theology&geometry

All those years of hard work and finally, time for the purple wizard robe and the funny hat.

So proud of you, babe.

It can be … tense.

[Project 365]

My dear boyfriend, upon the occasion of his first attempt at cleaning the litter box:

“There is an amazing amount of turds in here.”

I spent my day scrubbing the house clean and watching two dudes remove the motherlode of fall leaves from my front and back yards. Nothing particularly romantic about either of those things but I felt three thousand percent better when it was all over. It was like my house had been excavated all of a sudden. Icing on the cake? When the fella arrived home with these pretty things in hand and told me we had reservations at Brooklyn Bridge. He kept his monkey suit on while I got ready and then we paired up and looked smashing, if I may say so myself. Then we went and stuffed ourselves with delicious Italian cheesiness and wine. During conversation (between peeks at the television over the bar), he managed to keep his overwhelming lust for the Royal Furniture girl to a dull roar, and I did not curse too loudly, spill anything, or make wildly offensive jokes.

Ahhhhh, that’s amore.

[Project 365]

Once upon a time, Jack and the manfriend had a tense relationship. They seemed to be developing a friendship until one night that Jack did not take kindly to something the manfriend said, and dispensed with a hiss and a face smack. After that, Ray did not care to have much contact with either kitty.

For a while.

Seems like during the winter break, while I have been slaving away over a hot computer monitor at work, Ray has become fast friends with the kitties, especially Jack. Now Jack gets more loving than I do. I can nuzzle and purr and Ray will reach past me to retrieve a feline to pet. It’s gross. Just now, over on the couch, he said, “Go back to sleep, my love,” to Jack. Sally came around and he exclaimed, “Oh no, two kitties! I’m not going to be able to contain myself!” And now he is hitting on Miss Kitty like tomorrow the Mayan aliens are coming to make good on their crazed end-of-the-world promises.

Anyway, despite my raging jealousy, I’m glad to see the three of them getting along. The house is much more at peace when he’s chasing them around for hugs instead of chasing them around to terrorize them.

You can tell how things have shifted by considering the evolution of Ray’s nicknames for Jack over the months:

The Fat One
The Orange One
Orange Kitty
Mr. Fatty
Mr. Kitty
Mr. Kits
Mr. Cutie
Mr. QT

*In honor of Lonnie D’s big Rainmakers fantasy championship a few weeks ago. My dear boy was flipping me off for unrelated reasons (possibly related to my having a camera pointed at him all the time), but when I went to title the photo, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Dirty Birds.

[Project 365]

Happy New Year at the Hi-Tone from Lindsey Turner on Vimeo.

That was the scene at the Hi-Tone last night, after the free cups of champagne had been poured down our gullets with great fanfare and meticulously timed lip kisses, between sets by the Tennessee Tearjerkers and Harlan T. Bobo. I didn’t capture the midnight countdown on camera because I was too busy double fisting (the remains of my Jack and Coke in the left and a swiftly warming skunky cup of bubbly in the right) and planning what sort of smooch I was going to plant on my man. (For the record: A tasteful one, unlike some coupled-up revelers to whom I might have shouted, “Get a room!” had they not been so got-danged attractive.)

I wasn’t feeling sufficiently lubricated (the Hi-Tone always brings out the worst of my social jitters), so I put some tequila down the hatch, and shortly after that, I found myself attempting to manually text some variation of “Happy new year” to everyone in my address book rather than send a mass text. Except that didn’t last beyond maybe half a dozen people because my god I hate typing on an iPhone and by then the show had started up again and I felt compelled to crane my neck upwards so I could pretend to see anything on stage. (I did catch a glimpse of Harlan’s magnificent broken-mirror coat, and was briefly filled with worry that if anyone hugged him, there would be more blood than I had ever seen before.) I did manage to text “Happy blue beard” to the boyfriend, which seemed really funny at the time because tequila tends to make me think like a third grader. He didn’t actually get the text until we got home, and he was very confused.

We stayed through several songs but headed out once He Who Was Hot But Refused to Take His Coat Off had had enough of the festivities. I remember walking to the car with a bit of an attitude, and intentionally stepping in enough puddles that my shoes and pants were soaked, so I just took off my shoes and walked barefoot. I believe the shoes are still in the car and I suspect they are responsible for the smell I noticed in there today. Don’t worry — I managed not to step on any AIDS-infected needles so at least I have that going for me in 2011.

So far this new year’s been pretty swell. Yes, I did spend the evening at work, but I spent the entire morning and afternoon in bed, making funny noises, napping the booze out, and stitching crappy panoramas on my phone.

Last year had its pretty intense moments — high and low — and I both gained someone in my life who is very dear to me and nearly lost someone who is very dear to me. Seems like a lot of people are waving goodbye to 2010 with a single upturned finger, and while November and December conspired to kick my everloving ass all over the place, I am going to rank 2010 as a good year, one full of new life and new beginnings and new ways of looking at things. The possibilities remain endless for all of us. May your new year be filled with sublime joy, every way you can get it.

I duped Ray into traveling across the state with me for my annual trek to the family timeshare in Gatlinburg. The first day was a complete tear-filled wash (seriously, I thought we were going to die) but when we finally made it to East Tennessee, things got better and more vacation-y. The fella had never been to that neck of the woods before, and while I declined to immerse him in the Black Bear Jamboree school of Southern culture, I hope his time spent in the mismatched blinking lights of Pigeon Forge helped educate him on the idiosyncrasies of the modern South.

Actually, I’m fairly sure that he got the biggest possible dose of edumacation about the South when he and my dad got into a heated two-hour political/social/historical argument in the middle of Golden Corral buffet, during which my dad only ate one plate of ham and taters. One plate. The rest of his time and mouth action was spent imparting conspiracy theories about 9/11, the end of the world, our Muslim president, the awfulness of Abraham Lincoln, and much much more. I have, for several years now, maintained that I will not engage my father in political discussions, even when provoked unfairly, because said discussions are less discussions per se and more me crying and him yelling and everyone around us looking on in horror. And yet, there sat my lawyer-in-training boyfriend — who has never met an argument he can’t chime in on with confidence — across from my dad — AKA He Who Loves to Turn Any Discussion Into a Political Argument — and the tense words just began to flow like so much blood from the neck of a slaughterhouse cow.

Figure one: Dad mid-argument.

I felt emboldened by having someone on my ideological team, so I chimed in plenty. More than I should have, given how upset I was getting. I eventually checked out and started Tweeting about the goings-on, listening and shushing them when I felt like our table was getting dirty looks from fellow patrons (none of whom were sitting very near us anymore) but Ray and Dad just kept on keeping on. Until, that is, Ray said something that sounded a lot like, “I dunno, I think Lincoln was an all right dude,” which caused my dad to snatch up his coat and spit, “LET’S GO!!!” and storm outside. My dad never leaves an argument first. Ever. He was pisssssssssed.

We got outside and he was already in the truck, yelling at us to hurry up and get in so we could get the hell out of there, but I refused to get in until they would at least call a truce and agree to disagree. The whole way back to the room, we were lectured on how we had a lot to learn about Real History, and did we know Lincoln was most likely a homosexual?

I think Ray sees now why I don’t engage.

Anyway, that was but one amusing blip on the Gatlinburg radar. The rest of the time was spent hootin’ and hollerin’ at the stuff in the Ripley’s museum, walking through the snowy streets of Gatlinburg, feeding coins into arcade games, buying sweets at a candy shop, kicking ass at Guitar Hero (on easy!), and turning up the fireplace in our very own private suite — a major development, considering we were told while planning the trip that we would be expected to sleep in separate suites.

Turned out to be not so shabby after all. But I foresee some refereeing in my future.

I have no doubt that posting this photo will earn me an earful or two, but I’m going to do it anyway. Because it’s adorable and I’m a dork and this is my blog and neener!

Happy birthday, baby. Let’s keep on laughing.

I’m up too late.

It’s cold in this house.

It’s almost Christmas.

I go on vacation in less than a week.

Roadtrip, whee!

The fella is almost done with his finals, and I think I’m more excited about that than he is.

I want to get in a car with him and just drive and drive and see where we land.

We’re doing the next best thing, I suppose, by getting in a car and heading to where we have reservations.

I am excited to unveil my TRUE car singing voice — the one that only emerges after five hours on the road. The one where I let emotion and not pitch sensitivity take over.

Oh yes.