Finally some solitude.

It's been pretty nice and quiet around here lately. For some reason I have extra underwear in my drawer and the video game usage has significantly decreased. Zane hasn't had any witty comebacks in many many hours. I've even tested him by watching hours of America's Next Top Model and Bridezillas and nothing. I guess after a year of being together I have finally won! He even let me take up all the bed the past couple nights.

Hold on, my mom is laughing in the other room. Something about Zane's latest blog entry...

Oh.

So looks like Zane has been away for a few days. Is that what those phone calls I ignored were? I feel a bit better knowing he wasn't snubbing the dinners I left out for him. Guess I take back those names I may or may not have called him.

Well, now that I have achieved some much desired me time, I am like a kid in a sugar-free candy store: it looks so good but I don't want any of it. The lack of foot rubs, no one to whine to, the bed hasn't been made in days, no one to point me toward silly and completely unecessary websites. Heck, I haven't seen a LOLcat in 4 days now! Many of you may wonder, even google that term, don't. Just don't.

Speaking of which, I can has a cheeseburger if I wanted because Mr. Anti-Beef has left the building. I guess it's not gonna be so bad.

A Week Away

A few months back I began writing a post about our first day apart. It was Mother's Day and for the first time in our 9 month relationship we were apart for a whole day. Now, only three days in, we are witnessing our first full week apart: 8 days. Saturday-Monday/Tuesday. Far too long for two needy people like ourselves.

I am currently stuck in New York working as a beer salesman, more or less, and Julie is staying at the house withholding herself from me. I suppose the time apart will do us some good; they say absence makes the heart grow blond hair. Or was it absinthe? I can never keep those old sayings straight.

Either way, this time of separation makes me appreciate all that Julie brings into my daily life. Her laugh, her smile, her unwittingly stark judgments of how I can do things better the second time around. It's moments like these that I am eternally grateful to never have wound up like Steve Carell's character in "40 Year Old Virgin". Something I feel I was frighteningly close to.

This period of isolation isn't without it's perks mind you. With J three states away my family is free to talk about her without fear of any witty retorts. Sure they only say nice things, but still I don't think her ego could take any more boosts. Usually I am her sole compliment pusher, but if she starts going around and getting them from all sorts of people I fear all the ego trips may be hazardous to her health.

While I do miss her dearly, I understand that being attached at the hip is unhealthy. There are so many risks of infection and that is only if the surgery is a success, which after ...watching BEING SUBJECTED TO dozens of episodes of Grey's anatomy I know is very unlikely.

A to Z of J & Z

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This old house just got a little newer

Well weeks of banging have finally paid off! No, Julie isn't pregnant, renovations to the room downstairs have completed! Throughout these past two months various zippings, clankings, and bangings have filled the house on a nearly weekendly basis. The room downstairs, which was once a musty, mouse infected basement has now become a fresh, equally sizable-eared mammal's domain. This afternoon Neeily Dan and Jodi Foster have moved in to this commune we like to call "Heavens Gate II". And, while they will be staying in the room for as long as it takes for them to get the hell out, the room will one day become Crunch-Barry's "Man Bowl" (or "Cave" as he puts it).

Even though I had never constructively swung a hammer in my life, they were kind enough to allow me into their goatee gang and help work on the room with them. With the help of Stainless-Neil's buddy Byler (whom I only met him once and haven't had time to develop a cute pet name for) we have taken this poorly insulated, beaver board ridden, dusty old room and made it livable again. I practiced for weeks on The Sims but was disheartened to find out that instead of just drawing a line and having a wall appear, there was a lot more manual labor involved. So much for putting in that disco jacuzzi...

As a New Yorker I never did such things as building houses or exerting my upper body, so as you could imagine the work has been pretty eye opening. As the paint begins to dry, and the efforts put in begin to take focus I feel, beneath my cold emotionless exterior, a sense of... what's the word I'm looking for? Achy? Achebe? Let's just go with Achieva. It feels like such an achieva to be able to see something you work so hard and diligently on become more than the sum of its parts.

Like many of the experiences living here, I have learned a lot. Whether it's "It doesn't matter what happens to the dry wall, joint compound is god-paste" or "If something in the wall smells bad, it probably looks even worse" or "When in doubt, pull it out." (That last one is referring to loose nails. Trust me, I know what you mean, it almost got me in a lot of trouble a Hanny's last night).

While I don't feel I would rush into another project any time soon ...damn sanding... at least now I know how to do it. If I ever find myself wrapped up in a sitcomesque lie where I told my boss that I have an awesome sauna in my backyard and he says "great I'll be over for dinner and a steam" I'll be covered, with about 3 months notice of course.

Our Visit to Beantown

Last Saturday Julie and I made a day trip to Boston. We planned on having lunch with a friend from New York and dinner with my cousin and her husband*. We started our day early, waking up at the crack of 9 and dragging ourselves out the door escaping the flurry of banging and breakfast making.

Our drive could not have been any smoother. This being our first trip to Boston since moving to Massofchewedsticks we were delightfully surprised to find that it is pretty much a straight line there, however that is not to say it was in any way dull. Route 2 is a regular treasure trove of roadkill. First we came upon your standard fare, a squirrel here, an opossum there, but when we passed the dust bitten pelts of two cats and what looked like a boar a new game was born! We tried to imagine what scenarios might have sealed the fate for these out-of-place animals. Perhaps the cats were just bastards? Scratching the furniture of some dad who never wanted them in the first place, who then saw his morning commute to be the perfect solution to his fur ball infestation. The boar likely could have escaped from a butcher truck, or felt like living out the stampede scene of Lion King, only to fail miserably and immediately. When we came across a fallen falcon we were perplexed. No such noble bird ever seems to soar lower than thirty feet. We could only surmise that perhaps it had mistaken a Smart car for a mouse, considering that they must look like equal size from that distance.

After about ninety minutes of driving and one brush with death we finally made it to the Boston Commons where we put the awesome $11 all day parking to use. We took a stroll as Julie pointed out all the sights of her old stomping grounds. The Boston Commons, the bridge in the public gardens, the man wearing clogs pushing a stroller, her first dorm, the place where she had to hand clothes to naked men for some "play" she stage managed (grimace), the burial place of Sam Adams, the burial place of Mary "Mother" Goose.

It was at this point I felt I needed a break from all the morbidity and we stopped in the nearest 7-11 for a Ginger Ale. After paying for the soda a small family of tourists cut the line demanding to know if there were any socks for sale. From the look of them they seemed that their shorts to tube sock ratio was complete, but for whatever reason they needed more, and they needed them now! As the cashier hesitantly questioned the store's stock of socks (try saying that five times fast!) Julie perked up to inform the woman that there were multiple stores around the corner that would sell her the socks she so desperately needed. The woman politely thanked her, then turned back to the cashier to continue her interrogation over foot underwear.

We made our way to Faneuil Hall loosely following the freedom trail. While there, we took in the sights, namely the scantily clad silver woman doing the robot for change. It was there that we met up with Jojo and her crew. While they were traveling together it appeared as though each of the sixsome had their own agenda. As a result we resolved to pick up a quick snack and sit for a little face time before continuing the journey through the real world text book. Julie recognized a certain chowder shoppe that she remembered from her youth and we picked up a couple of soccer ball sized soup in bread bowls. Astonishingly enough we found a space large enough to seat us all amidst the crowded outdoor plaza. While sipping on our bowling ball's worth of lobster bisque (or creamed corn in Julie's case) we got caught up with what we have been missing in the City we departed not three months ago. As we sat there we had a delightful run in with Julie's brother Neeily Dan and his girlfriend Pal Jodi. It turned out that she had arranged a special day for him which included walking the Freedom Trail.

As Julie pestered me as to why I don't do nice things like that for her we continued on our way. We passed a few landmarks, a tour guide maintaining the character of a 19th century town crier, right down to the walking stick and sense (moreover lack) of humor. Then after shouldering our way through a crowded market we decided it was time to part ways. We made our farewells and footed it back to the commons, stopping at the landmarks we had recently passed by.

By the time we got there our feet were in desperate need of rest, so we made ourselves comfy on a bench and reflected on our day. As we watched a man in a cherry picker drive down the sidewalk and into traffic we developed a loose plan for the rest of our afternoon. To give the play-by-play: we strolled down Newbury Street, passed through the Prudential Building, then made our way to Copley Square to meet up with Jodidaya and Neil of Steel again at the mall. After some tense moments in a Victoria Secret Julie and I felt it was time to make our way to my cousin's.

We arrived at their cozy second floor apartment on the smallest street in the world. It was delightful to catch up with relatives whom it feels like only recently I had gotten a chance to know. We caught up on everything from the dirty, behind the scenes stories of the wedding to, of course, blogging! With my cousin having just launched her own blog, and her husband managing somewhere around 500 of them there was a lot to talk about. But frankly, I feel a little narcissistic when talking about myself and this blog. Sure it's all I ever talk about, but still it's bad enough I write long winded posts like this one, no one needs to hear how great it... they can read for themselves.

Around twelve hours after our big adventure began, it was over. We made our way home, through the roundabouts and past the discarded pets that now lay in darkness scantly illuminated by passing cars. While it makes me realize that I no longer feel at home in an urban setting, we did have a great time and hope to find some reason to get back out there again soon, even if it is just to dump some future pet we just don't want anymore.

*previously alluded to in a photo essay experiment. No not the old people.

Boomerbook

Sitting around my grandmother's living room visiting with 3 generations of S-Dub's family tree, there are topics you'd expect to arise: The weather. Who has recently died. That darn government trying to take elderly drivers off the road. (Here here Grammy!) Black people. ( No Grammy, no.)

But tonight, a new topic: Facebook. No, neither Zane nor I brought it up, but my 61-year-old uncle was proudly discussing his profile. Facebook. You have betrayed us. I don't know about you, but I remember when this crazy thing, often referred to as "The" Facebook for the first month, arose back in my early college days. The concept of connecting college campuses was awesome. I even remember the joy when new colleges joined the network and other friends in nearby universities could chat.

But then Facebook sold its soul to the devil. High schoolers. Here I thought that was the end of the world. It had muddied its water with this glitter crazed, book covered, notepads doodled to high heaven brood. Little did I know what was to come. Now everyone has a "status" and wants to gift me a puppy or some crappy heart. What does this all mean? What is the point? When did we fall off the path of just wanting to keep in contact? Now I've got people poking me left and right and I just don't like it.

It feels wrong having to "friend" my uncle, or aunt, or cousin. There is no "family" option. Heck, my brother ignored my request for him to be acknowledged as my brother for 3 weeks. You can't hide from the truth Stainless Neil! Those days, weeks, even months waiting for family to befriend you and acknowledge your pathetic request... heartwrenching. But after tonight's talk I realize I have been mistaken. My uncle is not twiddling his thumbs assessing my track record of friendships, not counting how many fans I have, even seeing what I've been up to lately or how sassy my status update is. He's just trying to figure out how to log on.

Hers and His: The Book?

With the first 50 blog posts under our belt I've been feeling a bit frisky to start something of a larger project. While our door isn't necessarily being knocked off its hinges by publishers looking for a fresh new franchise that will pander to that niche tween/sorority girl demographic that missed the Harry Potter boat, but has too much pride to pick up the Twilight series; that doesn't mean we shouldn't give it the old college try. Certainly the market is saturated with books on coupling and learning to cope, but I can't help but think we may have what it takes to bring something new to the table.

Now I can't speak for Julie, but I am no master linguist. With a complete lack of knowledge as to what a comma is or how it's used and no desire ever to write in the 3rd person, the options for me are pretty slim. I suppose we could write a guide on how to avoid awkward silences with the incorporation of musical instruments in daily life, or our experiences in going through the motions... uh I mean 'paces' of starting a life together; me, no longer under the watchful eye of my parents, and Julie, giving up the need to be right for the first time. The possibilities are limited!

Julie and I have always stuck by the principal of never embellishing or writing any falsehoods. Often times I'm temped to make something up purely for humor, then I think to myself "Zane you are writing a book, not some sort of blog where you can tell bold face lies to make the reader feel like some gullible, unaccomplished, dolt!" With a book this vow is more important than ever. It is not simply something people check in on when they're not surfing porn or old civil war memorabilia on ebay. It's something I'm expecting people to go to the store and spend their hard laundered money on.

It's silly, I know, but all my crippling insecurities tell me that I should leave the literary fame to those with little things like achievements and talent. Despite my better judgement I don't think I'll be able to resist plagiarism. No matter how hard I try I feel nothing sounds as good as something someone else wrote. The first draft shows this all too clearly:

"Julie and I have always shared so many great laughs together, but as with all retold tales that are in people's hearts, there are only good and bad things and black and white things and good and evil things and no in-between. If this story is a parable, perhaps everyone takes his own meaning from it and reads his own life into it.

Often Julie wishes that I'd tell her when she has something in her teeth, but no one mentioned such things; it was not a rule but was considered rude to call attention to things that were unsettling or different about individuals. Her scorn was too terrible for me to take. When she introduced physical abuse into the relationship I wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy."

It did not go over so well with the people I asked to proofread it. They complained it was too convoluted and nonsensical. Sure I had never been to Venice or the 16th century but come on! It's a metaphor! They were also confused as to why the third chapter was entirely in Russian; I couldn't explain to them that that was the only copy of Crime and Punishment I could find, for that would be admitting that I was a fraud.

I suppose now is not the time to think about turning this blog into something that will gather dust on the shelves of Barnes and Nobel next to the books on weight loss and overcoming the metabolic demon that makes you smoke cigarettes. No, perhaps we should wait for after our 100th post.

NoHo.... UhOh

Many of you probably wonder why Zane and I are currently residing in a small nowhere town whose name is synonymous with sphincter. Well my friends, Athol is merely a pit stop on our way to a much more fruitful land... Northampton (NoHo), MA. NoHo is known for its wonderful arts and culture, Smith College, many great restaurants...and lesbians. Neither Zane or myself ARE lesbians, but we are both utterly fascinated with the people watching NoHo offers up. We have been taking trips out there occasionally to prepare ourselves for the awesome downtown shopping and music and I would like to report our findings.

On our first trip out since moving to Massachusetts, Zane and I had a sweet date night to commemorate the anniversary of our meeting. It was at our dinner table we opted out of engaging conversation and instead reached for the notepad to assess the list of achievements we'd made that was later turned into a blog post. [see: 525,600 minutes...] After dinner we strolled around to soak in the atmosphere and humidity when Zane made his first keen observation: the girls look like boys here. Looking around beyond the flannel and Tevas, I shrugged and agreed. Yes, hippies had taken on a more androgynous look here in Western Mass. We both vowed to not wear hiking sandals with or without socks post-move.

OR

Our more recent jaunt to our future haunts was on a double date with local blog stars S-Dub and Crunchbarry....aka my parents. After a fine dinner of sushi and a delicious treat at the bakery, we visited some late night shops. Descending a steep, non-AARP approved staircase into a late night record store, I noticed that not only are there lots of boy-girls, but lots of rastas. This made me feel at home as one of my dear friends in NYC had introduced me to the joys of dreadlocks. By introduced me I don't mean I ever sported them (though tempted) I mean she let me pet hers. After my moment of reflection passed I found out another thing about NoHo: people only exist between the ages of 19 and 33. As my balding father in a short sleeve button up tucked into his pleated khaki shorts and Jesus sandals (ok, on that note he fit in) rifled through old albums, he seemed to stand out a bit in the crowd of hipsters and hippies. He was... hipreplacementy. Mom, well, she mostly just held onto her purse tightly as to not have one of the hooligans walk off with it. This gave Zane the hint to stop snatching at her purse every time she walked by.

In an effort to assimilate ourselves with our future home, Zane and I have taken to immersing ourselves in the culture even in Athol. Our independent film watching has increased, bathing decreased and I have begun to wear his clothes instead of mine. Most recently we decided to relax at home, make some popcorn and put on a flick to pass the evening hours. It being Zane's turn to pick I knew it would be something odd and film-schooly that I never had heard of. And disappoint he did not. Once Venus Boyz began I was hooked.

The evening became a series of "Wait...that's a...?" and "Woah! I thought he, I mean she..." You know a movie that begins with a taxi cab interview with a crossdresser from Berlin justifying her affinity for male genitalia but her inaffection to actually HAVE one is gonna be at least one thumb up. And let me tell you, that's not ALL that was up in Venus Boyz!

**Spoiler Alert**

We tried to remember our favorite lines and parts as the film progressed but it just kept one upping itself that we just sat speechless at the end. I know there was one point where an interview was going on but in the background of this room... in a building of some sorts... was a shovel leaning next to a pile of dirt with a hole dug into it. As I write this I wonder if it was supposed to be some subliminal message about... well, I won't give too much away.

It turned into a judgement of who was more convincing and who you could tell right away was a lady. I got confused when they paired off with other wo-men. Would that make them gay? Or lesbian? And there I'd get caught up with America's need to categorize people by the outdated standards established in a far gone era. I have Venus Boyz to thank for broadening my horizons. Now I can no longer look at NoHo as a spectacle of dykey gals browsing discount used records and enjoying gelato. Now I see it as a land where I too can discover the hairer side of myself. A place where razors don't exist and fake stubble is encouraged. I've always wanted to know the liberation of shaving my head. Sinead O'Connor, psssh she couldn't commit. She could only handle pseudo androgyny. I, I am going the whole 9 Yards. All I have to do now is find out where Crunchbarry keeps his duct tape. It's gonna take a lot to bind these puppies down.

Bathtub Wookies 2: What Lies Beneath

You've seen the commercial "Did you ever try to take a shower, but wound up taking a bath?"...

You've met the man responsible "Hi Anthony Sullivan here..."

Then it happens...

A wad of hair clogs a pipe and the solution isn't to put some sort of dangerous chemical down the drain to desintigrate it. The solution in this particular commercial is the 'Turbo Snake'. A metal wire you stick in the drain then use to wrap up the hair clog like spaghetti and tug the fistful of old sodden hair from the moist shadowy pits. As you may have read in one of my first posts* I have a thing against disembodied hair and drains. This commercial could quite possibly qualify as being my worse nightmare. Every time it comes on I feel as though I'm in the movie Saw minus the device forcing my eyelids open and used Turbo Snakes dangling inches from my face.

::Warning:: If you have just eaten or plan to eat any time in the next lifetime don't view the following videos. As a card-carrying Mythbuster I am obligated to site my references.

The state of television today is deplorable. Not in the liberties taken with showing sex and violence, but the infomercials of disgusting products that play ad nauseam. Take the Ped-Egg for example (of Pedo-Files as I like to call them). Who knew that by rubbing some little plastic device on the soles of your feet could produce a half-pound of parmeasian cheese? Who in their right mind would think that such an image was appropriate for national television, let alone a commercial that plays directly after an ad for the Olive Garden.

A somewhat older ad that I detest is for Lamisil. It stars Diggy the Dermatophyte an anthropomorphic bacteria from Staten Island, hell-bent on throwing a house party under your toenails. This nasty little vagrant and his lowlife kin squat on your nail-bed and turn it into their own personal crack den.

That current Nutri-Grain ad, I just shudder thinking about it.

Ok maybe that one's just me. It's not necessarily gross, I just also have a big problem with certain kinds of alarm clock sounds, but that's another post for another day.

*See the prequal Bathtub Wookies back in February.