Maria and I played the “Try To Name All 50 States” game a little bit ago. In eighth grade (which, incidentally, is when I acquired my spelling block about the word Massechuse- Massachusetts), I could have done that without batting an eye. Tonight, Maria got a perfect score. She beat me. By thirteen.
Category: Maria Barnes
Last night I forced Ken to eat the worst chicken parmesan I’ve ever made (Maria, wisely, pleaded a weak stomach) and then we made DC come over and randomly watched Empire. Which, you know what? Is a pretty funny movie.
For instance, up until Cloud City, somebody dies every time Darth Vader is on camera. He strangles people who take responsibility, he strangles people through the TV screen, he strangles people while other people pretend not to notice. And then there’s the part where one of the Star Destroyers gets hit by an asteroid, and its captain in the little holo-display looks horrified and disappears, and Vader doesn’t bat an eye. Or doesn’t act like it, anyway. Finally, at the end, after they barely lose the Falcon, Admiral Piett (who’s been standing around nervously as others fall like wheat the whole movie) watches Vader walk off in a cold silence and just swallows once. The expression on his face is great.
Maybe that’s the problem: thinking about the last two movies, I can only remember two jokes that didn’t involve Jar Jar.
- The day before yesterday, Maria made carrot cake, and just moments ago, we used it to have carrot cake soup for breakfast.
- Yes.
- Oh God yes.
As today’s Stone Soup points out, it’s actually pretty silly to even think about working today, but for some reason I did, and dragged myself out of bed at 6:30 just as normal. It was a little strange to be one of like four (as opposed to eighty) people waiting for an elevator, and a little stranger when all the lights on our part of the floor were deliberately off. When I read that comic strip and waited an hour and still only tech support was there, I took off like one of the wiser characters in a survival horror movie.
After that I mostly… slept? And played Double Dash. Maria got a GameCube for Christmas, so unless she bans me from using it I’ll probably never accomplish anything worthwhile again. We actually unlocked almost everything on New Year’s Eve, along with our stay-in-and-snack companion Lisa, but we lacked a memory card at that point and were bereft of saving ability. I got one of those on the aforementioned trip home from work today, so now we get to do it all again. This is a fine and noble thing.
Tonight it’s out to dinner at some fancy place where they make you eat so slowly that it takes two hours to finish the soup, then Strizzle Lizzle rehizzle, and finally sometime after midnight Ian and I will drive to the hinterlands and crash (as in sleep, not… hit things). The next morning, we and forty of our closest relatives will race tiny cars down a track for eight hours until one emerges supreme. Seriously. We’ve been doing it every year since before I was born.
Emily Anderson was here for about 24 hours, starting Friday night; she, Maria and I made pancakes, watched movies, and generally mocked my sexuality. A good time was had, mostly. (They made me wear a pink fuzzy hat and sunglasses. They called me “Elton.”)
Seriously, it was really good to see her, and we did have enormous fun. I found out I’m a deity of some sort, I guess: this morning Maria was unhappy about the gloomy no-fun weather outside, so she turned to me for help.
“Brendan,” she complained, “make it snow!”
I turned in the direction of the balcony and ordered, in as grand a tone as I could produce, “Snow.”
It started five minutes later. I’m not really sure how to turn it off.
I really hate remedy medicine. I actually don’t like taking drugs at all, though I make mild use of caffeine and will choke down / vaporize / intravene something if, you know, I’ll die otherwise. But decongestants, antihystamines, painkillers, soporifics… bleagh. I don’t like to think about treating symptoms instead of causes. I can live with symptoms! Fix the root problem!
Nevertheless, living with an iron-willed roommate who happens to be a med student will eventually weaken you on the placebo-effect front. I’ve been taking Robitussin for about 24 hours now, which is why I was functional enough to sit in a VERY COLD ticket booth and run sound for PI Sketch with only one slip-up. It was a good show. The crowd liked it. I touched Yale inappropriately and got to meet Allilea, who differs from most other celebrities in that she’s taller in real life.
Tomorrow I crash hard, and try to get ready for my last homework and last exam on Tuesday. Then Thursday, then finals, and then the semester will be over. This is very weird. Who the hell gets out for finals on December 4th? U of L, that’s who.
Yea, I go to bed to rest my fevered brow, and to cough until the Robitussin kicks in. It’s not like this is unusual, I get sick about once every winter, but I start to worry about my brain health when I notice that I’m subtracting 230 from 1830 and coming up with 1400.
I normally don’t much like shopping the day after Thanksgiving, not so much because I mind crowds as because it’s the day Everybody’s Supposed To Go Shopping and I don’t like being manipulated by faceless corporations to engage in something that really shouldn’t involve faceless corporations so much.
As Maria and I did not previously own apartment-decorating paraphernalia, though, and as it was on sale, we went forth to Target and bought a horrifying amount of stuff, including a five-foot-or-something artificial tree (previous trees in my [non-Richmond] places of residence basically included Jon’s eighteen-inch tree, decorated with a Centre Debate 2000 button) and ordaments. We spent a LOT, just about everything I saved off the food budget this month by feeding my sister ramen noodles.
But we have shiny things now. And it’s snowing!
The band was okay–nice people, just the Motown they usually picked to play was not slow enough to slow dance and not fast enough to fast dance. They did get everybody out on the floor, though, for “Brown-Eyed Girl.” My mom’s song.
I saw Ben McBrayer, whom I’ve been meaning to write, and a million people whose names I didn’t know I remembered. I was terrified I’d read my Corinthians too fast, but a lot of people complimented me on that, and on how much I look like my dad. Instead of best man and maid of honor, they had Best Moms–my grandmother Virginia and my new grandmother Betty Jo. Father Pat started to prompt them, but they already knew the vows by heart.
Maria was kind enough to drive down from Louisville to get me last night, and I’ve spent Thanksgiving with her family today; Ian’s at Noah’s and Caitlan is at our family farm. This week was the only chance they’ll have for a break together before Christmas. I don’t know how they managed to pull this whole thing off in six weeks, but it was…
About halfway through the service, one of the light bulbs right above the front row chose November 26th as its day to expire. Nobody noticed: my mother and stepfather were glowing.
I was really tired last night, and I kind of had a micronap in the middle of a conversation with Maria–just short enough to drop me into my subconscious, but not enough that I even noticed I’d fallen asleep. The result was that I radically changed subjects in the middle of a sentence.
“Yeah, I still think so… even if–” I said, and then stopped myself.
“Even if what?” said Maria.
“Even if,” I said slowly, “my children are made of potatoes, and the only thing we’re having for dinner tonight is french fries and potato chips, because we’re out of food and I’m going to have to feed them to each other if we want to survive?”