u s e y o u r h a n d s

Today, I asked a co-worker about her relatively new beau. She’s extremely in like with him and he recently gave her what she called, “the most beautiful poem in the world.”

Without even thinking, I said, “Have you run that through Google yet to make sure he really wrote it?”

In this case, I’m the asshole. Not even a question.

UPDATE:  The poem is an original. And I’m still an a-hole for suggesting that maybe it wasn’t.

So, I have this theory, right? (I always have some theory I’m working on. Most of them are 67% fantastically right, 20% crap, and 3% overly caffeinated.) And this theory is about relationships! It’s a tested, tried theory, so I guess it’s not so much theory as it is a truism or even a Law. So, I guess I’ll start to call it a Law.

Every relationship has a star.

And by “star” I mean the person in the dyad, who, in public, appears the most charismatic, dynamic or in control. Ususally a bit of all three. This person is louder, in public, than the other member of the dyad. And I’m sort of depicting the star as asshole, but the star is not necessarily an asshole. Although the star can be an asshole. The non-asshole star is the kind of person who will get a bunch of friends together with their partner and then tell some great story about how their partner made them a great omelet this a.m. or something else subtley (but not syrupy) sweet. The non-star asshole is complimentary, kind, and probably is beloved my most everybody anyway.  The star asshole, on the other hand, is the kind of person who, in public, will make fun of their partner in order to lay some wacked-out claim to their partner and somehow, in a ham-handed way, make their partner feel loved, by mocking his/her choices in marmalade, pens, or other benign crap. Most stars vacillate between these poles.

Anyway, star definitions aside, all relationships have a star. In public. And this is often different from who wears the relationship pants in private, though not always.

The trouble comes when you get two people who want to be the star. You can’t have two stars in a couple. If both are of equal star power, you’ll never get a word in edgewise with these fuckers. They’ll shout and argue and laugh at their own jokes and probably turn their razor-wire tongues on you at some point. And you can’t have two stars of differing star power. Because you can’t tell a star that he or she isn’t quite starry as their more powerfully starry partner. What I’m saying is that you can’t hook a supernova up with a pulsar, dig? The pulsar thinks he (or she) is a supernova already. And you get those two kids together, the pulsar realizes that the pulsar isn’t quite such hot shit, and simply cannot take it.

You can, however, have two non-stars together. It doesn’t happen that often and these people always leave parties early. But they always show up on time. However, in private, one of them is incan-fucking-descent. And it’s never who you’d think.

The cat realized, after months and months, just how rabbitty her friend the rabbit could be. And though she still wanted to bat around with her lepine companion, he ran far, far away. The cat, now alone, licked her paws, swished her tail, and chased after life on her own. Her old friend the rabbit spent his time in his burrow, missing the light and shade of the forest and everything she could show him.

SR Scream!

Originally uploaded by minvervah.

Who doesn’t feel this way from time to time, I ask you?!

Why is it that I can always tell that it’s going to rain, but never have an umbrella? At least I’m okay getting wet and knowing that soon, I’ll be dry again. You’d think, though, that nearly three decades of this would mean that I’d have an umbrella in every bag, every drawer. But no.

The last time I bought an umbrella, a few months ago, was a disaster. I ended up tripping on the sidewalk, scraping my knee, and breaking the umbrella. And because I like to draw conclusions, the one I drew that night, laughing on my back on the damp concrete, was that of course I fell because of the umbrella. And that it’s best to know of the dangers ahead, to watch out for them with open eyes and empty hands rather than dry hair and distraction.

Or maybe I should just buy an umbrella, pay attention, and stop talking to myself so much. Whatever.

(Oh, yes, I do realize that the title of this post is a Pavement album. And while I don’t enjoy Mr. Malkmus and his band, I will steal his title. Thanks, indie rock kids.)

So, I just got back from dancing for hours and hours. It was divine. And it’s Monday. There’s no work tomorrow and the day stretches long before me, full of possibility and hummus. Which I’m eating now. It was just insanely fun to go find some fun dance music, come home and listen to Belle and Sebastian, and then plan what kind of fruit pie I’m baking tomorrow. All with a cat doing a fun little galette around my legs.

How can any girl ask for more?

Yesterday, I walked over to pick up the box of organic vegetables that we purchased via subscription. And it’s not an inconsequential walk. But I had my iPod and my phone and good new music. I grabbed the box, which had to weigh a good 20 lbs., and walk a few blocks to the train station. And then nearly a mile home. With this burden in my hands, on my hip, on my shoulder.

When I finally set the box down, I nearly wept with relief.