..Van Dyke Day
MR is addicted to Dick van Dyke.
I love it. After years in his company I have only just found this out. We took the day off today, the both of us, “Sick”.
Morning began with three bowls of “Sheerios” with mountains of sugar “As if you’re not sweet enough”, Says MR.
“Me, Sweet?”
“Like cola bottles.” He replies. Yes, he is being sarcastic.
And then he tells me about his present.
The Dick Van Dyke emporium of wonder. Three Diagnosis Murder Box sets, Mary Poppins, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (he sings me ‘Lullaby Mountain’, slightly off key while making caffinated beverages) and finally…Night at the Museum.
Here follows a review of all the above (watched naked with biscuits).
Diagnosis Murder – I occasionaly have suffered the pain of this appalling show, but have only just learned the one with the mullet is Van Dyke’s Son.
“How did you not know this!” MR exclaims, with actual horror. “He looks just like him.”
“When I was six,” I tell MR, “I wanted Van Dyke’s babies. Maybe if I got my wish his offspring would be cuter, because there is no way that man is even vaguely attraative.”
“Damn.” Says MR, “And I was going to grow my hair like that to get you going.”
Mary Poppins – is actually a little bit evil.
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang – Gave me nightmares then and still does. Not from the baby snatcher, or whatever his name is, but that WOMAN! In what way is that woman normal. I mean the swing scene! COME ON! Do men find her attractive? She’s on drugs surely…
Night at the Museum – is my new guilty pleasure.
…entertainment
So, it’s shameful, but there’s a new one. Mr E (because his whole career is the entertainment industry, specifically concerts). He has an interesting, sometimes scary past due to the industry but is oddly sweet around me. All of his friends think he is a fool because he acts so different around me. And Im getting a lot of negative attention from them for this.
A good majority of the fun started last Friday night when we attended the Arts Fest and continued to drink, dance, laugh, and be merry. On the way home I walked with one of our coworkers, and cofriend who told me that he was not at all pleased with how I was going on with Mr E. while being married. He told me that he didn’t approve and never wanted to meet my partner for fear of telling him what he thought of it and letting him know the “juicy” details. For starters, all I have done is link arms with Mr. E. in crowds, anything we had together died years ago…. THAT’S IT. And MR knows where I am and who I’m with, Hell he and Mr E spent long enough getting drunk on my birthday – things would have come out in the wash and I’m sure they’re both okay with it. It may be a tad misguided in the fact that its “safe” with coworkers and in a group, but fact nonetheless.
Saturday morning Mr E. picked me up at my apartment, while MR was at work, and we made what Dustin refers to as an “Adventure in Contraban” to pick up beer and fireworks. Again, MR knew where I was and who I was with – the wonder of text. And, again, nothing intimate. After the adventure he took me home so that I could get ready to go to the pool with yet another coworker (this ‘adventure’ as I choose to call them has fizzled because this guy changes his mind on an hourly basis and never follows through with plans we make). So I sat at home waiting for confirmation that once again he made better plans and left me behind. Giving up and heading back downtown to the Arts Fest where Mr E is waiting I get a phone call from the Other who canceled (shocker). Mr E and a few of his friends (very nice by the way) met up with me at the Arts Fest where more drinking and flirting went on. Now knowing that the friend coworker has an issue with us hanging out we decided to make things more interesting and play on that we had “fun” on our mini road trip for beer and fireworks. And that there was no porn available so we were forced to make our own at a roadstop. haha. The friend coworker is highly bothered by this and we are pleased. After the Arts Fest we walked to a friends house to drink and set off fireworks but stopped off at Mr E’s house for more beer. Everyone else carried on to the friends house so we decided to play again. I messed up my hair and took off my shirt to show just my shorts and bikini top. Once we got there everyone kept looking at eachother and at us. God it is so fun to mess with peoples minds like that. hahahaha.
Sunday Mr E, coworker friend, and I went to see a movie (Kung fu Panda) and tried to go on a hike up the hills around here. The friends truck had issues so we couldn’t go, but this didn’t stop the fun. Mr E. drenched me in his canteen water and we decided to have a BBQ at his house on the porch. More drinking and eating with friends ended with the friends going to a neighbors house while we layed around his house playing on the computer and talking. Coworker friend came back to find me laying on the floor next to Mr E. So we started up a television show. While the show was on I laid on the couch next to Mr E and he ran his fingers along my back. I swear to god it was fucking heaven! Complete and total peace! Once the episode was over Mr E drove me home listening to old Ella Fitzgerald songs with the windows down in the car taking in the night air.
Today he texts me (midheated conversation- when I said that I think I pissed him off):
“you know how (the dog) can go anywhere in my garden, up to the street? That’s like how it is talking to you. I just hit the street.”
Explaining that he feels there are boundaries to talking to me, as a ‘married’ woman.
I asked him how he could not feel like he was hitting the street while talking to me and he said:
“I dont know. (The dog) is allowed to go in the street when I go with him.”
And I responded that I have seen that and the dog practically RUNS through the street to get the hell out of it. His response:
“Because he knows he shouldn’t be there.”
At that point… I didnt know what to say. What do you say to that? So I said I was going to retreat quietly into my corner.
He said:
“Take this with you. To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world”
I know its not original words or anything, but… it stopped me in my tracks. Then it also scared the hell out of me because… I dont want to be anyones WORLD. I’ve been that, it leads to obsessive, abusive boyfriends and crazy partners that smother you to death (figuratively of course) even though you love them.
Sometimes I despair for myself.
Oh and I was going to tell you about D&G’s new GF. That will happen… I’m still sizing her up.
…more lies
So MR doesn’t know what I got up to while we didn’t communicate.
MR doesn’t know how close i was to sailing off around the world with the man that smells of heaven. He doesn’t know I spent three solid days naked in another man’s bed. He doesn’t know that I actually didn’t even think about him for one week straight, and it felt good.
And I’m not going to tell him.
I went through hell thinking he’d done the dirty, and alright most of that was probably my own fault! OK he wasn’t to blame for the way our so called friend behaved! OK if he found out about D&G he’d probably accuse me of being Hypos from Hypo Creek Hypocritville – But. but but but but but but but but but butbut but but but but but butbut….one little lie isn’t going to hurt now is it. And we’ve been through so much.
Today he brought me a Hello Kitty Bangle. It has love.
…lies
There was once a little girl called Claire du Lune.
Claire du Lune was in love with a beautiful dark haired man, a beautiful dark haired man who likes to sing Opera and has recently gained an obsession with little odd antiques stores in odd places around the country (seriously last weekend MR and I drove to the North of France just to fumble about in old shops that smelled of fermenting french people), a beautiful dark haired man with blistering blue eyes and one toe hairier than the other, and a pale birth mark on the back of his knee which never tans. A beautiful dark haired blue eyed man who I love, and to whom she INTRODUCED me nearly three years ago.
So Claire, in her infinite wisdom, when she hears we (the royal kind of we) had a fight and knows I, (the id kind of I) have been having worries that he (the good kind of he) has been distracted from our relationship, decides to make my paranoia quibble like fresh strawberry jelly by telling me – without actually apparently ever saying it! – that she and MR have….
And my mind filled in the blanks.
She APPARENTLY never slept with him.
He denies it with more passion than I have ever seen. There were tears.
She now denies it. And won’t take my calls.
All my friends say it would never happen.
I choose to believe it never happened.
Tomorrow….more lies.
…sunny felix
A few days off work. I went to a spa. Had things done to me that only the female of the species can truly appreciate for their wonder. Foot massages. UNGH. Head massages. Double UNGH. Suntanning in the currently glorious English weather. Burning in the currently glorious English weather.
I love Britain when the sun comes out. Everyone emerges from their little houses like dust encrusted refugees from some atomic wasteland. They rub their eyes a moment and almost immediately emerge with summer clothing that was last worn when the Beegees still had soul. Mostly none of it fits correctly. A silent cheer echoes across the land. It ripples like a heat wave. Sunglasses appear. Hats. “flip flops” as they call them here (I love that) for sandals. In a single day every shop has barbeque equipment on sale. People walk! Walk I tell you. I know, I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own baby browns. Teenage mums emerge with their offspring teathered to them with string like on those mommy monkeys in the zoo. Men (of all shapes) discard their shirts in favor of chests so pale that they wouldn’t look out of place advertising bleach. Their whispy hairs crawl upward toward the light hungry for sustenance. I love them all.
And not one of them wears suntan lotion. By next year they are all going to wrinkle up like yesterday’s half eaten apples.
And then in one week they all hate it; redder than Stalin’s pajamas; insomniacs because English houses are designed to keep IN the heat so none of them can sleep; watching the garden die because of a water ban (for the wettest place in the world England seems to drain water like a colander with a hole in it) and sick to the eyes with the happy feeling the sunshine brings…then, it will rain.
As I harken back to the west coast of the US (shock horror) sunshine is not a big riot for me to have sunshine. I love it, yes, but I actually prefer the temperate European weather to the heat back home. If I want a tan I fake it. If I want sun I take a weekend in Spain. But it rarely matters. The light in the UK is different to anywhere else. It’s reserved and glistens in places you least expect it. On my roof balcony I have pots full of daisies. There is a beautiful variety called Sunny Felix. Its blue center sparkles like sapphires in the sunshine. Those are the things I like about the weather here. And the breeze is beautiful….humm…No one has ever brought me sapphires.
I am currently on ‘said’ balcony with a tumbler of nonalcoholic pear cider mixed with a healthy glug of gin and ice. On the table is a cup of freshly made espresso and beside it is my iPhone. I am plucking up the courage to give MR the ultimatum. The peace and quiet and mollification of three days away from the male sex, cigarettes, alcohol, work and food has done me the world of good. I am going to make a decision. MR or D&G. Two weeks. In two weeks it’s going to be one or the other.
Love of life, or man who smells like heaven and fucks like Jesus. Sometimes I think it would be so much more relaxing to be single. Maybe that is the third option?
…Richie
“Hello.” I said as I picked up the phone, finally, last night. I feel like I’m living in an 80s video, maybe for a Lionel Richie song. “Tony Billy Boy has been imprisoned for 25 years…Billy Boy, ask Amanda for a date.”
There’s a pause at the end of the phone, I felt sort of sick as I answered.
“Is it me you’re looking for?” I say, I want to be angry and sound bitter and beleaguered, but I can’t. I’m doing what I always do, and he knows it, because this is such a hard conversation. I have to make sure I don’t cry, watching the flesh pump up and down on the tv offers a mild distraction.
“Lionel Richie.” He sounds as if he is slightly smiling. I’m trying not to miss him, or think of the things I have been doing in his absense. “Appropriate.”
“It’s what I know.” I say, “this and the can…”
We used to do this, MR and me, when we were bored, quote cinematic 1980′s music videos. Thriller was always a favorite.
“We could go to Florida,” He adds, “Or we cold go out west.”
“Guitar solo moment.” I added, This is where he would dance with utensils around the kitchen. His preferred microphonic implement was a whisk. Omlette making was always good time.
“I miss you.” He says. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Sitting in a hotel room in Berlin, watching german porn.”
He said something funny here but I didn’t laugh.
“Work?”
“Yup.” I clarify. Then there’s nothing again. Except the noises being made by my Ten Euro televisual entertainment.
“So why haven’t you been answering?” He asked.
“Busy, you know.” I lied. Part of me wanted to tell him it was to make him hurt like hell, so i did. “And because you hurt me.”
“It was just a stupid arguement.” He clears up. I think I made a snorting noise out of my nose.
“A stupid arguement? Were you going to ever tell me about you and Claire or just leave it up to her to do your dirty work for you.”
“What do you mean ‘Me and Claire’? I can’t stand the woman.” He said, and he sounded geniunely confused.
“You’re a regular Rip Van Winkle aren’t you?”
“Don’t change the subject. What are you talking about?”
“Claire and you. Don’t lie about it.”
“About what…God, you have one blow up at me and suddenly I’m a dick.”
“You blew up at ME? I’ve got the fucking email chain to prove it.”
“Shit I can’t talk about this over the phone. When are you coming home?”
“Never.”
“Now you’re being facetious.”
“Now you’re being facetious.” I repeated. God I love irony.
“Don’t do that. Come home, let’s go see a movie. I just…I need to see you. I’m useless. Come on. Please. ‘We could go to the Paramount maybe, or the Alby.’..” He’s Richieing again. Of course it makes me miss him.
“Dinner. No movie. I’m not coming over to yours. A proper date.”
That’s kind of how it went. And I DO want to see him. I won’t tell you how much i cried last night because it’s depressing. I’ll just send you in the direction of good ol’ Lionel…
…yar
German porn is a wonderful thing. I’m sitting in a hotel in Berlin and there’s nothing to do but stare at the biscuits and feel guilty about my hips. So I thought I would waste my expense account on the porn channel. After all, you don’t REALLY need subtitles.
it looks amateur this stuff, and it’s costing my company Ten Euros, shocking. I looks as if it was filmed on my Mom’s DVD video camera ( which was purchased when the things were new and interesting, now it looks as though it’s held together with superglue and faith), but the women are pretty hot actually. I can say less for the men. The Aerean race, if they had been born out of Adolfo’s stringent party planning, would NOT have been attractive; blond with six limbs and a reduced sperm count, yes; attractive, NO. So I’m watching the women. it strikes me that lesbians must have all the fun. I mean I find men attractive, and goddamn if I don’t love playing with them and their endlessly entertaining bodies; but as I watch Mr Hotditz here is absolutely silent without the fun of a ballgag. He’s just … and … while they… and ….
It’s dissapointing. Ten Euros. Yet still endlessly watchable.
My cell keeps ringing.
MR is desperate to talk. It hurts every time it buzzes.
So I’m turning up the volume.
“Oh yar” Says big tits #1
“Yar yar” Says big tits #2
“Ummmmmm” Says big tits #3 with something between her painted lips. (I’m not even going to encroach the german sausage jokes pUrleasE, it’s a penis, a big throbby penis).
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
That’s my cell…not anything on the screen.
I may take votes on whether I answer him.
Back to the porn (I’m taking notes – D&G and I are running out of moves).
