Lots of Monkeys

     She always pushed me. When I told her that I’d never eaten raw oysters before, we had to try them. I was skeptical. I didn’t believe in aphrodisiacs. Still, the upscale grocery store that we were frequenting just happened to be offering them among their free samples. I was trapped.
     “It’s fate!” She said, with a smile on her face. She sounded positively excited. “They taste like the ocean.”
     We walked up to the fishmonger, shucking oysters for the people in line and held up two fingers. He nodded and pulled two unidentifiable lumps from a bucket of ice.
     I rolled my eyes. I remained skeptical. A few skillful passes with the knife, and there were two oysters on the half shell staring up at the two of us. She picked up one and waited for me to pick up mine. She gave me a few quick instructions, then before I knew it I was eating a raw oyster.
     The smell of the salt air, and the sand and bits of seaweed mingled together on my tongue. I felt the grit of sand between my back teeth, then swallowed.
     She was right, it did taste like the ocean. I conceded that on occasion, she did have good ideas and I was a fool to doubt her. She laughed in victory and took my hand.

     Three hours later, we were back in The House. I had the master bedroom with its own bathroom. In cases like this, it was a blessing. I rubbed her back and winced as I watched her body convulse over the toilet.
     “Hey, you don’t think it was the oysters, do you?” I tried not to laugh as I said it. I failed. A small chuckle escaped from my lips.
     She slowly turned her head to face me. She had to breathe between words. “Don’t. Even–“
     “–I love you, you know that, right?” I smiled as widely as I could.
     She never got to reply as a final shudder welled up from her stomach. She turned back quickly as I held her hand and squeezed. She slowly stood up with my help, and washed up.
     Just as slowly, I helped her into bed. She closed her eyes and I smoothed back her hair. I kissed her forehead and got up to leave. Her hand found mine. She asked, in a soft whisper, where I was going.
     I squeezed her hand. I wasn’t going anywhere.
     “It’s time to make tea.”

We stopped by The House tonight. It was there, silent and dark. There was new paint on the walls. For some reason, The House was always referred to as “The House.” It was the preferred meeting point for a good number of my college friends. I lived in The House for several summers, and for about one year after I graduated from college.

It had central heating and air conditioning, but the vents were in such poor condition that a good majority of the heat never actually got to any of the rooms. Wildlife lived in the attic. Stray cats gave birth in the little wells that housed the basement windows. There was hot water if you got to it first. The kitchen, no matter how hard it was scrubbed–never got clean. There were nine people living in The House at one point, seven of which, actually paid rent. Three of those seven, actually had bedrooms. There were three and a half baths. People lived in the basement, in the dining room, in the laundry room, and in the small pseudo closet that was connected to the basement. You could hear everything that went on in The House.

Everything.

The House was a prime example of the absentee landlord. It was horrible, decrepit, and dangerous to live in.

Naturally, I had a great time. I learned a lot on that piece of property. I fell in love in that house no less than twice. There was the first cigarette. The first time I truly remember being drunk was in that house. Well, as much as one can remember being drunk, in any case.

Good times.

The House is no longer The House now. There’s another family living there now. Now it’s just a house on 45th street somewhere in North West Washington, D.C. Looking at it reminds me that I have a lot of good memories. Looking at it also reminds me that I have grown up, at least a little. I’m a big fan of plumbing. Heat. Non-leaky roofs. I guess I am getting old.

So, last year, I had this great idea for writing daily.

Purchase a day planner with a small portion of the page available for each day. This way, I would not feel pressured to fill up an entire page with inane scribbles. Lo and behold, I found the perfect one. About eight lines per day. Good paper. It came in this great black microfiber case that just felt good. It even had a ribbon to bookmark my current page. The actual planner part was replaceable, so I could just move to the next year when I filled up this one. I’m on the last few days of this one, as it goes to January 5th. Which reminded me to flip through it and pick up the replacement notebook.

It’s nice to see that it’s more full than empty. There are some days I just didn’t get home in time, and there were some days I just didn’t feel like writing. I’ll have to look through it to find out if I wrote anything remotely profound, or just plain funny. It was a great journal, and unfortunately it was a little too good.

I can’t find the 2003 version of the planner anywhere. My initial plan was to just pick up the 2003 version and just replace the notebook part, but of course, it is nowhere to be found. Even the publisher doesn’t make a replacement for it. Typical. Someone designs a decent planner that is simple, not overly complicated, is not related to any sort of seven habits cult, and has no cutesy mascot on the front. They then proceed to produce it for one year, before cutting the product line.

Ah well. Time to move on and find another planner. It was good while it lasted.

Maybe the Covey people are on to something. I’ll just walk in the store and take a look around.

For many of us, this is the first workday of two-thousand three, or “two-kay three” as we’ll come to fondly reminisce over it. It’s back to our offices, deleting spam from our inboxes and checking voice mail before surfing the internet and getting the occasional bit of work done before knocking off early and doing what we want to do on our free time. Right now, it’s time to catch up with people I haven’t seen (either on line or in “meat space”–the real world, RL, etc.) in over a year.

The New Year ™ came and went, not with a bang, but with a whimper–which was fine for me. Low key celebrations where you can just sit and talk with friends are just fine for me. I did however, regret that I could not split myself into several different copies and then distribute them to the five different celebrations that were occurring that night. This glut of parties happening on the same day makes me want to campaign for a New Year’s Week where the numerous parties can be spread out over the course of seven days, after which there would be a nationwide “Work Ditch Week” to deal with the inevitable week long hangover. Again, like most of my ideas, I would like to remind people that they are good mainly in theory.

Resolutions made: Zero. (0) However, I put serious consideration into purchasing a 24″ television next month. I couldn’t decide between the 20″ and the 27″, so I split the difference. What does this have to do with the New Year? Absolutely nothing.

On the other hand, I’m thinking about making 2003 the “Year of the Documentary.” I’ve got all of these cameras just laying around, I might as well start using them. All of you, consider this a fair warning. I’m just saying, is all. An example: By accident, my camera went off in my bag and recorded the sound of me quitting my retail job. It’s pretty interesting, except the forty-five other minutes (it took me two minutes to quit my job) are of me riding the metro. Forty-five minutes of the Voice of the Metro saying, “Doors closing” followed by chimes.

Yeah.

Riveting.

Drinks imbibed: About three, I think. I’m really liking the Blue Hawaiian. Shot of light rum. Shot of dark rum. Shot of blue curacao. Shot of Pina colada mix. Pineapple juice, lots. Somewhere around there, you add ice and stir or shake to your liking, I really don’t remember. On the drink front, I think I’ve gotten closer to perfecting the mango martini. I think more experiments have to be performed. I also need test subjects.

So, went to the Washington Auto Show today. Played with the rally style shifting on the Civic SI. It was interesting, although I’d really have to drive the damn thing to see if it’s just gimmicky or not. The Civic this year is a lot bigger than I expected.

Saw the Honda Element, which was a pretty neat car, considering that you can take a garden hose and just clean the inside of your car the same way you would sweep leaves from your driveway. So long, vaccuuming.

But of course, the main reason we were there was to see the MINI. I think there were four of them, two Coopers and two Cooper Ss. All of them had people lining up to get inside them. It’s incredible what kind of attraction the car has. That car is sexy, small and not as effeminate as another small car with a heritage to live up to. Did I mention the car is sexy? Well, it is. It’s sexy. I want one, but of course, since I live twenty minutes’s walk from work, it’s something I don’t need.

So, I’m stuck with a case of wanting something I don’t need, which is the story of my life. Ah well.