Coming off the seventh green.
Me: "Wow. Did you just get a bird?"
She crinkles her face. "No. I don't care for wild game."
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Astrogirl at the gym
So: we've decided to get in shape, Astrogirl and I.
Our physical trainer is Larry, a handsome six-foot-three dynamo of sinew and good looks.
After our workout, in Larry's office, Astrogirl asks Larry where he's from.
"Dallas for awhile," he says. "And then D.C."
"Oh," Astrogirl asks, impressed. "You mean Washington, D.C.?"
Larry looks at me, then at her. "Yes. Of course, I didn't live in the city. A little while in Maryland, a little while in Virginia."
He excuses himself to Xerox our nutrition plan. Astrogirl looks at me. "Did he say he lived in D.C. or not."
"He commuted," I say. "Have you heard of an exurb?"
"Like a passage from a book?"
"No," I say. "That's an excerpt. An exurb. A bedroom community."
"Oh," she says. "You mean like a sex town?"
"No," I say. "Like a commuter town."
"With sex."
"No," I say. "Just a commuter town."
She says, "Do you think he'd be embarrassed if I asked him if he lived in a sex town?"
"Sweetheart," I say. "He'll tell you he didn't live in a sex town."
"I guess," she said. "Something like that would be embarrassing."
"Except," I said, "He didn't live in a sex town."
"But you told me he did," she insisted.
"No," I said. "You did."
"Oh."
Our physical trainer is Larry, a handsome six-foot-three dynamo of sinew and good looks.
After our workout, in Larry's office, Astrogirl asks Larry where he's from.
"Dallas for awhile," he says. "And then D.C."
"Oh," Astrogirl asks, impressed. "You mean Washington, D.C.?"
Larry looks at me, then at her. "Yes. Of course, I didn't live in the city. A little while in Maryland, a little while in Virginia."
He excuses himself to Xerox our nutrition plan. Astrogirl looks at me. "Did he say he lived in D.C. or not."
"He commuted," I say. "Have you heard of an exurb?"
"Like a passage from a book?"
"No," I say. "That's an excerpt. An exurb. A bedroom community."
"Oh," she says. "You mean like a sex town?"
"No," I say. "Like a commuter town."
"With sex."
"No," I say. "Just a commuter town."
She says, "Do you think he'd be embarrassed if I asked him if he lived in a sex town?"
"Sweetheart," I say. "He'll tell you he didn't live in a sex town."
"I guess," she said. "Something like that would be embarrassing."
"Except," I said, "He didn't live in a sex town."
"But you told me he did," she insisted.
"No," I said. "You did."
"Oh."
Friday, January 19, 2007
Stuff
This, I know to be true: once you decide to make that big purchase, that huge splurge--that appliance or car or vacation or new suit you've been eyeing for months--is the time when the fates ally to throw a series of Mandatory Big Purchases straight at you, blackening the delicious guilty joy of the splurge into the darkness of self-reproach. Eighteen months ago, riding high over a scrap of money I'd made as an advance against a narrative I would write to accompany a documentary that had been shot, but not edited (and hence unreleased, which it remains to this day, though I finished the narrative and was paid the balance long since), we decided to blow the money.
Vegas, baby. The Mirage.
You can find great deals in August--the, really, for someone who teaches year-round, only chance to get out of town, save Spring Break, when the prices are prohibitive. We paid for the non-refundanble this and bargain that, and I had precisely as much as I would need to gamble for three days with an open but not reckless hand, and life would be perfect.
It was now, of course, than the air conditioning in my car stopped running. This was a disadvantage in Houston in August, unless one wants to change one's clothes (right down to one's socks) five times a day.
"Ah," said a teacher friend of mine, who re-built a Bronco with his bare hands and then flipped it for a down payment on something practical. "You're low on freon. Forty bucks."
"Great!" I said.
"Ah, of course," he said, "it could be that a seal broke."
That sounded plausible. "Ballpark?" I asked, and then cringed.
"Two hundred," he said. "Maybe three."
Fair enough. I took the car to the dealership (not a mistake--I'd had some trouble with the transmission (meaning, the fucking car wouldn't go in reverse) the year before; I came in expecting to sell the parts for scrap and left owing only two hundred, and this for a ten year-old car).
"Trouble?" the man said over his desk.
"AC busted," I said. In the new-age show room, with the Wyndam Hill music wafting overhead, I settled in with some coffee, broke open a novel . . . and two hours later . . .
. . . All of us experience the Long Walk at one point in our lives: the jury making its way back to the jury box, the doctor entering in Hannah and Her Sisters mode, with the X-Rays to be slid against the lighted board. For me, the Long Walk took the form of the mechanic making his way across the New Age showroom, black baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, estimate crackling in his right hand.
Verdict? The compressor. Eleven hundred.
What choice did I have? I paid it. I scored four hundred my first night in Vegas, gambled off that for the rest of my stay, then took care of a room service bill that had somehow ballooned to nine hundred dollars. (Sixty bucks--for one breakfast? Mind you, I know I am spoiled. I know I live in a city where twenty dollars will buy you two of the best Sunday brunches in town, at Buffalo Grille, and fifty will get you a sit-down at La Strada.) And at every Blackjack table, every Roulette wheel, every Poker room, all I could think of was, Damn! How much help would eleven hundred dollars come in now!
Fast-forward a year and a half. Christmas week, 2006, in the midst of hundreds spent, in new decorations, shopping and dinners out, our TV started to pitch and yaw; the image became dominated by a wavy black band that started at the top and worked its way down, then re-appeared at the top. So, the day after Christmas I awoke at six and drove to the local Microcenter in order to stand in line, outdoors, in the cold, for the privilege of shelling out hundreds of dollars for one of the flat-screen TVs on sale.
I brought the TV home and up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. Astrogirl and I opened the box, took out the voluminous paperwork necessary for the rebate, took out the TV, and removed the apparatus that would allow us to affix it to the wall above the fireplace.
One problem: It was only at this point that I examined the sight lines of a TV potentially placed above the fireplace along one wall of an extended room divided, by the five foot-long hallway leading past the washer-dryer into the bedroom. (Question. Since when did our apartment equal squalor, as Astrogirl insists? When we moved in two-and-a-half years ago, this place was the apex of luxury. We had no idea we could ever havce it so good. Now it's . . . get thee (and thy) to a house, and a goddamn big one). We purchased our new TV in order to watch it first while eating dinner, and then after dinner, when we would retire to the sofa and overstuffed chair arranged in an L-shape between the dining table and the far wall. It was only after we had unpacked the TV that I assumed my position at the dining table and realized that, were we to mount the TV on the wall as we had planned, I would be consigned to enjoying Lance Berkman and Jack Bauer by craning my neck and looking over my left shoulder.
The solution, then, was to place the new TV in the same place as the old TV.
One problem: our old TV was a stand-alone, a behemoth from the last wave of the nineties, before flat-screen and plasma became the rage. The behemoth's size and unwieldiness had been the roots of its one advantage: one merely found a place for it and set it down. The new flat-screen could not stand alone, not without a stand . . . and so it was back to another electronics store (Best Buy this time) for a TV table. Hundred and fifty bucks. We placed the TV on the assembled table.
One problem: the glass shelves in the table were set too close together to allow for the placement of satellite console, DVD player and receiver. This one was easy; by removing one glass shelf, everything fit.
One problem: Once the wires were reconnected--running from the TV to the DVD, the TV the the satellite console, the satellite console to the the DVD, and from all four to the surge protector--the receiver (the box with the big knob that switches from satellite to DVD to VCR to music) stopped working. Meaning: the receiver rejected the flat-screen TV like a bad heart transplant; the TV signal would run for a few minutes and then turn itself on. Turn it on, it turned off; turn it on, it turned off.
All of the above was discovered over a five-hour period, during which my presumptive brother-in-law crawled and crouched around the consumme of wires (red, blue, yellow, white); running to and fro, plugging and unplugging, at various times calling the customer service line in order to scream at whoever was unlucky enough to pick up the line. Along with PBIL, I played host to:
a) Mrs. PBIL, who showed up with Astrogirl about an hour into the repairs bearing Chik-Fil-A; and who, at various intervals, all through the day, shouted, "What about the red wire? Does the red wire work? How about the blue? Maybe the blue wire?";
b) PBIL's eight year-old daughter, who asked twenty-five times when Bugs Bunny was coming on;
c) PBIL's fifteen month-old son, whose worship of his father turned into a pantomime of imitation (when his father was on the line, the son would pick up the receiver, scowl, and point his finger into the air; when his father worked the remote, the son would pick up another remote and jab it toward the screen);
d) Astrogirl herself.
Five hours later, after what felt (in the dimnuition of capacities) like an extended dinner party featuring a bottle of wine consumed per guest, PBIL left us with these words: "Need a new receiver, man. It might have been your surge protector."
And so it was back to Best Buy, for a new receiver. Two hundred bucks. And, in addition, a state-of-the-art surge protector at Office Depot. And everything was brought home. Wires were detatched and re-attached; plugs fed into sockets. Astrogirl, following the instruction manual, opened up the surge box, removed the battery, turned in 180 degrees, and replaced it. All was set.
Then, nothing. Nothing turned on.
"We have to take this back," Astrogirl said. "I think they gave us a used one."
The surge protector was the least expensive of all the equipment I had purchased. But this was the tipping point. I couldn't make one more purchase or ask a question of one more clerk. I couldn't think of the matter at all (especially the old TV, which, having been dragged across the floor and bumped into a corner, suddenly returned to its pristine image--not that we'd dismantle everything we'd done and return the whole load, no, not that). I especially couldn't shake a surge protector in someone's face, demanding to be given more than a hand-me-down.
"I don't know that it's used," I said.
"Used," she insisted.
I looked at the TV, the new receiver, the speakers, all the cords snaking to the surge protector, then the surge protector cord snaking to the wall. I thought I'd cry or fall down. Was there a switch I hadn't flicked?
Then looked at the surge protector.
"Sweetheart," I said, "Did you turn on the On button?"
"Huh?" she asked.
I pushed the On button.
"Oh," she said.
And we sat and watched.
Vegas, baby. The Mirage.
You can find great deals in August--the, really, for someone who teaches year-round, only chance to get out of town, save Spring Break, when the prices are prohibitive. We paid for the non-refundanble this and bargain that, and I had precisely as much as I would need to gamble for three days with an open but not reckless hand, and life would be perfect.
It was now, of course, than the air conditioning in my car stopped running. This was a disadvantage in Houston in August, unless one wants to change one's clothes (right down to one's socks) five times a day.
"Ah," said a teacher friend of mine, who re-built a Bronco with his bare hands and then flipped it for a down payment on something practical. "You're low on freon. Forty bucks."
"Great!" I said.
"Ah, of course," he said, "it could be that a seal broke."
That sounded plausible. "Ballpark?" I asked, and then cringed.
"Two hundred," he said. "Maybe three."
Fair enough. I took the car to the dealership (not a mistake--I'd had some trouble with the transmission (meaning, the fucking car wouldn't go in reverse) the year before; I came in expecting to sell the parts for scrap and left owing only two hundred, and this for a ten year-old car).
"Trouble?" the man said over his desk.
"AC busted," I said. In the new-age show room, with the Wyndam Hill music wafting overhead, I settled in with some coffee, broke open a novel . . . and two hours later . . .
. . . All of us experience the Long Walk at one point in our lives: the jury making its way back to the jury box, the doctor entering in Hannah and Her Sisters mode, with the X-Rays to be slid against the lighted board. For me, the Long Walk took the form of the mechanic making his way across the New Age showroom, black baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, estimate crackling in his right hand.
Verdict? The compressor. Eleven hundred.
What choice did I have? I paid it. I scored four hundred my first night in Vegas, gambled off that for the rest of my stay, then took care of a room service bill that had somehow ballooned to nine hundred dollars. (Sixty bucks--for one breakfast? Mind you, I know I am spoiled. I know I live in a city where twenty dollars will buy you two of the best Sunday brunches in town, at Buffalo Grille, and fifty will get you a sit-down at La Strada.) And at every Blackjack table, every Roulette wheel, every Poker room, all I could think of was, Damn! How much help would eleven hundred dollars come in now!
Fast-forward a year and a half. Christmas week, 2006, in the midst of hundreds spent, in new decorations, shopping and dinners out, our TV started to pitch and yaw; the image became dominated by a wavy black band that started at the top and worked its way down, then re-appeared at the top. So, the day after Christmas I awoke at six and drove to the local Microcenter in order to stand in line, outdoors, in the cold, for the privilege of shelling out hundreds of dollars for one of the flat-screen TVs on sale.
I brought the TV home and up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. Astrogirl and I opened the box, took out the voluminous paperwork necessary for the rebate, took out the TV, and removed the apparatus that would allow us to affix it to the wall above the fireplace.
One problem: It was only at this point that I examined the sight lines of a TV potentially placed above the fireplace along one wall of an extended room divided, by the five foot-long hallway leading past the washer-dryer into the bedroom. (Question. Since when did our apartment equal squalor, as Astrogirl insists? When we moved in two-and-a-half years ago, this place was the apex of luxury. We had no idea we could ever havce it so good. Now it's . . . get thee (and thy) to a house, and a goddamn big one). We purchased our new TV in order to watch it first while eating dinner, and then after dinner, when we would retire to the sofa and overstuffed chair arranged in an L-shape between the dining table and the far wall. It was only after we had unpacked the TV that I assumed my position at the dining table and realized that, were we to mount the TV on the wall as we had planned, I would be consigned to enjoying Lance Berkman and Jack Bauer by craning my neck and looking over my left shoulder.
The solution, then, was to place the new TV in the same place as the old TV.
One problem: our old TV was a stand-alone, a behemoth from the last wave of the nineties, before flat-screen and plasma became the rage. The behemoth's size and unwieldiness had been the roots of its one advantage: one merely found a place for it and set it down. The new flat-screen could not stand alone, not without a stand . . . and so it was back to another electronics store (Best Buy this time) for a TV table. Hundred and fifty bucks. We placed the TV on the assembled table.
One problem: the glass shelves in the table were set too close together to allow for the placement of satellite console, DVD player and receiver. This one was easy; by removing one glass shelf, everything fit.
One problem: Once the wires were reconnected--running from the TV to the DVD, the TV the the satellite console, the satellite console to the the DVD, and from all four to the surge protector--the receiver (the box with the big knob that switches from satellite to DVD to VCR to music) stopped working. Meaning: the receiver rejected the flat-screen TV like a bad heart transplant; the TV signal would run for a few minutes and then turn itself on. Turn it on, it turned off; turn it on, it turned off.
All of the above was discovered over a five-hour period, during which my presumptive brother-in-law crawled and crouched around the consumme of wires (red, blue, yellow, white); running to and fro, plugging and unplugging, at various times calling the customer service line in order to scream at whoever was unlucky enough to pick up the line. Along with PBIL, I played host to:
a) Mrs. PBIL, who showed up with Astrogirl about an hour into the repairs bearing Chik-Fil-A; and who, at various intervals, all through the day, shouted, "What about the red wire? Does the red wire work? How about the blue? Maybe the blue wire?";
b) PBIL's eight year-old daughter, who asked twenty-five times when Bugs Bunny was coming on;
c) PBIL's fifteen month-old son, whose worship of his father turned into a pantomime of imitation (when his father was on the line, the son would pick up the receiver, scowl, and point his finger into the air; when his father worked the remote, the son would pick up another remote and jab it toward the screen);
d) Astrogirl herself.
Five hours later, after what felt (in the dimnuition of capacities) like an extended dinner party featuring a bottle of wine consumed per guest, PBIL left us with these words: "Need a new receiver, man. It might have been your surge protector."
And so it was back to Best Buy, for a new receiver. Two hundred bucks. And, in addition, a state-of-the-art surge protector at Office Depot. And everything was brought home. Wires were detatched and re-attached; plugs fed into sockets. Astrogirl, following the instruction manual, opened up the surge box, removed the battery, turned in 180 degrees, and replaced it. All was set.
Then, nothing. Nothing turned on.
"We have to take this back," Astrogirl said. "I think they gave us a used one."
The surge protector was the least expensive of all the equipment I had purchased. But this was the tipping point. I couldn't make one more purchase or ask a question of one more clerk. I couldn't think of the matter at all (especially the old TV, which, having been dragged across the floor and bumped into a corner, suddenly returned to its pristine image--not that we'd dismantle everything we'd done and return the whole load, no, not that). I especially couldn't shake a surge protector in someone's face, demanding to be given more than a hand-me-down.
"I don't know that it's used," I said.
"Used," she insisted.
I looked at the TV, the new receiver, the speakers, all the cords snaking to the surge protector, then the surge protector cord snaking to the wall. I thought I'd cry or fall down. Was there a switch I hadn't flicked?
Then looked at the surge protector.
"Sweetheart," I said, "Did you turn on the On button?"
"Huh?" she asked.
I pushed the On button.
"Oh," she said.
And we sat and watched.
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