Perfect Sunday

Q: What makes a perfect Sunday for you?

As I sit and survey what I can see in my rental home from my oversized recliner, I see what I consider to be my perfect Sunday.

My wife and I; we sit together underneath a spare comforter from the closet. It smells like the French bulldog that is currently cradled in between my lover’s legs - Peacefully sleeping, possibly dreaming of whatever it is that makes up a perfect Sunday for her. My wife disturbs her by picking her up and holding her in her arms like she is our child. My wife loves this but the look on Ninja's face as she readjusts herself is that of pure annoyance. 

It's a rarely warm night for February so we have the majority of the windows open. Peacefulness exists outside and is only broken up by the occasional low-flying airplane that passes overhead. The only light on in the house is a standing lamp in the front corner of the living room. Giving just enough light to signify that it's time to relax, but not quite time to sleep.

I got off work around 7:30 AM this morning; home by 7:45. My wife is still in bed. I fell in beside her with my shoes still on. I need to take a shower though. I still smell like the ship. If you're wondering what that smells like, it's stale. That's the only word I can give it. I tear myself away from wife and take a shower.

I know it goes without saying, but showers are probably one of the greatest things to happen to mankind ever. Hands down. I think I take a special enjoyment in the act of showering. It's nothing perverted. I just relish in the feeling of the water running over my face, as the spray falls on the top of my head and cascades down through my hair. Cleansing. Refreshing. A chance to wash away the stench of a hard day's work and bring in the new day. A perfect day.

After my shower I get into my favorite pair of cookie pants. For those of us who have not had the pleasure of watching Scrubs, “cookie pants” is a term used to describe any pair of pants that are made entirely of cotton and have elastic in them, anywhere in them. This single element is what really makes this day perfect. We went to breakfast at The House of Eggs in them. We went grocery shopping in them. We went to our favorite sushi place for lunch in them. I am still wearing them as I type this. The freedom. The lightness of the material. There is no better feeling than cotton on the skin - except satin but that is a different kind of good feeling and should be left in the bedroom. 

Cotton. It's the fabric of our lives. Well, at least the fabric of my perfect Sunday.

Don't Set Your Watch Just Yet

When does the present become the future?

This is an easy enough question, right? As I sit the future is giving way to the present; ripped from the silently anticipatory place of will be, to is, and then to was. I'm stuck on the planning. Where do my blueprints go? Is the future so fluid that I can't engineer it? Why can't I set my watch to it?

The answer is not one you come to in a straight forward way. You have to stand in one place and look at it, and then you have to step to the side and look at it from a different angle. You have to cover you eyes for a second, then move your hands away and let them focus. You really have to squint at it and read between the lines. Sometimes you even have to let it walk right up to you while you're not looking and let it smack you in the face.

I am currently trying to be the first of what I listed above. I am approximately 19 months from being out of the military. I don't plan on staying in. I don't want to stay in. I want to go to college. For what? You would be an asshole and ask me that wouldn't you. I am currently not at liberty to say... or know. As much as I am embarrassed to say, at this point in time, I don't really know. I would love to say this writing thing is what's for me, what if right?

Although there does seem to be a distinct difference between my idea of going to school for writing as apposed to a past speculation... we’ll, say... architecture. I didn't know what the fuck an Architect does! I just guessed based on what I saw in movies and TV. This is the point when I decided to research it a little bit. I tried to read as many articles as I could however, the more and more I read, the more I found that I couldn't see myself anymore. I saw someone else. I saw someone rundown and gaunt. I saw someone who didn't want to get out of bed. Someone who is much like the same someone I am now. Someone I don't want to be.

I discovered writing in a strange yet tangible way. I'm taking online classes right now at a local community college. I'm not going for any reason more specific as I just wanted to see if I could hack it  Before the military I was just a mere high school grad with no plans (there's that word again!). So I applied and was excepted because the military would pay for it and that's guaranteed money in the pocket of the college. Hooray taxpayer’s dollars! I signed up for College Algebra and College Composition. College Algebra isn't so bad. I wish I could take it in a classroom setting though. Where I seem to be flourishing is the Composition class.

One of the first things they made us do was free write. Just a pen, or in this case a keyboard, and write without stopping. I'd never done it before. So I decided to really try. I cleared my mind, put my fingers to the keys, and started typing.

At first there wasn't much there, just awkward self talking. Stuff like, "well what do I write about… I don't know you’re my subconscious not me... he he...” but soon it all came pouring out. I actually erased a lot of it because once I was done I was supposed to turn it in and there was a lot. It was a rush. It really wiped the slate clean. It was an intellectual purging.

The purging led the way to a lot of creative pathways opening up. It's where I got the idea to do a blog. It's where I came up with so many of my musings.

This is a future me I can see; studying the written word. There is history to it, there is future in it, and at present I can't think of anything I would much rather do.

With all this being said would it be so bad, seeing as how I am less than 2 yrs away from leaving this miserable existence behind, for me to start planning. I can see how, if the zombie apocalypse happens in 2012, it would put a damper on my plans, but what ever happened to having a dream? What ever happened to aspiring to something in this life? What happened to believing you could give something to world that can change it? Is this not a noble enough calling to try and plan for?

Of course it is, but you can't answer a question with a question. So what's the fucking answer!

There isn't one.

You have to do what you feel is right for you. You really do have to squint at it for God sakes! There will come a day when you look at it a certain way and it will all make since. You will have all the factors aligned and the multiple futures will fall together into one present. It’s not something you can set your watch to, but it's closer than setting your sundial.
   

Running

In the fading light of another February evening I am stretching. The holiday season has been over for a while now and beach season is looming its bronzed face so it is back to the grindstone. Ten minutes earlier and I was lacing up my blue Sacony's running shoes, trying to think of a reason, any reason, why I shouldn't be running. Oh, I've got homework to do... wait no, I can do that later while Lakin is watching CSI: NY. Well, the dishes need to be washed... Seriously Chris? You'll be gone for 30 minutes (make that 50)!

The inner dialogue of the procrastinator; an ongoing battle that rages inside even the most ambitious.

I look down at my wristwatch. It's blue and something I picked up at a Target in Charleston while I was stationed there. Nothing fancy. The time reads 09:35. This actually isn't the real time because I have forgotten how to set this particular watch. The time is actually 5:00 PM. The time on the watch is not what I use it for, so the error isn't noted. I just need this watch for the stopwatch feature.

I am done stretching so now I place my headphones in my ears. Then, I take my iPod and feed it down my hoodie so I can place it in my pocket and not risk getting tangled in the wires of the headphones as I’m flailing my arms about. I step from my driveway into my street. I have goals. I have a destination that I want to reach. I want to run 5 miles. I didn't start here. Just running was my goal in the beginning. It all started on deployment; nothing to do during your time off except sleep and workout. So working out started with the elliptical. Then, as my endurance built up, I went on to running. That's when I got motivated. What about running 2 miles? Did it and along with every other goal. The only goal that has eluded me thus far is the 5-mile mark.

Not this day. This day I was going to make it. I was going to hit that mark if I had to die doing it. I was going to Sparta-kick that bitch in the face! Okay that's a little severe. I was going to hit that mark even if it meant that I would have sore calves the next day.   

I started my playlist, which is comprised of a veritable who's who of pulsing mod rock. I start running. I begin to build up what I like to call my "running rhythm" - that's the point where I’m running at somewhere between 5.5 to 6 MPH. By the time Island in the Sun by Weezer comes on I’m there. 

When I run outside in my neighborhood I have a strategy. I run out half the distance I wish to run and once I reach that point I turn around and run home. That way I’m either going to run all the way home or take a hell of a long time to get back. 

I'm 15 minutes in and I begin to feel the sweat build up even though it's 47 degrees outside. I love this feeling. Most people when they sweat they wipe it away. I tend to relish in it. It's the body’s nature cooling system. If we didn't have a cool house to run into once we started getting hot, we would just stop working and the sweat would cool us off. I like to think about how much the human race has come along in this aspect. We don't even need our built in defenses because we've build things to do it for us.

I'm at 25 minutes now. The band Keane is singing about how they wonder. I've reached the overpass that shades the nearby Interstate system here. It's conveniently 2.5 miles from my house. I stand in the middle of it looking out over the rush hour traffic. Little ants with red and white lights. Men and women driving home. Somewhere I need to be headed here in a second. If I could just get this knot out of my right calf. CRAP this sucks! Okay look back over where you just ran here from. I look down at my feet and sweat drips from my nose. This is just one goal. One hill. One of many. 

This is the beginning of a new me one that can conquer anything. I set goals. I attain them. I make new ones. This is how I live my life. I didn't join the military to quit it. I didn't start college classes with a full time job to fail. 

I sure as hell didn't run 2.5 miles to not turn around and run 2.5 miles back.

Our White Russian Lady

Last night, as you might have seen, I had posted that I was too drunk to write. I think I also made a comment about Anthony Bourdain. I want to take this time to say that I love Anthony Bourdain and his show (all one episode I’ve seen). I actually know him more for judging people’s cooking on America's Next Top Chef. I really want to stress the fact that I do not want to fuck that guy... No matter how well he has aged.

Anytime I drink vodka I tend to think about one of my more excruciating tails of the dance with Our Russian Lady. I was 16...

It's Friday night. My friend Wes and I had taken a bottle of Aristocrat Vodka ($15 a handle, that's quality) off of one of our friend's hands for the night. I think his name was Pete... or was it Patrick? I can't remember. Honestly he was one of those kids that you weren't really friends with, you just used them to get liquor, because they would steal it from their dads or older brothers (wow I sound like a dick). So we've got this handle and we’re driving in Wesley's champagne colored Camry down W. Tharpe St. in Tallahassee, FL. We're passing the bottle back and forth taking three chugs a piece. What is a chug? A chug is a unit of measure that is equivalent to the formation of several bubbles that float to the top of an upturned bottle, as a result of you in taking large gulps of any liquid. How we never got pulled over or died is a fucking miracle.

So we finally arrive at my friend Jeff's house. Jeff's mom was out for the night I think. Jeff also had just obtained probably one of the shittiest drum kits I have ever seen in my entire life. The snare wires were loose and couldn't be tightened to any satisfactory extent. The toms were heavily bruised and I think one of them had tape on it. This being said, it was the only drum set we knew of that we could literally beat the shit out of and not care, so we took advantage.

Wes and I had brought our guitars from home. His was a blue Ibanez SV Prestige. Mine was a white Ibanez P-O-S (I love that guitar though).

By the time we arrived at Jeff's house the bottle was a third gone and we were three sheets a piece. What was Jeff's only option? If you said try to drink a second third straight from the bottle in one eighth the time that we had, then you were right! Fast forward an hour and we are complete belligerent. I'm playing the drums, Wes is playing grudged out versions of some Rage Against the Machines riff, and Jeff has his shirt tied to his head and fulfilling the part of lead singer. Well, if you consider screaming things like "CHRIS ON THE DRUUUMS!!"; "WES ON THE GUITAAAR!"; "I'VE GOT A BOOONEER!!!" to be singing.

In all honesty this was probably some of the most fun I’d ever had while intoxicated. I can't explain why but it just simply was. Maybe it's the fact that we were all blitzkrieged and didn't have a care in the world. Maybe because I couldn't feel the redness in my face after playing drums for nearly an hour. Maybe Jeff's slurred screaming was having a more soothingly chaotic effect on me. The reverberations from the noise (because what else are you going to call it) had actually pulsed me into tranquility. I was in a place where your ability was not frowned at because your lack of coordination and talent gave you an excuse. Well, before I could accurately grasp the concept, for which I was drunkenly searching, we were interrupted.

Turns out Jeff's mom hadn't planned on being out all night, which would have been apparent if Jeff hadn't failed to mention that she was merely out on a date. I've never ran out of a house so fast. My shadow couldn't keep up and subsequently got its ass kicked by Jeff's mom.

So after a long drive home - it's midnight at this point - I get to my front door. It's locked, great! I knock. The door opens. It's my stepmother Amy. She greets me with a you don't have the damn keys. I reply with a big vodka drenched hug and a "SHHHH it's shokay! Don't slurrie about mae!"

I got to my room and proceeded to fall into my bed and spin out of existence. Or so I thought. I woke up the next morning feeling it. The acid in my throat that let me know what had happened shortly followed by the smell. I look at my carpeted floor. Chunks... that's all I'm going to say. I try to clean it up. I sprayed it with carpet cleaner. I covered it with a towel. I got up most of the solid stuff up and washed out most everything else. Then I realized to my horror that it was Saturday, which meant I had to mow the lawn. FUUUCK!!! I had no choice. I got dressed, went outside, and started that damn mower.

About an hour-thirty into my chore my dad stops me.
"What did you drink last night?"
"Vodka"
"Damn, that's fucked son!"
"Yeah"
"I would kick your ass, but you already look like death and you are mowing the lawn solo"
"Thanks"
"You still have to clean that shit off your floor"
"Yeah"

That story is only surpassed by the Pre-Graduation Party Drunk Dial Fiasco of 2006. I'll save that for another time...

Vodka

So just as a warning for all you aspiring blog writers, don’t drink four sprite zeros mixed with double shots of vodka and expect to write anything.

I was going to write some stupid story about a car wash I took my civic to earlier today, but then I started drinking. 

Nothing is here now. No inspiration. No words of wistful thoughtfulness. I just feel a blissful nothing. I'm now watching a show where people get paid way too much to travel the world and experience things that are in all instances... awesome. This guy Anthony Bourdain gets to go around the world and experience it, and the Travel channel pays him, quite amazingly, to do this. 

I say fuck that guy.

After rereading the last few sentences I realize that I write on vodka the same way I speak when I’m on vodka - slurred and not making any one point.

I love Vodka!

Playing Forts

For the better half of this week my wife has been saying that, since I had the entire weekend off, she wanted to play forts. What is playing forts you ask? Well, when you were a kid, did you ever lie in you bed under the covers and pretend you were in a cave? This is the basic idea. We were going to lie in bed and play all day (her words not mine - well, maybe they are a little). 

I had 24 hr. duty on Friday so once I showed up to work I would be staying there until 8:00 Am Saturday morning. I had the last watch, which was from 11:30 PM to 7:30 AM, so I was up all night and into the morning. To compound my tiring duty day, I couldn't sleep because my berthing was the temperature of the sun. Oh yeah and I was relieved a good forty-five minutes late. On my wife's side of Friday, she had probably the worst day she's had since I’ve been back from the last deployment. She did a lot of crying and self-loathing, which is a really exhausting task for all you non-criers out there. Needless to say, Saturday was a sleep day. No real playing to speak of.

So Saturday comes and goes as many Saturdays before it. Then Sunday came. This is our chance! Nothing but playing under the covers... or so I thought.

It's about 8 o'clock, and my eyes open. What do I see? I see the light pouring in because the blackout curtains we bought 2 years ago are still in their packaging in the closet. I see my wife on her side, her hair spreading into a beautiful (in the eyes of the beholder) mess on her body length pillow. I lie on my left side and snuggle into my position as the big spoon. I can smell the Pantene pro-v shampoo we use. OH the smell of clean. I place my right hand on her hip and begin to slide it up and down her leg. She stirs slightly. 

Believe it or not this is a ritual. This scene has happened many times in the few years we've been married, and it changes depending on who wakes up first. I can't think of what she does exactly, mostly because I’m in a state of pure zombie-fication in my pre-wakefulness. I tend to start with this move of excessive caressing of the legs and hips. Then I start playing with her panty line. She really likes that. That last statement isn’t true though. My wife isn't much for fooling around in the morning. You may be thinking this is a bummer and that I got jibbed. It's actually comforting to me, because I don't like it either. Two words will describe my apprehension, morning breath. The ones in disagreement are the ones who haven't been married longer than a couple of months or are really desperate, horny college kids. 

Okay so what was I talking about? Oh yeah waking up! 

So I’m playing with her elastic and she then turns over to face me. I will say this about my wife. She may have horrible morning breath, but I won't trade her looking me in the eyes and smiling slyly for all of king Solomon’s gold. This is exactly the same position we were in back in 2007 when I asked her to marry me. Really it was more like "so you wanna get married?" This is what I get every weekend I get to wake up to her. I get to relive the exact moment when my love for her was so great that I had to have her for the rest of my life.

Now here I am it's morning and I’m reminiscing, giggling with her in this early hour like a gay schoolgirl, when she hears it. The sound is so soft that I can't hear it at all. My wife has super hero style hearing. Then I hear it, it’s our dog ninja, who also has super hearing, being a dog, whining in her kennel in the dining room. Lakin asks if I can hear that. I say what the birds - there were in fact birds chirping outside. "No" she says, "the ninja". I say I don’t hear it. Lakin says she's probably hungry. "Yeah"

She gracefully gets out of bed and I know we are up for the day. Responsibility and the real world are stealing my wife from me. I lay there for a while staring at the white stucco ceiling right behind the ceiling fan blades. The fan motor is only set to medium but, after sometime of concentrating on the same spot, the illusion that they are spinning backwards at light speed takes effect. Damn dog! This was supposed to be my morning! Jealousy isn't the word - but it fits. 

Then I get out of bed and go into the kitchen where my wife is watching Ninja. She is pushing her green, hollow rubber ball, which is filled with food, across the wood floor. Kibble falls out of the two holes on the top and bottom (we bought this so she would eat slower). She asks if I want to go to house of eggs for breakfast. I say yes. Then we go about our day. Then I think to myself, as much as I would have loved to stay in that bed with my wife all day, I love to walk around and go out and experience life with her equally. 

We have the rest of our lives to play forts...

      

Some day, some life.... What the hell?

Lakin and I

When coming up with a title for a blog I've found two things to be true. One is that there are probably a millions bloggers out there in the world wide web, and the chance of you coming up with an original title that can also serve as your domain name... next to impossible. Second, if you don't have a clue about what you are going to write about, your title will turn out very vague and basic at best - as is the case with the title you see above.

Lakin and Ninja in the snow

When I think of some day, some life, one thing that comes to mind is... What the fuck does that mean?

Some day and some life can describe many things, which is why I chose it. It describes your current position in life as it is at present (as in man this is turning out to be some day or this is turning out to be some shit-show life). It can be used to describe the future you are planning for but not likely obtaining (as in I'll be doing that some day). It describes some pipedream way of life that will never come to fruition (as in that would be some life). It speaks of wants and what actually happens. It speaks of today and tomorrow.

As of today I am twenty-two. Old enough to have been out on my own a while, but not quite old enough to have a clue as to what I want to do with my life. Presently, this thought is really at the forefront of my mind. I am in the military and originally the point of joining was to give myself a few years to think it through and to come up with a plan to attack life. Well, guys it's been four and a half years now and I’ve got nothing. I’ve got one and a half left. There have been ideas, and from week to week it changes. 

Ninja being ever watchful

I am also married and we have a French bulldog. Their names are Lakin and Ninja respectively (although having a wife named Ninja would be pretty badass). I've been married just shy of three and one half years. She is amazing and is very supportive of my self-discovery. She also serves in the U.S. military.

We live a very comfortable lifestyle in Norfolk VA, but not exactly the one we wish for our future together. What that future is...?

So, kindly gentlemen and women, if you would be so obliged to join me in this my adventure into my life as I know it. The triumphs. The shortcomings. The dreams and hopes that are realized - or dashed upon the jagged sea cliffs of promise as the crushing waves of reality come crashing down and leave me a black bleeding spot.

This is some day and this sure as hell is some life.