    Let me remind you that we have had a challenging last 6 months! Correct

    Moving clear across the country with 6 weeks notice is no small feat! VERY correct

    And we’ve mostly changed our lifestyle, which in a lot of ways is challenging too. Not sure what you mean, unless the strain of my working from home is making you crazier than I knew about…

    Not to mention the loss of our beloved Freya. very true. Very sad, and VERY true.

    With all of that, you’ve not had much time to write or perhaps been in a great frame of mind to write. While true, I’m trying to overcome the motivation/frame-of-mind issues with sheer quantity.

    Life happens. Correct

    Don’t criticize yourself so much. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…oh, wait, you were serious…

    Just write. I’ve been trying.

    Eventually life (and your own feelings about your writing) will get better. I’m counting on this. I’m happier with my writing, let’s see how life goes.

  9. Oh I remember reading this when you posted it before. Still really like it – kind of feels like the plot/script for an independent movie (but maybe that’s just me, most likely it is).

    Actually, comparing my life to one of those low-budget indy films seems pretty accurate. Given how many times I’ve been told I look like Dante from Clerks, I might be trapped in a movie and not even know it. No, that was “The Truman Show”…whew.

    And I’m happy shows started up this week! How I Met Your Mother, Castle, and Big Bang are among those I watch as well. And I agree, I was a little bugged about Big Bang moving to Thursdays but what do you do.

    Did you see “Bleep my Dad Says” after BBT? I expected to hate it, but I found myself laughing repeatedly. When Will Shatner said “why can’t anyone do a decent impersonation of me?” I almost snorted Dr. Pepper out my nose.

  10. First, yes, I am going to spend money. It’s almost October and I am ready to start Christmas shopping. And you’ve already committed to buying us a new puppy come spring, so that’s the big dog/cat/horse money I want to spend. Oh, and perhaps a saddle for the kids. Each. (I am pretty sure you just blanched reading that last sentence).

    I might have blanched a little, but it was the agonizing scream that my wallet just made that really set my teeth on edge.

    And as for you looking like Dante from Clerks, well, we did have those girls honking, screaming and waving at you this summer when we first moved here. THAT might have been a bit much.

    *buffs nails on shirt* Oh honey, when you’re around this level of hotness you can’t help but…why are you laughing?…why are you laughing HYSTERICALLY?…you’re turning blue from lack of oxygen!…

    Quick, envision me in a speedo.

    There, that scared the sense back into you. That was a close one.

  11. Mrs. Bad Pants,

    I’ll have to check out your blog. I shoot for funny occasionally, but humor isn’t a strength of mine. At least not when it’s on purpose.

    And I must say that I imagine you two have adorable real life banter. Please don’t tell me if I’m wrong!

  12. And MR. Bad Pants,

    I’m sure now that you are posting daily you’ll up your readership.

    Maybe, although I think the general readership of blogs is down universally. In the era of twitter popularity where 128 WORDS are simply too much to be borne, my posts must must be the equivalent of War and Peace (in length if obviously not in quality). I’m not sure I’m on the “upward trend” side of the internet demographic.

    I post pretty regularly and only have like 2 readers! I’m one of a select few then!

    I don’t really care about that, though. I mean I do, but it’s not the important thing. My blog is more like my public journal. I’d love for people to read it, but if they don’t it’s alright because it isn’t really for them- it’s for me.

    Which is largely the way I think of it too, although I will admit that it frustrates me that deadcharming.com gets hundreds of views a week and hasn’t had an actual new post in more than a year, and this blog gets my full attention and is lucky to see a baker’s dozen on any given day.

    And you want to have words? Bring it on! 😉 I would, but I know how you feel about conflict…

  13. You know, just a week or so ago I linked someone to this post as an example of someone who thought like me and wrote about it like I wanted to.

    Thanks man, that means a lot to me.

    I still love this piece, man. I would take it out back and promise it the moon and not even be trying to get into its pants.

  14. Last?

    Probably, old posts NEVER get comments around here. Nice bookend to the comment stream. :-)

    I remember reading (and being captivated by) this on the DC site. And the ‘He Knows the Hour and Day’ post. I mistakenly read that over lunch at work, rather than from the safety (and privacy) of my home with a box of Puffs (with lotion) at my side.

    The ‘He Knows the Hour and the Day’ post caught a lot of people off guard. I ended up adding a warning of sorts to the top, and even that didn’t prevent a few more people from expecting “the funny” and finding out it was very much “not the funny” after the fact. I posted up ‘Secret Confessions of a Normal Guy’ immediately after that as a sort of humorous antidote for the depression I’d potentially induced.

    I think I’m going to have to re-read it now (not right now, when I’m home with my Puffs). Along with the Confessions one, because I can’t recall that immediately, so I’m wondering if I missed it somehow (thank goodness I figured out subscriptions now).

    I’ll actually be reposting both ‘He Knows the Hour and the Day’ and ‘Secret Confessions of a Normal Guy’ here on My Bad Pants with some minor edits and re-writes, and a new afterward and some photos. If you want to wait, you can save up your re-reading for the “latest and greatest” versions that show up here.

    Sometimes I feel like I’m sitting at the table next to you and your wife at a restaurant, eavesdropping, when I read your comment/response sequences. Hope you don’t mind. They make me smile.

    Yeah, we’re glad to entertain. Rachel asked in a comment earlier if our day-to-day banter is like our comments, and OS was afraid to tell her that she didn’t think so…but after thinking about last night’s conversations over Chinese food, and the stream of things we regularly discuss…I’d have to say “yeah, it’s pretty much like that all the time.”

  15. Sadly, some days, this is the most we get to chat with each other. That darn thing called work keeps getting in the way! Even though he’s just in the other room, he’s often occupied until around 8pm, or later.

    Sadly, this is completely true. There’s this perception that working from home means you’ll get to spend lots and lots of time with your family, which is essentially true, unfortunately it’s not QUALITY time. Often I don’t get to come out of the office and spend quality time with anyone until after 8:00 or 9:00 at night. Still, I’d rather be trapped at home than trapped on the other side of the country.

  16. Already got to them (this time adequately prepared), but I’ll re-read with pictures, forwards, edits and such when you post here. I realized that I had read the ‘run from guys who say this’ post on DC, as evidenced by the really lame comment I left at the time.

    I’ll post them up here when I get closer to the relevant entries in my “What I’m Looking For” series. At the current rate, that will be sometime in 2012.

    Just kidding. I’ll get there before the end of 2011. I think.

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