May 25, 2006

Be Careful What You Wish For

Okay, so you know those health quizzes where they talk about stress factors and events contributing to heart attacks? You know: "If you started a new job, add one point. If you had a death in the family, add 3, and 2 more if it was a close relative like a parent, spouse, or child." Right. That kind. Maybe I'm only making one up (because I couldn't find it doing a half-assed Google search for something like that; perhaps typing in "heart attack stressful events death job" isn't enough), but I'm pretty sure that I've seen these, and all I know is that they suggest you limit the number of such events to as few as possible over as long a period of time. Yes, yes, you're not supposed to love, move away from home, work, get married, etc. Then you'll live forever. However, despite no longer being a teenager--and frankly, never having been one of the ones who thought he was invincible or whatever--I do fully recognize my own mortality, and rather than take another vitamin or schedule a prostate exam, I have apparently wholeheartedly embraced the Stressful Events Vortex as though it were a Sunday morning toilet bowl and I was a frat-boy who found a free case of Boone's Farm late on Saturday afternoon. I got myself married to S, who is now S Blue Shoe. Two days before the wedding I was offered a new job, doing music law work for a firm I have always wanted to work for, and then upon returning, the Missus and I packed all of our stuff (okay, our friends Torrie and K, along with some movers packed it all up), and we moved, and then I accepted the job at the end of the last week. If you add that up, that's 3 Major Life-Changing, Personal World-Shattering, Heart Attack-Inducing Events in the space of three weeks. I'll see you when I get out of the ICU next month some time.

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April 18, 2006

Ready or Not...

These days, it seems I can't ake more than about 4 steps out the door before someone--a co-worker, a store owner, the doormen, --the local lovable homeless guy--asks me, "So, are you nervous?" My mom asked me the other night--and she was hoping I'd up and ask S long before I actually did. We've got 11 days till S and I are mister-and-missus Shoe. I don't know if it's politeness, if that's just what you say when you hear or know someone's going to get married, like if someone's about to buy a home or sneezes their milk or something like that (you know, consequential), but it amazes me how many people ask that question. To me, it makes sense in the context of the old days where you courted each other before getting married. And yes, I know that that's a fanciful, sterilized vision of The Way Things Were™, but the fact is that I don't really know anyone who doesn't know their betrothed all that well. Nor, I suspect, do you. S and are among the last people who don't live together before they're married. That doesn't bother me at all, but if anything, I've got more reason to be worried. I'm not, though. It's this simple: I love her. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with her. I can't wait to celebrate it, and I sure as shooting can't wait to go on our honeymoon together and then move into our beautiful new home together. The only thing I'm worried about is whether I'll remember the wedding and reception, or if they'll shoot by like the last couple of birthdays I've had, whether all will go according to plan or if we'll find the band has gone to the other hotel. Either way, I'm not nervous. I just want to slow down time next Friday afternoon and never have it speed up so I can enjoy it all.

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February 16, 2006

Soul Man

I find it surprising that not one of the groomsmen has responded to my email that we should all wear soul patches to my wedding, except for the Navy SEAL, who should have a beard like Mr. T. They may actually have believed me.

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December 22, 2005

We Wish You A Merry Crash-mas

In the middle of all this strikery, I noticed yesterday what I had been waiting for for so long--the whiff of Christmas spirit on the air. The thing about New York--and this holds true even for the people who hate the city on principle--there are a couple of times of year that are simply magic in this city. One is the springtime, because when the flowers come up on Park Avenue, and everyone starts going back to Central Park for the first time, there's nothing like it. Springtime's rebirth is emphasized by all the concrete and glass, and somehow the city feels calm, as though it were taking a deep breath again. This is actually one of the main reasons S and I are getting married in late spring here. While there are others, to me, the most magical time is late evening during the second and third weeks of December, especially if a bit of snow comes down. Somehow you feel transported back to the 1950s, with people holding hands, scurrying along to some new shindig, dreaming of mere (i.e. not entirely crass) material gifts, and the city feels enveloped in an uber-familial glow. To me, the scent of Christmas trees being sold on the corners just encapsulates all of this. And last night, as I saw neighbors helping neighbors with rides to wherever-it-was, I was struck by that piney whiff. It made me happy. Ironically, the other reason why I'm remembering it is because I'm not being distracted by my computer at home, which croaked out a miserable hard-drive failure for the holidays. I'm thrust back to actual experiences, while simultaneously researching new computers, trying to figure out just what I want. It's sort of like Christmas, except I'm being Scrooge to myself, trying not to spend good money without reason.

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July 25, 2005

Take Five

Three years ago tonight, I took out S on our second date. While I can't say for sure that at that time I knew she was the one, the fact is that I felt then as I feel now: I always want to see her again soon. As soon as possible, in fact. And the tingle that I got when we kissed for the first time on her doorstep is the tingle that I got when I kissed her goodnight tonight and put her to bed on account of a stomach bug. So maybe it was really love at first sight. But the fact remains that I love her more all the time. Normally, I would have sent her a long letter on our anniversary, to tell her how great I feel when I'm with her and how much she means, but our anniversary dinner's been rescheduled. I'll write it soon. But since I a) won't show it to you and b) it's not written yet, I share with you, instead, what it was I wrote after that night:

The Movie Date
Have you ever been on a movie date? A date so good and yet so stereotypically cute that it has to have come from a movie, even if you didn't intend it to be?
Here it is, a cool summer evening (it was in the 70s! In Midtown! In July!), and she met me on Madison Avenue outside of my office. We walk slowly to Central Park, talking the whole way.
Okay, so there was a long line to get to Summerstage, in the middle of the park, but we chanced it and were able to get in. We find seats on the bleachers, watch the jazz, and she brings brie, another cheese, a big hunk of bread, and some cookies. We have a little picnic in our seats, and then as time goes on, we sit closer and closer together.
The jazz is phenomenal.
Dave Brubeck is 80 years old (and each of his bandmates seems like he's north of 75) and they still just kick ass. My jaw was against the ground for nearly 3 minutes during a flute solo. A FLUTE solo!!!! She rubs my neck and back, I hers.
We walk slowly back to her apartment, where I give her a CD I thought she might like.
We kiss.
We kiss again.
Shoe goes home a happy boy.

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You Can't Always Get What You Want

When I was a kid, my mom said that I did things just to get the equipment. I joined sports teams that I thought would be cool and then coveted the cool gear my teammates had. I got jazzed about wearing cleats for the first time; leaving those little clumps of mud was great. So the accusation is partly true--I did like the new stuff--but at the same time, we were a pretty frugal family and we didn't just buy stuff. Even if we could, we didn't just go buy because we wanted something. It was all calculated and all based on real need. Thus, when I lost a baseball glove, I was required to make do with a 1940s handmedown. I caught endless amounts of crap from the other kids in my school for it, but aside from finding myself waist-deep in a box of lost-and-found, it was probably the single-most powerful way of reminding me to hold on to and keep track of my things. I remember making a case for joining the lacrosse team, replete with annual costs of equipment, how inexpensively I could fully and safely outfit myself, and how I would be on a small team with a large chance to play and make the gear worthwhile. I stuck with the team all four years of high school. When I wanted to get a new camera for my burgeoning photography hobby, I did the research and then ended up signing a contract with my mother that I would continue to take Latin and would achieve certain scores at Latin conventions. (Yes, you read right: Latin conventions. All over Texas.) None of this is to say that we didn't buy very nice things, but as my mother pointed out just the other day, deal-making is always desirable. There's no need (in my mind, as with hers—-she did good work) to buy something for the same price everyone else is if you can do better. All of which is to say that I've always been excited about new stuff. I used to get very excited about corporate toys my father would bring home from conferences, and I get fired up about a cool new pair of shoes. The joy may be transient, but for a day or so, I'm excited about the acquisition. now I'm getting married, and it's socially acceptable to covet all that stuff and get excited about brand-new pots and pans and everything else, and to ask for it because you think you need it. Even if you don't get exactly what you want (Canon 20D, Dyson vacuum cleaner, assorted kitchen weapons), you get a whole lot of what you need. And that's going to be fun.

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May 1, 2005

A How-To

People come up to me all the time and ask me how I managed to con S into saying yes at that particular moment. Actually, it's mostly friends who want to know what happened. Even after a week's vacation, and plenty of time to practice, I don't know that I can do it romantic justice in literary form. For those of you to whom this is utterly uninteresting, sorry. I don't know if I could promise to leave out all talk of weddings, but trust me that when I write, it won't always be about making S Mrs. Shoe. Basically, as my parents have had a charge account at the Four Seasons restaurant here in New York--if you have the means, I highly recommend it--I managed to sneak into conversation a little white lie. That lie was that the restaurant had offered my father a bottle of champagne for his birthday. There was a bottle of champagne, oh yes, but it was not for dad. Nope. At the same time, I had Our Name is Mud design a plate for me with a ring on it and with the inscription asking if I could marry her. This was delivered to the Four Seasons that afternoon, with discussions with Lawrence, the maitre d', who assured me all would go smoothly, as long as I handled "the ring business". At dessert, out came the plate, laden with a chocolate goody, as I simultaneously dropped to one knee and pulled the ring out of my jacket pocket. I would leave it to S to share her reactions, but I don't think she's likely to share her innermosts here on the blog. But that's how you do it...if you're The Shoe.

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April 18, 2005

A Proposal

S deserves better than this. Better than a week-late announcement. Better than late-night shout-outs on an anonymous blog. Better than only getting to see me when she closes her eyes at night or checks her email during the day. Better than the few hours each day on the weekend where I'm sullen and depressed and legitimately sick to my stomach at the prospect of returning to the office. But she also gets me when I'm not consumed by work, when the only thing that consumes me is my love for her. And for that I offered her a ring. She accepted.

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January 19, 2005

Love Song to S. Esser Prufrock

It happened this weekend. While I could say that I had a realization about the legal profession and its propriety for me--and I did--that's not it. No even though I spent the holiday weekend working, rather than spinning the MLK top or doing...whatever the traditional Dr. King holiday celebration is...I was filled with a certainty. I love S. As I sat there pondering annoying legalisms and vaguely loathing a client I've not met, my need to leave wasn't based in a hatred of the job or a desire to do “something else.�. It was that I wanted to spend time with S, doing whatever. And sure, she was there for me when I had my crisis of legal faith on Sunday night, and yeah, she gave an amazingly decompressing backrub when my back felt like tectonic plates, and she's generally 18,000 times cooler than the other side of the pillow, but this was a need coming from within me. I didn't just want the things she provides; I wanted--and need--her.

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November 17, 2004

What Is This Feeling

I still get a little frisson of joy every time I see S's name in my e-mail inbox. It doesn't matter what the email is, it doesn't matter if it's simply a forward, but somehow or other, when I see her there in the mailbox#[box], it's as if a quick little light goes off, and some little tingle goes up on the back of my neck. [box]: No, she's not in the mailbox. Ridiculous. Of course, this doesn't match my feelings for when I actually see her, and thankfully, that's because it's not nearly as intense. And I'm not sure why I'm sharing this, other than I really felt the need to write about it. Possibly because she's out of town on business and a) might see this and b) I don't get as much email from her, but either way, I just felt the need. Thanks for indulging me.

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October 28, 2004

My Grandfather's Happy

Sports history. Life history. Family history. My grandfather's speechless, and I can't stop grinning. The Red Sox won.

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October 20, 2004

And Papa Was A Rolling Stone

My grandfather is a Red Sox fan. He has been for all of his 90 years.

The other day, on the phone, when they were down by 3 games, he told me: “Well, at least now I’ll have to stay alive another year so they can win the World Series.”

And I want them to win to make him happy, but I also don’t want them to win, for obvious reasons.

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