Thursday, August 4, 2011

The Day of the Face-Punch

This blog makes me pay more attention to my day and what I do, and I think of all those things I should say and type. And then I forget a lot of them. I ate ice cream last night: Talenti Double Chocolate—it’s like edible gold. I forget to mention doing the dishes, or folding laundry, or throwing sticks for my dogs while I tend the garden. There’s only so much I can recount, I reckon.

Drinkercising: that was my exercise of choice today. Yes, I decided today was my day away from the hard breathing and sweating. Thursdays are date night, which doesn’t always equal no-exercise-night, but this night, instead of exercise, I drank. I also ate. Back to the beginning.

It was the worst night of sleep yet, as far as y’all’s reading is concerned. Yes: y’all’s. That’s surely proper somewhere. I’m getting tired of talking of my tiredness. It’s not always this way. Onward, though.

Liam woke up early. I got up and pulled him into bed with us, but he’d made up his mind: 6:00 was wake-up time today. “Get with it, mom and pop,” he mighta said if he’d been able. He’s a babbler, not a talker, so instead he babbled. He also said, “Cat.” He says “cat” a lot. I noticed Angie push Cat #2 out of the bed, and it amused me. So does starting with Cat #2. Cat #1 is Opie. Opium: that’s her full name. It makes sense, but I don’t know why. She’s real old.

Who’s Cat #2?

Out of bed. Dragging. Short sentences. <Drink of wine.> The beginning…the beginning…right. Okay, the normal greetings. Out to the garden for some thorough watering, because I had the time for it. I filled that time with watering, and then I watered a bit more. I slammed my last Blue Machine. I knew right off I wouldn’t be exercising today. The fatigue is getting to be too much. Then again, though, I could have. I didn’t. Days off are important.

Work. Oh man, work was great today. Well…an email exchange that nearly drove my fist through my monitor. My lack of sleep was shining through in my social interactions. I was snappy. Pissy. Bitchy. I was in a mood. The normal mocha, sure, and the two packs of oatmeal with flax. Anger, apologies, mediation. All in a day’s work. But getting work done? Nah, not on a day like this—it was just one thing after another.

Em-dash: Ctrl+Alt+Num-. In case you were wondering. En-dash? Ctrl+Num-. –

Sex? Well, I never!

Grammar. Syntax.

“Message sent from my iPhone. Please excuse errors in spelling and grammer.”

I’m all over. Wow.

I ate my pink lady (apple) today. I ate a banana. I ate potato chips. I picked up my son, who was immediately asleep, and came home to work more. I transferred him to his crib. His nap was lengthy, and I made a PB&J. Strawberry J. Pretzels. They’re pretty much gone. I don’t know what lunch will be tomorrow, and that will cause me some consternation when I finally get hungry for lunch. Breakfast? I’d bet on that lemon poppy seed muffin and a mocha. Good morning, Bella Bru.

The work afternoon was a mass of confusion: trying to decipher it. Untangle it. Getting logical with the illogical is…illogical? That’s my work world, all too often. Liam napped a long time. I got a lot done. He woke up and wasn’t interested in eating, but he WAS interested in dancing, so we did a bit of that. I got the dishes done. The work day ended a bit after 5, my wife got home, and I did a bit of yoga. I mean a real little bit, ‘cause I found myself standing on my mat, staring out the window, unable to think of a stretch I wanted to do. I did the wheel. My lower back cramped. I stopped, reassessed, and stopped. Rolled up the mat. DATE NIGHT! I showered again.

I love showering. I think if I could go through my entire day in a warm shower, I’d probably do it. I’d probably look a lot older though, too, given the prune factor. But when I finally dried out, would I have pushed aside the effects of aging through intense moisturization? MS Word hates me tonight, and I don’t blame it.

Thursdays are great date nights when you have a baby. No waits. We went to a favorite of ours: Matteo’s. It’s an Italian place from a prominent local chef with another restaurant we could rarely afford, if we could ever even get in there. It’s limited: the Supper Club. Someday we’ll try to go. At Matteo’s, though, they know us. And they know their wine. But I’d started before them. Two small glasses of that zin before we left. Angie and I split a salad, we had an order of parmesian garlic bread, and I ordered fettuccini alfredo with chicken, which is pretty standard. That’s something creamy I like. We shared with Liam. Wanna know what Angie had?

That’s cool.

She finished before me, and as she and Liam roamed outside I finished my second glass of wine…at the restaurant. Fourth. I don’t even know what it was I was drinking there, because I’d never heard of such a thing. “A red blend…a real punch in the face,” as it was described by Matt, our waiter. I had to learn his name since he’d known ours from very early on. He seems like a good guy. The wine was Argentine, but I really can’t remember what it was called. I’d call it Face-Punch now, probably. It was strong, for sure, but didn’t seem to lean toward any one varietal. But I’m the guy that swirls my glass, sniffs, sips, tastes, and then declares, “Hmmmmm…this tastes like…good.” I wrapped up and paid because I’m such a gentleman, and our accounts are combined anyway. I like to think Angie paid. I’m just the middleman.

John Butler is singing on the speakers. He used to get high for a living, apparently. Which reminds me there was a guy playing acoustic and singing at Matteo’s, and he was pretty good, and who can hate The Day the Music Died, although I’d surely hate it if the music actually died. How do you punctuate a question within a statement? You probably split the sentences into sensibility.

~~Tip: when you open a bottle of wine and are dangerously close to drinking the whole thing, leave a splash in the bottle. Then you don’t have to recognize the fact you just polished off an entire bottle of wine by yourself. Nevermind what you drink while you’re out—that counts differently.~~

Cold Stone is only a short walk from Matteo’s, so dessert is always easy. I usually get a Love It of something. (If you don’t know, well, too bad.) But I was so full, and I felt like I probably only needed a Like It, but the girl there knew us and we haven’t seen her in a while so she let me know she’d give me an extra big Like It, and I loved it: cake batter ice cream with some Kit Kat bar.

We came home and the party started, Liam running and dancing and getting spun about like a smiling happy…baby that’s getting all spun and happy. We played and danced and jumped around so much I started sweating. I took off my shirt. I’m irresistible. (I just made myself laugh out loud, and my wife looked at me but tried to pretend she didn’t really notice.)

I read Liam Skippy Jon Jones earlier. I love reading that book. It’s so fun to read aloud.

I read him some poems from Where the Sidewalk Ends before leaving Angie to rock him off to sleep. I poured more wine. I’m looping back to my earlier tip, but one glass earlier. There’s a splash left in the bottle. A few drinks left in my glass.

So goodnight, splash-of-wine-in-the-bottle: you know you’re doomed. I hate to admit it in such a public forum, but who are we kidding? You’re mine. And I just put on some Air Supply.

And suddenly you found me oh OH OHHHHH!

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