>
Here’s the deal:
I want to marry you. I do. I can’t find the words to explain why, but yet at the same time I can. Am I confusing you already?
You know, it’s just you. The shape of your eyes. The way you walk. It’s because you didn’t like that song. It’s because you’re smart and like the color green. It’s because you always know what’s best. It’s because you turned me onto cheesecake.
It’s the small things.
It’s always the small things.
Here’s some things you ought to consider before you decide on marrying me: I like books and Mt. Etna. I can cook and uncork wine. I can be an asshole. I like the Beatles over the Rolling Stones. Rain over religion. I like pastrami sandwiches more than I do clam chowder. In fact, I fucking hate clam chowder.
I’m addicted to vitamins. Fish oil. Super B-Complex. Iron. Vitamin D. This dope is the protégé of whiskey and weed. I’d like to think I’ve moved up in my using career. Prettied it up a bit, you know? Out of the gutter and over the counter. But I can’t say for sure.
I prefer a quiet house. I guess you can read this as me actually saying—you guessed it—I don’t like too much drama. And, well, I don’t. I know this world sucks. I know your boss sucks. And I definitely know your sister sucks. I know. I know this. So just grab a beer. Relax. Call a hotline. Do something about it. I promise I will.
I like both cats and dogs. I like them both because, well, there’s more for me to enjoy. I’d like to see it as getting more out of the day.
I also like dresses and skirts. So I won’t hassle you when you wear one.
I really don’t like sweet breakfasts. So don’t give me waffles or pancakes any of that shit. I don’t like it. I don’t like the colors, the presentation. Reds and purples. A twirl of whipped crème. A dash of powdered sugar.
I like eggs and country ham, hash browns, and wheat toast. I’ll take a buttermilk donut if you have one in the cupboard.
And: I like you.
I also like Sunday. Because Sunday doesn’t mean Jesus or the dreaded family dinner. I like Sunday because it means football. And football means happiness. And happiness means life can be navigated better.
It means the broken A/C has us sweating like pigs. But we still have the TV and Ignatius J. Reilly on the shelf. We still have heat.
It means some are innocent, but live their days guilty.
It means your boss will always suck because he’s miserable. You’d be miserable too if you woke up in his house. We all would.
It also means your sister’s a maniac, the Devil, a horrible cook, and her constant bitching about how her world is tumbling down carries the substance and weight of a baboon fart. How she’s a married woman is fucking beyond me. Oh. Sorry. Did I just say that?
It means it’s going to rain right after you washed your car. It means we’re gonna lose a parent or two. It also means the Vikings will probably never, ever, ever, win a Super Bowl.
(Sorry, Franny.)
It means that’s all right. Everything’s going to be OK.
Trust me.
It means I love you.
So. Hey. Will you marry me?
Ya got me on this, reno j. totally got me.
I hope she says yes.
Blast off, then!
Domino’s damn pizza with broccoli,
Judy
Judy! Oh, lord, it’s been way tooooo long! And how are you? Sure hope the summer is going a-ok. Doing fine over here in the CA desert. Windy as hell. Hot. But you know: hanging in.
Thank you kindly for the comment. I hate to tell you, but this lil’ post I wrote is not to anyone. Well, you never know. But no wedding any time soon. Just waiting for football season and Godot. Sheesh. Bye, Judy.
You never know about that marrying thing, reno j. It crept up on me quite suddenly—-and it’s great!
I liked your wedding prep explanation to whomever you might marry bcuz it was straightforward and honest and sweet. This sentence stopped me flat in my tracks: “It means some are innocent, but live their days guilty.” Powerful, that.
I’m off TNB and other boards for an indefinite amount of time to finish a play I’ve been researching for years which’s now ready to be written. So be well, and think about me when you have those non-sweet breakfasts (sweet breakfast food’s loathsome to contemplate!).
chickpeas and garlic,
Judy
Judy:
Good luck on the play. Keep me posted. You have my email, missy. Ok, Judy, keep rocking and I’ll do the same.
Scrambled Eggs and Edward Albee,
Reno
Dude, I would of said yes except for that whole Beetles over the Stones thing. 😉
Nice one, Reens. Real nice.
Copa:
Good late evening, Copes. Wow, writing you reminds me of our MySpace days. Good times on them boards. So the Stones, eh? Love them. You know, I was going to ditch that passage, but it came out that way (and it is the truth) so hey…
Anyhow, Copes, good to write to you. Hope Charlie’s rocking and rolling.
Always,
Reens
I’d marry you Reno. Just remember, I fart in bed constantly. Hope that’s not a deal breaker.
Very nice work, friend.
Lyons:
You better marry me. My ass is lonely. Need companionship. Someone to pour me a beer. Wait! For get that married stuff. NFL lockout coming to an end? Oh, goodie. Wait again! What’s up with Harrison? Did that jock apologize for shit that he didn’t even say? Wow. Hot damn.
I really dug this, Reno. I also share your love of books, Beatles over Stones, rain over religion (maybe even rain as religion?), a quiet house, beer, cats and dogs, dresses and skirts, un-sweet breakfasts (no sweet in my coffee either, please), and your vitamin supplement addiction. Do you keep your fish oil capsules in the fridge too? (No seafood burps. Yay!)
If she says no, my friend, whomever she may be, she’s a bigger fool than her horrible sister. xoxo.
Tawni!
Well, good mornin’ to you. We have a lot in common don’t we? Nope to sweet breakfasts. Yes to skirts. You know, with a post like this it’s easy to go long. Color tooth brush I prefer. How many pairs of shoes I own (I have about 20 (yeah, I know, weird psychological thing going on here) in perfect condition).
And who and the HELL wouldn’t like both pooches and cats? Silly. Weird, actually. Wait! I don’t put my fish oil in the fridge. Never heard of that but it makes perfect sense. I guess I’m lucky because I get the seafood burbs. Combined with all the other shit I’m taking it’s just one big medicated burp. Nasty nevertheless.
Well, Tawni, I must confess that I didn’t write this for anyone. Well, maybe I did, but there’s no marriage plans in my future. I was prompted by a conversation I overheard (I’m a nosy fucker – especially when it comes to strangers). But you never know. Weird things happen. I might have to print it out one day and recite it. Here’s to that! Bye, Tawni, and thanks again.
I totally agree, it’s always the small things. If it wasn’t for the small things I’d be one miserable bitch.
SSA:
It’s always the small things. Just is. Thanks for reading.
The single only reason I can’t marry you: “My wife would object.”
And while I have nice legs, (so I’m told) the dress/skirt thing is not really on my fashion radar.
Additionally, for some strange reason, all my siblings are marvelous, wonderful people. Mostly. Would that be too big a hurdle?
What I liked most about this piece, is it’s gentle nudge toward making me write up my own inventory. What are my own quirks and “she runs screaming” deal-breakers?
dwoz:
it hurst, but i understand. i like you too much anyhow to put you through such an ordeal. You don’t need it.
hey, i’m all about kind people. i don’t care if they’re sisters or great uncles. i’d be a perfect fit. maybe in the next life. crazier shit has happened.
well, thanks, good sir. see you on the flip side.
Reno, who wouldn’t marry a sweet thing like you?
Have to be nuts to pass that up.
irene:
well, hello there! oh, and you are VERY nice. i can be sweet, irene. just depends. you know, i don’t think i could write one of these letters if i meant it. i think it would come off as crazy. right? like i wrote tawni, i overheard these girls talking shop about this. oh, yeah. these fuckers had a list and they meant it. multitasking women. eating giant fried-chicken salads and laying down The Law. but you, dear irene, don’t have to worry about such nonsense. leave this kind of business to us list-making single folk. hope all is well wherever you are. ok: bye, irene.
Irene:
I wouldn’t marry him.
Just wouldn’t.
He’s ridiculous, moody, silly, and refuses to get his hands dirty. He shops more than any woman and those vitamins are the only healthy things he ingests, the rest is fried. He has the same sense of humor as a 13 year old boy and wakes up too goddamned early.
I love him to death but I think he would be relieved to know that he isn’t the “marrying kind”.
<3
NOLA:
whatever. but i’m gonna humor you, NOLA, and respond to your statements. ready? here we go:
1. ridiculous? always. moody? pfft. hardly. silly? who isn’t?
2. i eat healthy. you know this. salads. sandwiches, drink barrels of water. yeah, i have a thing for for Del Taco and In n’ Out Burger. i do! a man has to have a vice or two or twelve. i do love fried food. wish i had a breaded chicken sammy right now actually.
3. now, the sense of humor part. you f*****g love it, NOLA. i keep it alive, mixing it up. you laugh. don’t fib.
4. i would be relieved or irene would be relieved? either way: i am the marrying kind. you’ll see. one day the damn skies will break again and i’ll see the light, get all hopped on Super B-Complex, and DO it. but not now. i’m doing heavy maintenance now. you know: soul fixing. gotta clean under the nails. but soon.
5. i refuse to get my hands dirty. why? well, for starters they’re dirty! who wants dirty hands?AND – if we’re talking about jobs – I worked those jobs! construction jobs. yard cleaning jobs. warehouse jobs. it’s over. leave to the young bucks out there. i’ve moved on. so eat it, NOLA!
ok, doll, i think i see brighter days for us. right? you know? seize the day, Breesy.
ok, ok, ok…ok, Moose!
You convinced me, I’ll marry you. When you’re ready. Shit, when I’m ready.
happy now?
Pfft.
And.
Ugh.
Hey! What does that mean? Sucker!
I agree, it’s always the small things.
A million, tiny subconscious things that the other person doesn’t mean to show. Those are the things that teach us truth. Unfortunately, most people aren’t as observant as they should be. They don’t take the time to invest in the person they are talking to because they are more concerned with what they have to say next. What they want to project about themselves that may not even be accurate. Not a lie but a twist of truth. A polished terd. (I know that just made you laugh.) While they are focused on polishing that terd, they miss the other person completely.
Kind of sad, I think.
Anyway, green is my favorite color.
I don’t listen to the Beetles but I like to read them.
I see Red Doors and want to paint them Black.
I love dresses but rarely wear them…boob issues.
I love sweet breakfast food but only late at night.
Sunday is my favorite day of the week.
We have a lot in common and we have a lot we argue about, but you know this.
And let’s be honest here, you’re never going to get married again but it’s cute that you write about it as if you will. Yes, I know this.
Down, set, hut,
Breesy
NOLA:
hello, ash. it is the small things. you hear it all the time and i’m one of those that subscribes to it. but for me it’s always the small things. the details. i like the details.
i think you should listen to the beatles. they wrote neat songs. not everything mind you. just most of it.
i won’t address your boob issues.
i can go as far as french toast. in fact, i can stomach that sweet stuff. i just prefer meat and potato dishes. i don’t like fruit or cereal either. the other day i watched my friend’s house for a night and he asked me: “what kind of cereal do you like?” i was thinking: ‘dude, i’m forty-two. i don’t eat cereal.’ too funny. people are different. which is a good thing.
what else? sunday is the only day as far as i’m concerned. especially in the fall. it seems the NFL pissing contest might be coming to an end. i know this brings a smile to your face. mine too. i might even cry when i get the news i can start breathing again. anyhow, see on the 50, breesy.
me and you have been scrapping for way too long, ash. i know we have differences. i think we should kick off the new football season (when they kickoff, we kickoff.) with a positive hail mary eyes. me. you. right? pfft.
hey, i just might get married. i can’t say. right now? probably not. i have a lot of STUFF i have to weed through. can you dig it? well, i hope that you just didn’t curse me. time will tell. if i never go down that sacred aisle it’s on your hands, your heart.
i think that’s all i have. for now. i’m going to san diego this weekend and when i pass charger stadium i’ll scream your name and scare away the pigeons. you’re a chargers fan, right?
bye, ash, and thanks a lot for reading and commenting.
working the 3-4,
moose
let’s start slow
maybe hold hands
at the Iron Maiden
tribute band
show in my Krokus tour shirt
you with your Somewhere in Time
rain is religion….
rain is religion.
yes.
it is, 11. i think i’m gonna get a shirt made. you in?
I’m in. For reals, yo.
Pretty good there J oops Reno! lol
Glad to see you’re doing better, you’re writing is very impressive. Not bad for a jock!
I’ll be reading more in the future and if you ever do marry I feel for the girl! J/K
Take Care,
Eric
eric:
thanks for reading. hey, ex-jocks can mix it up. it’s not always about TDs, slam dunks, and cheerleaders is it?
well…
until then, take care, bro.
Me and my cinnamon roll breakfast and cat allergies will have to be traveling on, Reno.
I draw the line at whipped cream and fruit sauce, but I cannot live in a world without homestyle Eggo waffles.
WTF is with dudes and vitamins?
If I complain about any kind of malady at all, the husband’s first question is, “Did you take your vitamin today?”
I could be shot in the foot, and that’d be the first thing he’d ask.
“Try to stay calm, Babe. And try to think: Did you take your vitamin today???”
You know what a big thing with me would be? Something I’d have told my husband before marrying him, had I known before marrying him?
Bad and/or precarious or nonsenical dirty dishes stacking/architecture is just out of the question. Absolutely impermissible. Do not put that dirty plate on top of the dirty glass. Just don’t even fucking do it. This one tiny thing offends so many aspects of my core being, I can barely handle it.
Also: There is never any reason to have the TV and stereo on at the same time. This isn’t TGI Fridays.
“Bad and/or precarious or nonsenical dirty dishes stacking/architecture is just out of the question. Absolutely impermissible. Do not put that dirty plate on top of the dirty glass. Just don’t even fucking do it. This one tiny thing offends so many aspects of my core being, I can barely handle it.
Also: There is never any reason to have the TV and stereo on at the same time. This isn’t TGI Fridays.”
becky, you make me laugh.
“Just don’t even fucking do it.” lol. I get that. completely.
Well, you know. It’s one of those things.
A dude will be tempted to see if he can haggle/argue about it, or to see if maybe it’s funny to “tease” me and do it anyway.
The answers to those questions are no and no. Just. Don’t. Do it.
becky:
heh. you’re so damn funny. really. i love that about you. well, first, it’s good to see the enemy make a cameo. i wasn’t a big vitamin dude until i almost croaked around a month ago. up until then i’d take a multivitamin every once in a while. now it’s a routine. i’m an old man. period.
my dad was a vitamin man. you’re right: there’s something with dudes and their vitamins. haven’t figured it out.
dirty dish in top of a dirty glasses? i’m with you. i’ve put my time in the dish pit. it sucks. i have a natural hatred for dirty dishes.
thanks for chiming in, becky. have a great weekend.
My mom’s answer to everything was chamomile tea. Heart break, menstrual cramps, domestic violence, hunger, stubbed toe – all of it. Chamomile tea.
People are weird.
you’re mom was right. she nailed it. people are weird. why is that?
“There is never any reason to have the TV and stereo on at the same time.”
YES. I walk around the house turning shit off constantly while two male humans roll their eyes at me. The noise. The constant noise. I can’t take it. It makes me crazy. I want to unplug everything. Forever.
And stacking dirty dishes? You are more tolerant than I am. There shouldn’t be dirty dishes stacked anywhere ever. First of all: rinse them off right after you dirty them, rather than letting the food dry and harden onto them like cement. Next: take three seconds to stack them in the dishwasher. So easy. I can’t sleep if there are dishes stacked in the kitchen. It makes me itch inside.
Hmm. Reading this, I think it probably really sucks to live with me. Darn.
Well, this was before we had a dishwasher.
And of course, we’ve been married for 8 years without kids imminent kids, so our lifestyle has been the free-wheeling, reckless sort that lends itself to things like dirty dishes.
It’s less of a dishes issue than it is a stacking issue, actually. The same rule holds for any kind of stack or pile; it’s just that it’s most oft-encountered in the form of poorly engineered dishpiles next to the sink.
Right now, I’m looking at big tupperware on top of littler tupperware.
Mother. Fucker.
NO WIRE HANGERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ha! I agree.
Reno takes it a step further, though.
He doesn’t like colored hangers. Makes him crazy. They have to all be either black or white. No mix-match and god forbid you throw a yellow or red one in there. He’ll go bananas.
I think we should all send him hangers. Tons of plastic hangers in a rainbow colors. just because. I’ll have his roomate take pics. It’ll be great!
No. Don’t Do. It.
Black and white. That’s it. It only makes sense, right?
ok, here’s the deal: i can tolerate gobs of shit. but dirty dishes i simply cannot stand. well, hell, anything that is not necessary i can’t stand. you see that the trash is overflowing? take that shit out. what, your ass couldn’t put that nasty coffee cup you’re so attached to in the dishwasher? lord have mercy. anyhow, dirty dishes are just that: dirty.
i hate lights being on just to be on. just turn it off for the love god. please.
i must admit that i like having the TV on for background noise. yes. in fact, i treat the TV like a radio. i like listening. ESPN is ESPN radio. Swamp People is Swamp People radio.
ok, enough. cheers. no dishes.
I agree about dirty dishes and the damn TRASH!!
Biggest thing around my house…trash is full and he’ll ASK me, “should I take that trash out?”
Motherfucker! YES! Don’t ask me, stupid! DO IT. No, fuck that, I’ll do it. Move!
It’s the little things…
Another thing…turn off the light in the bathroom and close the door. Why? Because you’re not in there. period. Why even have a conversation about it…
Oh…you see a book in my hand…don’t fucking talk to me. I’m not bored or trying to get your attention, I’m fucking reading. Close your mouth! Same goes for the game. Shut the fuck up!
Ok…you sure you wanna marry me?
Oh yes, please. Turn off the lights when you’re not using them. I’m militant about that too. I’ve got the kiddo fully trained. He’s great about turning off a light before he leaves a room. Good boy. I’ve also started shutting the cabinet doors over the television in the morning on weekdays, and we don’t get to open it for viewing until the evening. It helps keep that from getting out of hand. Both boys would leave the damned thing blasting all day if I let them.
In my single, pre-child life, I had to live alone whenever possible because I couldn’t stand living with slob roommates. My studio apartment was immaculate at all times. Even the apartment without a dishwasher. Never been able to stand a mess around me. It makes my brain feel cluttered. Of course, now that I have a kid, I have had to let go of that facet of my personality somewhat, as the living room of my small house looks like a toy store exploded most of the time.
In the name of not being Drill Sergeant Mom/Wife, I keep my inner neat freak quiet most of the time, with manic bursts of cleaning when I have time alone to do something about the filth. When I cook, I have to clean everything up as I go too. All dishes rinsed and loaded into the dishwasher, all counters wiped clean as they’re dirtied. I’m pretty ridiculous. But if you just take the couple of seconds to rinse the dish or pick up the bit of clutter, you never have to go through the bigger ordeal of washing a sink full of crusty dishes or cleaning a trashed house. It’s all about maintenance, I will whine in my defense. Maintenance!
Reno, Becky, and New Orleans Lady: I would marry every one of you delightfully neat people.
I won’t marry you, Reno. I hope this letter wasn’t to me because, well, that would be embarrassing for both of us.
But it’s not because of anything you said – all of which was sweet and came from the heart. And it’s not because my sister isn’t psycho, so maybe you weren’t talking to me after all. It’s because: why the fuck would anyone get married. You know?
Except J.M. Blaine. I’d marry that dude. But only if we didn’t have to live together or meet or anything.
If rain is religion then I live in the center of heaven and it’s really depressing about six months of the year.
Bah humbug.
Anyway – I hope she says yes. <3
gloria:
NOLA says i’ll never get married. she might be right. i think i was pretty good at being a husband. i made her laugh, worked, uncorked wine, went grocery shopping, etc. but then…well, nope.
so i don’t know. i think i have my issues. not with the idea of marriage because some of my better days were when i was married. so the idea is fine with me. i’m the problem. and that’s not good.
i’d marry blaine. in a quick Southern second. it’s the way he moves over water. it’s the way he holds his, uh, quill. he has all fixins’ of a solid man. he gives me butterflies.
so no one will ever be hearing this coming from me. until then, i’ll keep hitting the dollar store (79 cent Toblerone candy bars, holla!), and watching ESPN.
thanks, gloria.
Confused: totally.
Reno, I thought we were tying the knot, taking the plunge, saving the date. I thought I was THE vitamin and you were only leading me on? And all that sweet talk that you are so good at. You know I would have never gone that far if you had not promised! You told me Reno Romero was alias for Romeo. I believed you. Put all my eggs in one basket; and you had another love all along! Sure hope her name is not Juliet. Couldn’t bare that one.
Shame on you!
What made you change your mind?
I always wore green. Skirts, dresses, short ones, the ones you like. Even promised to climb Mt. Etna, and you know how I hate volcanos. All that rumbling sends my nerves on edge. I let you cook for me. The ham, the eggs, the hash browns, the buttered toast. Remember that morning with the butter, and the whipped creme. I’ll never forget. You don’t like whipped creme?
I loved how you held that towel over your arm so romantically when you uncorked that bottle of wine. The expensive bottle we were saving for that special occasion. The one we drank when we stayed up all night and watched the sunrise over the ocean. All those walks in the rain, and the Sunday football. You had me convinced football was religion. I had began studying it. Learning all the moves. You said we should practice them. The tackles, the punts. Fast moves you called them, “Get you where you wanna go, where you need to be.” I loved those moves. You played them well. You navigate them better.
Consider this Reno. I am a smart one, and I usually know what is best. Smart enough, wise enough to know that the girl…the One who steals your heart, makes it go pitter-patter, like the rain….is one LUCKY girl, and I am so glad you love her.
That means that’s all right. Everything’s going to be OK.
Trust me.
It means I love you.
~paula
Paula:
Nice narrative. I think you have it all covered. Perhaps, I should tuck this post away for, well, that day. I just might use it. Even though – like I said – I probably couldn’t. Wuss. How would you react if someone told you this? I don’t know how I would. Wait. No, I’d laugh. I was hoping this thing was funny. I stole the idea from some girls. There stories were hilarious.
I like my space.
I want a man that can fix things.
I like wine. Red wine.
No country music. None of that shit.
I do like ham steak. Eggs benedict is nothing short of delicious. I can eat that stuff everyday.
Her name is not Juliet. Or Linda. Or Brenda. It’s bottled water. It’s the TV.
Tomorrow, I’m leaving for San Diego for the night. Haven’t been that way in a while. Looking towards seeing the sun. Too bad I don’t have an updated passport or I’d hop into TJ and do my THANG.
Thanks for the comment, Paula. It was far better than the post itself.
Reno:
I did think it was funny, heart warming. How would I react if someone told me this? I would be flattered, I would be elated. Especially if that someone had a heart like yours and was captivated with me. Any SMART girl would be a fool not to. My comment, hopefully a lighthearted response from someone with a passionate, romantic heart…responding in a playful fashion. Did you not receive it as this?
Yes, tuck this post away for that day! If you have the heart of the right girl I am sure she will be mesmerized with your soul just like me.
The comment being better than the post itself, I think not. Who are you kidding? Please don’t patronize me.
So you Reno: Be fierce. Be wild, Be passionate. Play to win. Keep writing. Let the words of your heart, the songs of your lips…continue to capture the souls of those who recognize and appreciate their beauty.
Here’s wishing you captivating sunsets in San Diego, food, friends and fun, and a wonderful life!
~paula
paula:
good morning! thank you for the kind words. san diego should be a good time. always is. say, i understood your response fully. i liked it. and, no patronizing what so ever. i’ll follow your words the best i know how. i’ll gun for passion. and i will play to win. i don’t think i ever had a problem with that, but in my advanced age you can’t move so quick, can’t think so clearly. regardless, i’m in the game.
keep me posted on “your bend.”
have a great day, paula, and i’ll do the same.
Well put.
You’re a good man for being so tolerant and accepting of dresses and skirts.
amanda:
yes, thank you. i love dresses. and skirts. and thin crust pizza. to hell with that thick crust stuff.
Tonight, mine started off crispy but the heatwave turned it into thick. Amazing what a 47 Celsius evening can do to a perfectly good thin-crust dinner. While I cooked it, I did wear an awesome little sundress though, so maybe that evens the score.
perfect. you win.
Holy shit.
Dude.
Once this gets passed around, you’re going to need an agent to manage all of your engagements. This is really well done. I loved the bit about breakfast:
>>I really don’t like sweet breakfasts. So don’t give me waffles or pancakes any of that shit. I don’t like it. I don’t like the colors, the presentation. Reds and purples. A twirl of whipped crème. A dash of powdered sugar.<<
While I prefer my breakfasts with as much Mexican flair as I can get, I also enjoy the odd stack of pancakes or stuffed French Toast. My girlfriend says it’s like having dessert for breakfast- she prefers the kind of breakfasts that you like. So yeah, I’m going to keep you two apart for awhile.
Good stuff, man. Rock on.
I’m with Reno on the breakfast issue. As an Englishman it just doesn’t seem right to eat waffles in the morning, and your pancakes are too thick. Our pancakes are thinner, closer to a crepe. But they’re closer still to a pudding that we only eat once a year on Pancake Day.
Your cereals are quite strange as well. The first time I was in New York it was quite an exciting novelty to have a syrup-rich start to the day, but if you’re going to have such a large breakfast you might as well go for the English Breakfast. A small plate of scrambled eggs is a sensible middle ground for an every day start to the day.
Europe is strange. A lot of their breakfasts involve hams, cheese and rye bread. Of course the French have their croissaints…
Anything is better than fruit…
Crepes are my exception to the “no dessert foods for breakfast” rule. My mom makes the best crepes for breakfast every Christmas morning. Mmmm… crepes.
I don’t think crepes count as dessert food. Not on Christmas morning anyway. It’s not usually acceptable to eat smoked salmon and drink champagne for breakfast, but it is at Christmas. I bloody love Christmas.
james:
‘anything is better than fruit.’
right!
well, what i add? nothing. you nailed it. anything is better than fruit. why even eat if your going to give me an orange. or some grapes and apple juice to drink. why? what’s the point? no. no. no. no.
you’re killin’ me smalls…
NOLA:
you’re killing me, ash
daly:
good evening, sir. french toast is very doable. when i was a kid pancakes were my favorite. i’d beg my mom to buy strawberry syrup. so much sugar in that shit i’d be rattling. i think i’m one of them types that eats to get full. i can’t say i crave a particular food, more than i crave to be full and satisfied. now, if that’s not the ADDICTIVE mind working i don’t know what is. still: ham. pepper bacon. fluffy biscuits. spicy breakfast sausage. eggs over easy. scrambled with bell peppers and other delicious veggies sprinkled in. hell, even steak and eggs. why not? anyhow, daly, thanks for reading. you’re a rock god. just thought i’d let you know.
lost in germany,
reno
tawni:
i had a ham crepe in france. i was badly hung over and zipping on some kickass speed coffee. it was daaaaaalicious.
It’s the lack of lust over the froo-froo breakfast that is the deal breaker for me. I do make a mean biscuits and sausage gravy, though. You know, if you’d be into a weekend thing.
erika:
ok, i love biscuits and gravy. lord, how i do. when i lived in the south i ate that stuff by the bucket. i’m a gravy man. i think it’s the whole dipping thing. i love to dip. chicken fingers. steak. fried-chicken. i’m a bona fide pig.
wait! keep it lustful. always.
well, erika, thanks for reading. you and the fam take care.
working for the weekend,
reno romero
This is lovely, Reno. I like your style.
However, I must say that any thought of a future for us ended with “Sunday is for football.” To each his own, sir, and I would never interfere with your enjoyment of that inexplicably popular pastime, but…
Sundays are for lying in the hot sun by a cool body of water (naked, if you can get away with it). Sundays are for harvesting home grown tomatoes and bell pappers and making a batch of spaghetti sauce from scratch. Sundays are for a good book, or going to the park or on a hike with your kid to look at cool bugs.
Also interfering with our future together are:
1) my husband and daughter; but perhaps most importantly…
2) “I guess you can read this as me actually saying—you guessed it—I don’t like too much drama.” To which I can only say that I thought I was a pretty affable, easy-going person. But drama seems to find me. Just last week, I was talking to my husband and I said, “I am a simple person…” and he laughed. Out loud. To my face. And then he said I was anything but. So maybe I’m more high maintenance than I thought.
Oh well, that’s his problem, huh 😉
Good luck with the soul-work my friend. If and when you do dust this gem off for real, she’ll be a lucky lady.
cheryl:
‘Sundays are for lying in the hot sun by a cool body of water (naked, if you can get away with it). Sundays are for harvesting home grown tomatoes and bell pappers and making a batch of spaghetti sauce from scratch. Sundays are for a good book, or going to the park or on a hike with your kid to look at cool bugs.’
well, cheryl, you said it best. who mentioned anything about football? football shmootball. i’d much rather tend to some veggies or open a book. always, right? and bugs? perfect. i catch them now. why? i don’t know. it seems to me a lot of boy things make cool man things. weird how things work.
thanks for telling me how things will, or rather will not, work for us. honesty is best. at least on this stage. i’ll carry on, but i’d still like to be friends if that’s ok with you. heh. ok, cheryl, have a great day.
Friends it is, then! That works out well for everyone, what with my drama issues and all. Except maybe my husband, Dustin, who still has to put with my less charming side. But still, we’ve been happily, wonderfully married 11 years, so perhaps my more charming side makes up for it. One can hope.
About bugs, it’s funny. I was one of those kids who was afraid of bugs. Almost all of them. I was afraid of many of them even until adulthood. But parenthood can make you brave in a lot of ways. If you’re aware of not wanting to pass on your phobias to your kids, you kind of suck it up and pretend. And eventually pretending becomes almost true. Except roaches and tarantulas. A girl has limits.
I just caught my “pappers” typo. Oops.
cheryl:
i don’t do roaches. and even though i know those babies have a right to hang around i simply don’t like them. potato bugs, too. i find those nasty damn things worse than roaches if you can believe it.
tarantulas! i love those guys. here in the desert you see them crawling over the hard dirt around dusk. they’re cute. not big like the mexican variety you see at pet stores. these natives homeboys are skinny and brownish-black. as a kid i had them as pets. same goes for scorpions. if past lives do exist i was either an old chinese feller climbing misty mountains or a scorpion that sang blues jams from atop a rock.
okay, cheryl, thanks for the note. take care out there.
Who knew being realistic could be so romantic?! Sweetness, Reno. With this sort of point of view you’re sure to get or keep a good thing going.
rachel:
hey, there. you know rereading it i wondered if i should have pulled back here and there. i didn’t want it to come off mean. in fact, i was going for the opposite: funny. god help me if i ever really opened up. you know? talk about hate mail. well, rachel, it’s great to see you here on these boards. thank you kindly for reading and commenting. and please, please, please kiss those babies for me (god, they’re so darn purdy).
bark at the moon,
reno