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First off, I'm loving the show Enterprise--you know, the Star Trek show with the dude from Quantum Leap (Scott Bakula!) playing the captain? And the oh-so-hot-my-shorts-are-damp Connor Trinneer as the chief engineer? Ooh-la-la!
But whoever picked that goddamn awful "theme" music, "Faith of the Heart" by Rod Stewart? You should be shot, quartered, tarred, feathered, hung, asphyxiated in deep space, and then fed to the infamous Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal--and that's just for starters. I mean, who the hell picks that type of awful easy listening for a science fiction show? It's disgusting.
But that's not what this post is about. Well, not really anyway...
After watching a few episodes, I realized the show was set in the year 2151. Only a mere 140 years from now. Which, if science fiction is to be an accurate precursor to real life, means we should meet a Vulcan in about forty years, give or take.
Then we have to wonder how accurate a precursor to real life science fiction actually is. After all, I'm doubting there are actual Vulcans. (Sorry Spock...)
Please realize, however, that if it wasn't for great imaginations and science fiction, we wouldn't have half the wonders we have today--like satellite radio, cell phones, elevators, Tang... (Honestly? Okay, we could have forgotten the Tang...) But you get my drift.
Oh, yum!
Where was I? Oh, yeah...
Um...
(Could someone stop posting images of Connor Trinneer on my computer? It's highly distracting when I'm trying to type here... Thanks...)
So I'm on my back deck, taking in the lightning bugs, the gentle breeze, staring at the Big Dipper going, what if...?
You ever do that? Just stare up at space, taking in the Milky Way in all her brilliant glory? Not because there's supposed to be a meteor shower, not because you can't get your goddamn cell phone to get a signal, and not because you thought you heard a helicopter...
But just... Because...
Somewhere out there....
Shit. Now that fucking "Somewhere Out There" song that freaky little mouse Feivel sang is stuck in my head... Of course, that might have been a better theme song choice for Enterprise then that douche-bag Rod Stewart... But I digress... For now...
Somewhere out there, another form of intelligent life may be looking at a constellation that they've named, and our sun might be one of the stars fueling their imaginations. There they sit there on their patios, drinking their version of Tang (and thinking their parents are cheap as well for trying to pass it off as orange juice), staring up at a formation of stars from their end of their solar system, having just watched a sci-fi show with a totally hot male version of their species, and hoping. Waiting. Watching.
For us. Or another intelligent being. Another creature or species with the curiosity and drive to reach up to those stars and look. To see what's out there, to experience the vastness of our galaxy, and even maybe one day our universe!
In early 2004, a new type of rocket fuel was being invented that was speculated could make a trip to Mars from 1.5 to 3 years (with conventional Apollo-type technology) down to 6 months to a year. (See here.) Now, after 6 more years of developing this technology, scientists think we could get to Mars in just 39 days! (See here.)
Thirty-nine days. To Mars.
Of course, we should already be on Mars. But NASA lost sight of it's mission, granted. Instead of constantly developing new and better technology for getting men into space, they stuck with the space shuttle program for waaaaaaay too long. Now, irony of ironies, we're going to be piggy-backing with the Russians to get to and from the space station, as if we lost the space race in the late 1960s...
It's shameful and humbling.
But it's also the chance we may need.
Now that we have to work with other countries, now that we have to cooperate for shallow-space missions, what could the brilliant scientists of many countries come up with? What's just around the corner?
Just how soon might we have planetary colonists on the red planet?
True, I'm probably gonna be six feet under by then. Worm food, if you will.
So until then, I'll just have to dream...
Of course, 39 days alone on a plasma-fueled rocket with Connor Trinneer couldn't hurt anything, could it? And honestly, it would only improve morale overall, especially when we discover that new intelligent life, and they find out how hot and sexy of a species we actually are, right?
Right...
Ooh-la-la!
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
"You're beautiful on the inside."
"Yes, but you're nice."
As a former ugly, fat, and low-self-confidence person, I can truly say these are THE most hated phrases we like to hear.
Why? Well, we know the sentiments are well-intentioned, but that does not help when billboard after magazine cover after television ad all show what is truly valued in our society--physical beauty.
The perfect abs. The well-formed pecs. The chiseled jaw line. The perky boobs. The all-but-impossible flat stomach.
Lucky for me, I almost have the chiseled jaw line. Everything else is a work in progress.
And I say "former ugly person" for only one very specific reason: I no longer feel ugly, but it isn't because I could now grace the cover of PlayGirl and get a standing ovation. And I also can't say it's because I now value my looks over my personality. If it came right down to it, I'd choose my personality--but it would be a hard choice.
Looks come with entitlement. We, even subconsciously, extrapolate onto beautiful people a beautiful personality. We stare at them longer, want to be standing near them in the hopes that some of that beauty will "spill over" onto us, laugh louder at their jokes in the hopes that getting their attention will make us just that much more attractive to others...
Yes, that was me. The "hoverer." An Ugly Betty, if you will, living in what seemed to be a Mode world.
Amanda: You're so lucky, Betty. I never know if men like me because of my personality or because of my looks.
Cry me a fucking river, Amanda.
You can add that quote to the list of things we ugo's quite hate to hear: After all, just because the Amanda's of the world can't judge who likes her for her looks and who likes her because of her personality is her failing. Not ours. So don't push it off on us.
I think all of us have these parts of our personality, however. "How do I look?" "Does this outfit highlight all the right parts?" "Does this make me look fat?" "How does my hair look?" We all want to present ourselves the most attractive way possible, and there's nothing wrong with that. In fact, none of us can blame the genetic lottery for being ugly OR for being considered beautiful. That's just a fact. And neither can we blame the beautiful people of the world for taking advantage of their sheer luck at high cheekbones, a propensity for higher metabolic rates, or that bubble butt.
And we ugo's have only ourselves to blame for not hitting the gym.
That being said: We have no way of judging whether you meant that tip on getting rid of that bulge as a well-meaning piece of friendly advice, or as an opportunity to make yourself feel better about your non-bulge at our expense--and just maybe, it was both.
But unless we ask for that advice, keep it to yourself. It only serves to make us self-conscious about one more thing on our growing list of how we feel inadequate to be human in your presence. We don't want to hear about our great personalities--after all, we're the ones that perfected "great personality" since we didn't have bikini-bodies to fall back on. We don't want to hear about the trials of being beautiful--we'll never have that problem despite hours spent trying in our bathrooms and beauty parlors across the globe. (As my cousin Courtney likes to say, "I'm a beautician, not a magician!") And we certainly don't want to hear about how we're beautiful on the inside because it's nothing more than a metaphor for how ugly we are on the outside.
And we certainly don't need reminded of that.
Learning to love myself, especially after a young woman in junior high named Stephanie told me, quite out of the blue, that I was so ugly she was amazed anyone would even consider dating me, was quite an uphill battle. All I was doing was standing by the biology classroom door, waiting for the bell to ring so I could go to my locker and get the books I needed for the next class. Thanks, Steph. I hope your thin, straight hair has started falling out. (But that's not the nice part of my personality, so--forget I even thought it...)
The point of this post? Not sure--maybe I just need to get these things out here onto the blogosphere so I can move on. Maybe I just want to let my fellow ugo's know that we've all been there, are still there, and never quite leave there. After all, even today when someone lets me know they find me attractive, I can ride that high feelings for days, if not weeks. And I hate myself for that. I hate that that part of my past days of low-self-confidence continues to live on.
I've realized I'll never be "Male Model of the Year," or even anything close. But I have learned to work with what I have, and that took some hard work.
But--dear, sweet, well-meaning beautiful people? Go suck my personality.
Tonight I will be sleeping in a bed... (Er, not the one pictured, FYI. That'd be too much of a good thing...) I never thought I would miss a bed so much... I pride myself on being pretty much able to sleep anywhere at any time. In fact, it was in the military that I first learned how to sleep while standing at attention... (It's more an art form then an actual way to catch a few Zs, but I digress...)
Richie is once again home from the hospital--long story (much longer than Cher's farewell tour!)--and after 10 days of sleeping hospital, eating hospital, and being awoken every few hours by nurses built like tanks with only their current mission in mind in hospityal (how can it possibly be a healing environment when they wake you up every few hours??), once my head hits that pillow...
Ahhhhhhh.... Just me, a mattress, some plump pillows, and a conjugal visit or two from a plethora of dream men who have missed my company... (Hey, there my dreams, I'll decide if they miss my company or not!) And seeing as how Rich is recuperating at his parents house with a very broken leg... Well, let's just say my dreams are all I'm getting for a while... Not that there's anything wrong with that...
Such is life, eh? And while tonight I float on a cloud of springs and foam and dream the dreams that I have been robbed of these last ten days, it will be the most grateful I've been in a long time to avoid that thing called Life, also known as that annoying time of consciousness between naps...
Today was supposed to be the day we started working out again. It was supposed to be the day we got Serious.
Instead we were sidetracked detained slightly distracted by a size issue with the exercise mats. That is to say, they wouldn't fit side by side in front of the television in such a way as for us both to... exercise properly. Which then started an argument a tiff a conversation about how to best rearrange the living room so as to allow for both exercise mats to be placed in front of the television in such a way as to allow both of us to exercise properly. In turn, we embarked on an exploratory search for a tape measure; graph paper; a lesson in geometry; and a lack of motivation, quickly followed by an appetite.
For dinner. Chicken, salad, veggies, that sort of thing. Ladies and gentlemen, let's keep it out of the gutter, shall we?
Of course, that doesn't mean another effort won't be put in tomorrow. After all, having had a long and demoralizing moment with the scale, both before and after dinner tonight, along with a slight turning of the television and the removal of an end table, we are now all set to turn our bodies back into the smooth, taut, golden vessels of manliness they once were...
Mind you, a little bit of photographic motivation doesn't hurt either...
Speaking of... I think it's time for a little...
...distraction...
Life made me chubby...
Actually, it was part life, part genetics. We who are descended from farmer stock have a genetic handicap, you see. They bred 'em big and stocky--thus, in today's day and age, farmless in rural America, I continue on with my so-called "battle." The bulge, that is. I find it sincerely frustrating that, although I can now squeeze into a 36 (something I haven't been able to do since 1998), unfortunately guts don't shrink in relation to waists, and thus...
Too poor to join a gym... Too lazy to wake up early and jog... Too exhausted when I get home to put in the effort. Small consolation that the treadmill sold for a nice price at the yard sale--at least I don't have to go into the unused spare room and stare at it for ten minutes in guilt every evening--that alone must have been worth 150 calories, no? No? Yeah, no...
I keep telling myself that part of my new and fabulous life in Florida will include a personal trainer with the body of a god, the patience of a saint, and the monetary independence that will allow him to whip me into tip-top physical shape out of sheer goodwill, sort of like a charity project. He'll show up around 10 in the morning ready to go; I'll come in from off the lanai, finish my coffee and leave my paper on the kitchen counter, and we'll work out for about an hour or so; then he'll be off to his next charity case (Richard, perhaps? :D) while I finish reading the paper, drinking a protein-packed soy latte with the faint aroma of almonds and the taste of cinnamon and vanilla doughnuts...
Of course, I could just break down and pretend like I'm back in basic: get up at 3:00 am, run for a gazillion miles, then jumping jacks, down hill skiers, yadda yadda blah blah, have breakfast at 6:30 a.m. after cleaning the barracks and making the bed and waxing the floor and still have a full day of work ahead of me... But just the thought is exhausting, let alone any possible follow-through! Even the military couldn't break me of the inherent laziness--my first day out, I slept in until 10:00 and didn't even feel the urge to run, or do anything even remotely run-like...
But I was skinny...
The sole motivating factor in the military, sadly, was that if I didn't run the gazillion miles, my punishment would be to run a gazillion more. Motivation is a funny thing, isn't it? I only exercised to get out of doing more exercise...
This is why I am now on the smaller side of "chubby." If there is such a thing.
I wonder how much lipo costs these days...?
But then, I'd really like to meet that personal trainer...
A Sunday school lesson refresher course: Satan is god's enemy; God kicked him and all his buddies out of heaven because, and I quote from that greatest of mythological treasures here:
Rev 12:7-9 And war broke out in heaven: Michael and his angels fought with the dragon; and the dragon and his angels fought, but they did not prevail, nor was a place found for them in heaven any longer. So the great dragon was cast out, that serpent of old, called the Devil and Satan, who deceives the whole world; he was cast to the earth, and his angels were cast out with him.
Please note the italicized text: war broke out in heaven. Heaven? War? Surely the two are antonyms!? Why, according to the bible, heaven is supposedly kittens and puppies and rainbows 24/7! War in heaven? That's kind of like finding out Mrs Brady was an alcoholic!
If the bible says this, what else does it have to say about heaven?
Mat 6:20-21 But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. (No stealing in heaven--it starts wars and breaks your heart, much like your seventh-grade girl friend...)
Mat 22:30 For in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven. (Marriage isn't sacred and we're all asexual... I think that counts as tearing asunder, don't you?)
Mark 13:31 Heaven and earth shall pass away: but my words shall not pass away. (Heaven has an expiration date, much like cottage cheese...)
Luke 22:43 And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. (Heaven has steroids, next to the party mix of uppers and downers...)
John 12:28 Then came there a voice from heaven, [saying], I have both glorified [it], and will glorify [it] again. (Heaven has a Public Address system...)
John 14:2 In my Father's house are many mansions: if [it were] not [so], I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. (Heaven has public housing--talk about your socialism! Of course, if Jesus is preparing it, do you think they'll all be decorated post-exile style?)
Rev 21:21 And the twelve gates [were] twelve pearls; every several gate was of one pearl: and the street of the city [was] pure gold, as it were transparent glass. (Heaven is see-through; good thing we also all become gender-neutral, or peeping-tom-ism would be rampant!!)
Rev 21:25 And the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day: for there shall be no night there. (Heaven is not a gated community, and you need to buy the sun glasses in the gift shop before entering, but also:)
Rev 21:27 And there shall in no wise enter into it any thing that defileth, neither [whatsoever] worketh abomination, or [maketh] a lie: but they which are written in the Lamb's book of life. (Heaven's gates never close but no one can get in or out... Must be an invisible fence to keep the "bad people" out--or is that to keep the Christians in? Hmm...)
So, let's recap:- God makes angels, Lufy-fer is the most beautiful, there's a war, losers have to leave...
- God then makes man, man also disobeys much like the angels before him (so much for perfection begetting perfection), then God has to "sacrifice" (i.e., kill) his kid to redeem them. I guess he figures enough of his creation has been an utter failure and he wants to recoup some of the loss this time through a "redemption process." (Hope he kept his receipts!)
- God assures us through "revelation" that this sort of thing (like wars and stealing and disobeying) will not ever happen again in Heaven, and he hopes that by making us "sexless" like the angels, he can keep the peace... (also unlike your seventh-grade girl friend)
- Oh, and he hired a very fashionable decorator (Jesus; nepotism is alive and strong in Heaven) to build the new heaven (and your mansion!) with lots of shiny stones and glass.
- Once he decides we've "suffered enough," he'll send the kid back to collect the dead and the living that gave him kudo's and who are all possessed by his holy spirit (multiple personalities much?), give them all sex-removal operations (no co-pay, Heaven has a socialistic universal health care system), and let them live in this new playground as long as they promise to give up free will. (Lobotomists are also covered in Heaven's health plan.)
What could possible go wrong with a plan like that?
The devil is definitely in the details...
As I sip on my morning cup of coffee, I breathe in the fresh country air and watch the horses graze peacefully in the pasture behind my house. The frost lays heavy on the fields, and not a bird breaks the silence as the sun peaks above the Appalachian mountains--more foothills than mountains in this part of the state, if truth be told.
These are the mornings that should last an eternity. Alas, eternity isn't nearly as long as most people think it should be. As the steam rises from the mug and Hawthorne looks for that spot that's just right, I know these moments are numbered, and somehow it makes me appreciate them all the more.
When I used to dream of home ownership and adulthood, I pictured myself reading the paper on a sunny spring morning wearing nothing but a white terry cloth robe, sipping a mug of coffee at a bistro table on a flagstone patio surrounded by plants and flowers; a neighbor would wave cheerfully as he gardened in his own yard; children would be heard in the distance as they boarded the bus for school; a bird would sing happy little notes and tunes. I would reach my hand across to my husband, wearing a black terry cloth robe and drinking tea, his chest hair catching the morning light enticingly, and we would know what contentment truly was. It was sickeningly sweet, this daydream of what it would be like to be an adult living my life filled with Brim, Calgon, and Kodak moments...
The reality is even more beautiful, however, albeit in a by-way-of-Siberia type of way. As I lift the Folgers once again to my lips, I hear through the window the soft sounds of Rich's snoring. A crow caws loudly, sending Hawthorne on a quest to see if he's low enough to be worth chasing. Beaux claws at the screen door, making a paw-print mosaic on the storm windows recently installed to ward off the winter chill which comes regularly now. Having worked for the money that paid for this coffee, the mug it's in, the deck I'm standing on, the animals which depend on me for food and water, the food and water itself... It's not "peaceful," this moment of the morning, but I cherish it nonetheless. So much more alive than I ever dreamed, so much harder to attain than my childish mind could ever have imagined...
A song from my childhood drifts into my ears, something about this train of thought triggering a memory, and I find myself quietly singing, "Mamma's, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys... Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks... Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such!" And then the words of the song fade away from my lips. I know my parents had dreams of a better life for us kids, and while I can't presume to know exactly what those dreams entailed, I know the myriad of things we kids put them through--what we put ourselves through--were never in their wildest imaginations as they greeted each of us into the world one at a time. As I think of the current struggles we all face--uncertainty in where Mom and Dad will live, if I will still have a job in another month or two, if my sister will live long enough to see her daughter grow up and get married, if my brother will ever get back together with his wife, if my other brother will have his dream of fatherhood, if my other sister will find the peace she seems to constantly seek...
None of us grew up to be cowboys, but none of us quite made it to doctor and lawyer status either. Nothing seems certain these days, and I am past the times when I could dream without reservation, if only because I've lived enough years to know that reservations can sometimes make dreams more attainable--when its not crushing them out of existence, that is. Reality has a way of teaching you what works, what doesn't, and that ultimately there are just some things you can't control--you can only hope for the best while preparing for the worst.
And while there are certainly jobs I can think of that would be much worse than growing up to be a cowboy (how many kids you know want to grow up to be a barnacle-cleaning scrubber?), I still nurse quite a few dreams which I'll most likely never attain (not least of which would be sleeping with Keanu Reeves!), but there are a few as well on that "doable" list. I may have that bistro set on that flagstone patio yet! Have that perfect cup of coffee while wearing a white terry cloth robe. Heck, I still have time, if I so desire, to diversify my ab into abs! I'm not sure there'll be six of 'em down there when I finally get around to working on that one, but I can still dream...
I call the dog into the house, catch Beaux as he makes his routine morning escape dash through the open storm door, and finish up the last bit of coffee resting at the bottom of my mug. As I plant a soft kiss on Rich's cheek and leave for work, the song once more plays through my head and out my lips, but this time...
It seems a bit more optimistic...:
Cowboys ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold,
They'd rather give you a song than diamonds or gold,
Lonestar belt buckles and old faded Levi's,
And each night begins a new day,
If you don't understand him, and he don't die young
He'll probably just ride away
Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys...
Some dreams can still be made reality... It'll just take a bit more work... And time... And holding on to those dreams...
Having Keanu Reeve's phone number probably couldn't hurt either...
And it was, dear reader. After a splendid afternoon hanging out with my friends, a few of us decided to go check out Rainbow Mountain's dance club...
It felt like coming home...
We haven't been to a club in years, mind you. With the buying of the house six years ago, my body's predilection toward evicting organs, and a myriad of other issues, the money just hasn't been there. Mind you, we'd go out to see the odd band, go to the straight event here and there (like Bally last week)... And they have been fun times...
But upon entering the dance club...
Home. Surrounded by hundreds of gay men and lesbians all there for one reason--to be together, dancing, drinking, and having fun. Celebrating life. I didn't want it to end...
One of the more mysterious things to me is how I automatically become 600% more attractive upon entering a club. (Seriously, it's not just the Long Island's and Snake Bites!) The cruising, the eye contact, the brush-up here and there, Rich symbolically "claiming" me by constantly touching my shoulder, placing an arm around my waist (you gotta love that jealous streak!)...
Oh, not to worry, dear reader! I use my powers for good! Dancing with the geek who just isn't pretty enough for everyone else. Pecking the older gent on the cheek who feels lonely sitting at the bar getting the cold shoulder from the twinks. Being the first to walk up and give the nervous male dancer a dollar when everyone else feels--shy? too "good" for that?--they'd be viewed as "dirty" or something... (Hey, get this--he's putting himself through medical school! He might be next in line to remove another organ from this aging body!) The best part is ignoring those who are in good with "everyone else," the "pretty group." Those same twinks who won't give Ray or Harold even a polite hello... The ones who are "too pretty" to be seen with the aged, the over-weight, the "unattractive." It worries me that they have not the foresight or the inclination that one day they might--or will be--part of that group. An accident, a medication, or just age, will place them at that lonely spot at the bar... That dark corner where those just wanting to be seen as human, congregate and grow bitter at the shallowness of young gay culture...
Granted, when I was new, young, and hotter than poached eggs on the scene, I had that streak--but it doesn't take long for some people to realize how the game is played, and if the rules should be followed... And lord knows, I've never been one to really follow the rules...
This is American society, dear reader. Obsessed with beauty, youth, sex. It's not just a trait of my subculture--just glance at the magazine rack, a passing billboard, and number of beauty shops. We have elevated unattainable beauty to even higher levels of perfection while at the same time allowing ourselves to become obesity capital of the galaxy, this United States. Held together by our views of beauty and love of cheeseburgers, the oxymoron is that we idealize what we won't be, worship what we refuse to attain, envy what we won't work for (take a look around you next Sunday in the pews...)--a very disingenuous magic, if I do say so myself. And while this part of our culture has been philosophized to the point of the proverbial dead horse, it is nice to be reminded that, while none of us will be the ideal person with the ideal body and the ideal life...
You can still have a wonderful, fun, vibrant, magical life...
As long as you learn to live your life with respect for everyone else and not just those that fit into your idea of "perfection"... What a piss-poor world this would be if we all were the same. I like to believe each individual life is made just a bit better, a bit richer, when we all take just a moment to acknowledge that...
One might almost call it magical...
Makes us all wish we had just a bit more of the Irish in us, yes? Hubba-hubba...
Happy St. Patrick's Day everybody!
Thanks to Restoring Love for the pic.
Oh, what I wouldn't give for a "wardrobe malfunction"...
Almost makes me want to get cable again...
Damn that Janet--she ruined it for everybody!
Well... Her, and the two people who actually complained to the FCC about it...
I actually forgot how sexy god was, to tell you the honest truth. Since Joan of Arcadia went off the air eons ago, Rich has been belly-aching and belly-aching about this tragic loss in his life... So, being the loving, caring, wanting-to-not-listen-to-the-whining-anymore husband that I am, I bought him Season 1 for our 9-year anniversary...
Thus, I refound sexy god... I'd sleep with him in a heartbeat... If I weren't already taken... Or a Mormon... Hmm....
Of course, a lot of fundies love to think that if god were one of us, he'd be going to church very Sunday, munching on wafers and drinking wine, and whipping out a "Bless you!" to every Tom and Hairy Dick that walked by, preaching the virtues of preventing gay marriage and keeping women from controlling their reproductive lives...
You really think an all-powerful deity would care? Do you really?
As Gandhi once said, "I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."
I've been trying to avoid certain subjects lately ("No, we all love your gardening stories, Jason--really!") while waiting for something I think I'm not supposed to know about to resolve itself... It's been going on for--what, three, four weeks?--but things are stalled, at an impasse, as it were.
I'm trying to be nice. It's hard these days, though, let me tell you. Since I no longer fear confrontation like I used to (and don't ask me why--I have no idea...), it is now an effort work to keep from confronting people on issues of great consequence...
Sigh. The ironies of life, eh?
At least god became sexy... Albeit briefly, and, as ever, fictionally...
It's been a three weeks now since the television has been turned off.
No, we didn't do it because we thought poor Hawthorne's morals were being corrupted. Images of him moving into the big city of Allentown and stealing cars, chasing down hookers, as well as violating speed laws never crossed our minds. Although he too enjoyed the shows on PBS (Wild Discovery always made him growl at the lions or wanna play with the hyena's...), it also wasn't that we feared a rerun of Cujo bringing out his inner-Saint Bernard to wreak havoc on our quiet country life.
It was just time.
I'm not sure what I imagined it would be like. Images of me hitting it with a sledge hammer in the hopes of getting an antenna signal for a glimpse of something pretty crossed my mind, as did thoughts of Richard screaming "PLEASE can we get CABLE again!!!!" as he suffered withdraw from endless Little House on the Prairie episodes (definitely not something I'm missing, mind you!).
But it was the thing that filled the empty voids, you know? Those times when you came home from work and just wanted something mindless to do to unwind, or those Saturdays when you couldn't mow due to lightning storms, or those long, lonely winter days when all you had to entertain you was a piece of string and a wish for spring...
But you know what? A little weeding is just as therapeutic. A little cleaning, a little straightening up, reading a great book, or even drawing and painting--all wonderful ways to fill up that time you thought you should be watching Malcolm in the Middle on syndication...
Have there been moments? Sure... Picture me salivating as a friend describes what happened last night on Medium, or surfing the web at lunch for just a glimpse of Matthew Fox's hot 5-o'clock shadow...
But we survive, don't we? Of course, let's not forget we didn't drop NetFlix, nor did we disconnect the television from the DVD player or VCR (how many of you under-twenty-somethings just went, "What's a VCR?") so we can rewatch some of the old favorites that we have yet to sell on eBay...
Be that as it may, though, it is wonderfully freeing. Granted, our cable provider didn't believe we weren't going with some other competitor. She was sure we just didn't want to tell her who we chose to get our "television needs" through (her phrase!), and tried several sales tactics in order to try to get us to keep the mindless color box hooked up to the line...
Alas, three weeks and absolutely loving it...
Although, if you don't mind, you could fill me in on who the Mole ends up being... If you were so inclined...
It's okay, Rich understands... At least, he says he does...
A bit too muscle-y? Perhaps...
We can work on that...
I just hope Reichen and Keanu understand... They were good hubby's, but sometimes a boy just needs a change for change's sake...
Oh, that's right... You can catch my new BF on American Gladiators. I remember I used to watch this show with my grandfather back in the day when the 'rents were too cheap to get cable, but the grand-rents weren't. Plus, they had air conditioning...
Ah, the good old days...
Did I just hear someone ask who Reichen is?
He was on The Amazing Race a few seasons ago... Dated Lance Bass fr a bit there? You know, before he found true love with me, of course...
He'll understand as well...
First off, I'm loving the show Enterprise--you know, the Star Trek show with the dude from Quantum Leap (Scott Bakula!) playing the captain? And the oh-so-hot-my-shorts-are-damp Connor Trinneer as the chief engineer? Ooh-la-la!
Oh, yum!
Now that we have to work with other countries, now that we have to cooperate for shallow-space missions, what could the brilliant scientists of many countries come up with? What's just around the corner?
