Wednesday, February 06, 2008


It has often been remarked that chickens are best counted after hatching, and I heard things like that a hundred times growing up, and nevertheless, each time they jump up to bite me in the ass, I feel that little zing of chagrin that says:

Why the hell did I need to learn THAT again?

The answer, of course, is that I hadn't learned it; I'd checked it off. If I'd learned it, I wouldn't have put myself out in ass-biting territory again...

To make a long story short, no weekend on earth could ever have measured up to my expectations for the last four days. There were wonderful things in them: friends, family, food, wine, weed, sex... come to think of it: you name it, the good thing was there. But it did not run that way 24/7, and none of us behaved like angels all the time. Our little weaknesses and foibles were still there to queer the punch, to coin a phrase, and the Goat got huffy and I got all teary. I lost a meal or two alone I had hoped for and got quite cranky about itmy own fault for agreeing to them, of course, but try telling ME thatand we discovered some areas where we really don't know how to communicate.

Some of that has to do with the fact that Some People feel I talk [and probably think] too much. My rejoinder, which is only partially justified, is that Some People doesn't talk [or think] enough. But you can watch this played out between any man and woman anywhere on the planet, no? Truth to tell, the single most mind-boggling event of the last year has been finding myself on the other side of the gender line in almost every way. This is one, but I'm sure you can think of others. Quite sure, actually.

Anyway, the first night was heaven: just the two of us, a certain amount of wine and weed, and a lot of time in bed. The second night came close, with the addition of a certain amount of leather... The third night was the night of the train-wreck, in the course of which I got shit because I had teased the Goat in public, as he teases me constantly [in fact, Tuesday night he compared my vocalizing in moments of passion to a car alarm], and he did not find it amusing. He refused to hold my hand during the movie, and it went downhill at high speed from there. Do you know that feeling when your sled finally started to fly on a solid ice-crust, and then you suddenly realized that you were headed for a barbed-wire fence? No? Well, I had that moment about forty-five years ago, and it is imprinted on my mind. In reality, I managed to drag my feet, roll off, and stop before I hit the fence. Monday night I hit it head on.

The last night was lovely, aside from the fact that I had had a lot invested in spending it alone with the Goat, and got to spend it with two of his old [boy-?] friends instead. And there were some comments [see above] which I managed to take as jokes, but it brought up the question of why no one else seemed to be able to... Sort of a bad note to end on.

There were some other less-than-highpoints, like the Sunday lunch I put on for family, which turned out to feature one of my brothers who, like that character in Li'l Abner, carries his own little black rain-cloud around with him. He was on a diet and not eating anyone else's food; he arrived with a salad, which he ostentatiously ate on his own, and took about as much part in the general conversation. Oh. He also called up beforehand and bawled me out for not letting him know that lunch was at my place, and not up at our mother's. Why he should have thought that I was asking him to lunch at our mother's is beyond me, as I had explicitly said that the Goat was for once coming to visit me, but where did that get me? Nowhere...

Well, Mr. Grumpy-Gills left early, and the remaining, less cranky crowd helped me teach the Goat a family card game which involves a lot of good-natured kidding and complaining, and usually involves a fair amount of drinking, but we had done that already.

The youngest of the ladies present, fresh from her own divorce (though at forty, not at death's door) e-mailed me the next day to ask how I rated such a handsome, nice, fun boyfriend. I told the Goat he had made a conquest, and I think she has just made a friend in the Goat... in spite of her being a Republican.

Monday evening, which I myself had declared up for grabs, involved two of the Goat's friends from New York, who were in the area visiting a [probably perfectly nice] lady who talked at the top of her voice for the better part of three hours. I was a little fried, having spent most of the afternoon putting the dinner together, that is, most of the afternoon that was left after the little shopping expedition in the course of which I dropped a lot of money I don't have on some hand-made leather gear. Forget about the doctor and all the other little ancillaries: the only excuse for this was that the Goat had tried it on because he thought it was so hot, and it didn't fit. Guess who it fit... Anyway, to make a long story short, the whole weekend probably set me back about seven doctor/prescription hits, and about a sixth of three weeks in Vacationland.

As I said, I was a little fried, the Goat was a little fried, and the Loudmouth Lady eventually left, but the person who got the shit was: guess who? You guessed it. And instead of connecting the dots, I took all the accusations about my behavior at face value, and got really upset. I would have paid "cash money" to hear the Goat lay into Herself, but it wasn't half as much fun when I was the target, especially as I had done my best not to tell her to shut up for the last hour, myself: she was, after all, my guest, even if I hadn't invited any of them, let alone her...

That kind of took the shine off Monday night.

Tuesday night was goodbye, and was spent mostly in the shadow of all that had gone before: we were both bushed. In fact, the Goat fell asleep on my chest before supper, and I was as happy stroking his big ugly head as he drifted off to sleep as I have been in a very long time. Remember that "follow your bliss" moment? not ecstasy, just deep, complete happiness? That was it, in spades, a whole new experience to file away under that heading. I will have to remember it. Though how I will ever get someone with that much energy to lie down long enough for me to follow my bliss again is anyone's guess. Stay tuned.

The best part of taking two days off from work to accommodate the Goat's vacation days? I get to go see him again on Saturday. Hot damn. For complicated reasons, I am leaving on Friday to see people at the Old Home Place before heading back to the Big Woods... don't expect to see much new here before next week.

Hang in there, all.

1 comment:

  1. I live with the chicken and find myself too afraid to count it ;)

    There is an absolute bliss in a man with his head on your chest I have learned.