While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Rocket science is hot.

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shuttlelaunch1

Thank you Joe for getting me off the couch Friday night to watch the shuttle launch from our backyard. It’s one of five million reasons why I’m marrying you.

It was an impromptu thing really. We could have easily watched it launch from the couch. The TV was already turned to the news.  It would have been pretty ordinary, grainy, pixelated and forgettable. We would have appreciated it for about .02 seconds and then switched to David Letterman and looked for chocolate to eat. 

Instead you grabbed my hand and said, “Let’s walk down to the park and see if we can watch the shuttle launch.” 

And I said, “We’ve got like one minute.”

And you said, “Yeah, hurry up.”

So at 11:55 p.m. we strapped the pug into his harness, tethered him to his leash and ran down 1st Street to the park one block from our house. The sky was perfectly clear and the stars looked like Lite-Brite pegs. The pug was panting like hell and you were galloping a good 10 feet in front of us. It was cool out. Well, not cool, but tolerable balminess. 

When we got to the bay, you pointed at the sky in the direction of Cape Canaveral and I pointed at a big white star and asked, dumbly, “Is that it?”

“No,” you replied. “Believe me. You’ll know when you see it.”

Just then, from out of nowhere, a clumsy vagabond on a bicycle almost hit us. Jerking his handlebars suddenly, he popped a wheelie, veered off the sidewalk and in the most epic save of all time, managed to not land on his face. 

You and I looked at each other sort of bemused-like and then turned our gaze back to Cape Canaveral. Within seconds, the sky lit up so bright you’d have thought a UFO landed. As the shuttle blasted off 109 miles away, I noticed it had done so in the exact spot you said it would. 

The only way I can describe it is to say it looked like the atmosphere had been lit from the inside out, the way a blanket looks when kids are playing under it with flashlights. Picture that kind of inside-out lighting and now picture a rocket in the center of that burst, climbing higher into space, slower than you might have imagined and brighter than any fireworks display you’ve ever seen.

Picture the aura borealis on steroids. 

When it was over, you and I latched hands and walked home. You chased the pug up 1st Street and then hid behind a tree and tried to scare us by not-so-sneakily popping out. 

It was past midnight and we’d spent all night assembling place cards for our wedding. We were drained and tired, sick of labeling and organizing and sorting through RSVP cards. I didn’t tell you then because the moment was so simple and understated, but running down 1st Street to watch the shuttle launch was so romantic and breathtaking, I’m still reeling from it.

—

PS. This is not my photo. I swiped it off INGNESATFAR’S BLOG. I apologize, I can’t seem to find the original source.

My urban rooster

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Sneaky synchronicity has reared its fateful head again!

And in addition to this, I’m pleased to report that I have a new animal spirit guide.
Behold: my rooster.

I’ve written about meaningful coincidences and animal totems before.
The last time I wrote about synchronicity I was on vacation in the Florida Panhandle trying to figure out the significance of seeing butterfly nets. And the last time I wrote about animal spirit guides, in particular my frog spirit guide, I got a tongue lashing from Natasha up in Alberta, Canada.
This time it’s cocks.
Someone in the neighborhood has a rooster. How else can I explain the barnyard opera I’m hearing in the morning when I walk the pug?
The first time I heard it, I froze in my tracks. 

Could it be? I asked myself. A rooster crowing in the City of St. Pete? I wrote it off as a Basset Hound and continued walking the obstinate pug.
Again it crowed.
I looked down at my pug to see if maybe he had heard it too, but he was uncharacteristically uncurious and continued about his sniffing, pissing and grunting. So I let it go – until Thursday morning, when I heard it again.
Well, I’ll be damned, I said. A goddamn rooster living in the city!
When I returned to the house with this knowledge, I had to tell Joe.
“Must be someone knows you’ve got problems getting out of bed in the morning.”
He grunted. Rolled over on his side.
“A rooster in our neighborhood! How exciting! First tomatoes, now this. Man, it’s like I’m back home again.”
To further illustrate my point, I started mimicking the cock.
“If it’s not a rooster it sure sounds like one,” I said as I shuffled to the kitchen to make Joe’s usual turkey sammie.
Five minutes later, I went digging for a little card to stick in his Tupperware container. I’m lame and sappy and sometimes put notes in my fiancé’s lunch. I’ve got this box of random note cards with one note card for every day of the year. They’re tiny – the size of a matchbook – and therefore function perfectly as embarrassing lunch love notes.
So I reached into my box of 365 note cards (at this point there are about 300 left) and I pulled one at random. Now remember: no two cards in this collection are alike, making what happened next quite impressive.
On the front of the card was of course, a devilish rooster. But I reckon you already knew that.
So now it seems a rooster is my shepherd, signaling the end of the tree frog’s reign.
As for what exactly the rooster means, I found this:

Rooster (aka Cock): Rooster is a symbol of resurrection and sexuality as he heralds in the dawn of a new day. Often, good news is at hand when Rooster appears in Dreamtime. However, watchfulness is key as the dreamer must be ever aware of being overly arrogant or cocky. Rooster reminds us to avoid fighting at all costs. The lesson is to respect others while honoring ourselves, or we just might find ourselves ensnared in a ruse of our own making.

Or this:

The Rooster is a solar symbol and represents sexuality. Those with a Rooster as a Totem may have had past lives as early Christians or ancient Greeks. A Rooster totem brings enthusiasm and humor and a sense of optimism. The Rooster is a totem of great power and mystery with ties to the ancient past and clues to your own hidden powers. It is the enemy of evil spirits and can bound them with the light of day.

Cockadoodledoo! I already love this totem way better than the tree frog.
—
PS. The misguided rooster above was photographed by McBeth. For more evocative storytelling pictures like this, visit McBeth’s Flickr photostream. She photographs vexing toothbrush packages, puzzling road signs, tea bags and much, much more!

Tree frogs, bums & the dress I didn’t keep.

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To be honest, I’ve put more thought into purchasing a six-pack of Charmin toilet paper.
…
I bought my wedding dress last month for $128 at White House|Black Market, and I returned it last week not because I didn’t like it, but because I thought I could do better. 
Also because toothpastes have caused greater fits of indecision. 
I blame the tree frog who showed up by our front door last month, who for one week, no matter where I moved him to, would return to our front door to hibernate precariously close to the welcome mat.

“That frog,” I told Joe, “is going to get stomped on.”

Remembering a former new age-y boss, who once confessed to me during a long Christmas shift at Waldenbooks, that he had a groundhog spirit guide, I decided to reference the frog in Ted Andrews book, Animal Speak.

According to Andrews, if a frog has presented itself, “it may be time to breathe new life into an old project or goal.”

The frog is a symbol of fertility, rebirth and resurrection. Since I’m in no hurry to get preggers, I took this is as a message to get cracking on The Book, which I realize has nothing to do with returning The Dress. 

But you know, I digress. 

Armed with frog knowledge I took off to purchase a present for a friend in downtown St. Pete, and as usual, I passed a gaggle of bums, and as usual, one of them called out to me.

“M’am,” he croaked. “Can you spare some change so I can get ointment for my foot.”

This is a new one, I thought. Foot ointment. Surely this bum – I’ll call him Jed – has milked other ailments in the past, but foot ailments? C’mon, dude. Wear shoes and your feet won’t slough off. 

Mildly irritated, I looked at Jed’s foot. 
Sure enough the shit was horrible. Propped up on a curb, looking as if it had been shot, the foot was purplish, bulbous and the wound was the size of a fist and oozing something green. His toes, what I could see of them, looked gangrenous.

I reached into my purse, pulled out a dollar bill, handed it to Jed and snapped, “That foot. Is dis-gusting.”

Jed took the dollar bill and nodded gratefully, his ruddy face creasing in the afternoon sun like an origami crane. It hit me just then, like a sack of bricks to the belly, that bums are ageless. Not ageless in the sense that they are young, but ageless in the sense that they are without an age. To those of us who pass them by, bums are just bums with no names and no ages. No numbers and letters to hang over their heads. Just time. 

Humanity is a funny thing when it socks you. Wrinkled by dirt, and wounded by the absence of time or perhaps by the weight of time, I blushed when Jed thanked me. When I passed the bum sitting to him, I handed that guy a dollar bill and said, “take your friend to a walk-in clinic.”
The last thing on my mind was a wedding dress, but then I passed White House|Black Market on the corner of 2nd Avenue and 2nd Street. And though I’ve never purchased anything from this yuppity boutique, I’m a fan of simple semantics. A store named White House Black Market that sells only white and black merchandise is a store after my utilitarian heart.
I instantly spotted the lone ivory sheath hanging on a back rack in the oft-forgotten clearance corner, and for the helluvit I asked to try it on. To the delight of the women behind the counter, it fit like a kind of satin liquid – save for a teensy bit of gut-sucking and an obvious granny panty line. 

“Linda,” said the one saleswoman. “Get over here. You’re not gonna believe how well this dress fits.”

“Like a glove!” Squealed Linda. “Oo! We’ve been waiting for someone to buy this dress!”

Oh Lord, I thought. My Cinderella moment, and here I am still contemplating Jed’s seeping foot. 
I asked one of them to unzip me so could I purchase it because after all, it fit like a glove and when you’re wired like me, you don’t question the significance of that. 

“How long do I have to return it?” I asked.

“Return it?” They snapped. “Why would you return it?”

“In case I find something better.”
This was apparently the wrong thing to say, because as I left the store, bag in hand, both women forgot to say goodbye, good day or good anything for that matter. 
Sashaying past my guardian bum angels, I winked. Frugal, no-frills and with a 30-day return policy, I had just bought my wedding dress. Or at least, I was dating my wedding dress.
It was simple, so ho-hum that it slid easily behind our bedroom drapes. And when Joe got home from work I boasted about the price like I had just purchased two-for-one lamp chops at the downtown butcher. 
“Wow. $128,” he said. “Nicely done.”
So not a Big Deal that it’s behind the bedroom drapes. But don’t look, I said. It’s still a wedding dress goddammit.

And then, two weeks later I returned it. I think the saleswomen had a bet, because when I walked in with the dress in a Target bag, the one smirked at the other like, Itoldyouso. 

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “It didn’t work out.”

“Well that’s too bad,” the one woman said. “It fit you like a glove.”

On my way up 2nd Avenue I passed Ann Taylor, walked inside and purchased a fetching tweed number for the rehearsal dinner. 

Guess what?
It fit like a glove.
—
PS. The dress pictured above is the one I didn’t keep. It was unfussy, prettier than some dresses and less pretty than others. It was slightly beaded and cheaply priced, but in the end, not the dress for me. We had too much in common.

Granny panties rejoice. The thong is out.

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I noticed that in the alley outside of our apartment, some woman with a small ass lost two thongs. If the butt floss belongs to anyone you know, please tell them this is no way to amputate a whale tail.

PS. Happy Birthday to a woman who has always rocked timeless bloomers. My mom! (She turns 48 today.)