The First Rain

So, last night, I got home later than usual, which wasn't really bothering me. Fed the cats, printed out a couple of wedding invitations while I waited, and then went to the store. I bought ingredients for dinner, and when I came out, it was RAINING! Now, this might not sound like an amazing event; nature does it all the time (unless you lived in Phoenix over the winter), but after months of snow and cold, and then the dreck that is exposed by the melt, the first real rain of a Minnesota Spring is a true joy. It feels cleansing and new, just like Spring should be. I stopped at the liquor store so I would have something for the boys in case they were thirsty (one of the rock bands had rehearsal at the house) and some Guinness for me and sent Pete a text message: "RAINING!!! It's raining! I love you!" I was so happy. I came home, unloaded the groceries, put on "Confessions on a Dance Floor", and started cooking, which I truly love doing. A chicken in a tomatillo sauce and chorizo sausage in a red sauce with pinto beans. I was anticipating the arrival of my beloved betrothed, as this would complete the circle of happiness. He opened the door in, I came out into the livingroom, beaming, to greet him, and he says:
"It smells like cat poop in here."

*Sound of record scratching*

mood shot

pissed off

He totally peed in my cornflakes.

I said "Maybe it's my cooking," and went back to the kitchen.

Well, of course, he had no idea that he was stomping on a good mood. He was just making a statement. But those good moods don't always stand the test of criticism of any kind. Criticism is, in fact, anathema to them. I am already super sensitive about the cat smell in the house (we have four cats and a small house); this sensitivity goes back to my firm belief, before I met Pete, that I would become Crazy Cat Lady and Die Alone, my nose chewed off by a tabby. It's the end of winter, and the windows have been closed for months, so yeah, there is a noticible tang of cat in the air. I need to spring clean and air the place out. I know this. Pete was not criticizing me, he was just making a statement of fact, but it felt personal. The boys showed up for rehearsal almost immediately, which was for the best because it stopped me from behaving too much like an asshole and making things worse, which I really used to like doing. By the time rehearsal was done, I was still mad, but the four Guinnii had somewhat appeased me. We'll clean up the house on the first sunny and warm day, open all the windows, and let the cats run away.

Just kidding.

Girl Rules

There are certain Girl Rules that I understand perfectly:

Be nice to the new girlfriend of an ex boyfriend with whom you are on good terms.

Be nice to the new girlfriend of a guy friend.

Don't sleep with your girlfriend's ex boyfriends if they are on the "Do Not Sleep With" list. (It's always best to check first)

TELL your friend if she has something stuck in her teeth or hanging out of her nose.

Don't let her leave the house if you think her outfit makes her look crazy or retarded.

Don't toss over girlfriends for boyfriends.

These seem obvious and logical. Granted, we don't always follow them to a tee in our twenties, but thereafter, we should have gotten it together. The other Girl Rules, the ones that depend upon fashion and seasons and "In" vs. "Out" baffle me because they do not adhere to sense. All I want is a red dress for our May 20 Wedding Party here in Minneapolis.

I went into a boutique called "Local Motion" in which we have had Good Dress Luck in previous years, and the owner asked what I was looking for. "A red dress." "Oooh," she said, looking at me as if I was a three year old who was being told that there were no more lollipops, and I would have to settle for lemon drops. (mmmmm... lemon drops). "You really won't find a red dress in Spring. Maybe a casual sundress in Summer, but..."

She really was perfectly nice, but I was just not aware of this rule. I know the whole white after Labor Day thing, but that's about it. I will, of course, prove her wrong. First stop, the best little vintage dress shop in town, called "Lula"...

Strong to the Finach

Pete thinks that this is a rather grandiose claim, but I truly believe that I was the only person on the planet, this morning, who was carrying on an internal medley of tunes from the 1980 film "Popeye" while I primped for work. I don't know where these tunes came from, why they were there this morning, but now I need to see the movie again. You remember it, don't you? It was bleak and purposefully unattractive and profoundly weird. And I loved it. I watched it over and over again on Showtime in the early 80's, strangely compelled by this noncartoony cartoon movie. Its sensibility is Victoriana meets Gilliam, the cast is well-placed in their roles, and the songs, well, clearly the songs stuck with me. "Sweet, Sweet Haven/God must love us..."

Pete may have just earned himself an evening of spinach and Altman.

"Children. Bless their little hearts, if they was really made out of gold, I'd like to sell'em on the open market. I could make me a fortune."--Poopdeck Pappy