Saturday Walk

February Sunday

Oh, Sundays. I think they're so wonderful because you stretch them out to make the most of them before another week of work. Picking narcissus blossoms from the yard, French press coffee, helping a friend choose paint samples at Lowe's (with the right person, this can actually be fun), biking up to Closed for Business to hang out with beautiful boys who tell you that you have good skin, and agonizing over what color to paint your nails for dinner with an interesting fellow. Spring is springing, friends. It's springing up everywhere.

Going to Georgia

John Darnielle used to get his hair cut at the salon where I worked in Durham, back in my days of living in Chapel Hill. I never told him that I knew who he was, or anything like that. I wanted to say something fangirlish every time he came in, but what do you say and how do you say it? How do you tell him that once, years and years ago, a curious boy put "Going to Georgia" on possibly the most perfect mix CD of all time and you listened to it so much that you could anticipate every strum of the guitar. And that the CD, and that song, shook you up and made you feel magic, and made you wonder if that tall, quizzical boy was thinking that "the most remarkable thing about coming home to you is the feeling of being in motion again; it's the most extraordinary thing in the world" about you. And that the song and mix made you think too much about a boy you weren't supposed to think about, not like that. How do you say anything close to that without sounding like a tremendous douche? It's a tricky thing. So I didn't say it; I smiled and small-talked and checked off his name and his wife's name in the appointment book.

Fryday.

I'm having one of those weeks when my head is aswarm with music. I can barely think for all the songs ringing between my ears. I'm trying to sort out a lot of jumbly weirdness that has happened this week and shake off all the eerie feelings that keep clinging to me. Yuck, yuck, yuck.

On a lighter and brighter note, in a few short hours, the pup will be packed up and we're heading to Charlotte to hang with family. For the fam, this weekend holds a great occasion, as the Packers have made the Super Bowl. Though most sports mean less than nothing to me, I will even don some green and gold, though those colors do nothing for my complexion. That's how much I love these people. And I'm going to my sister's basketball game today (if I didn't look so much like my mom, I'd swear I was adopted). This is a big damn weekend. So much sports. I'm going to have to drink a lot. (What is the etiquette of bringing a flask to a high school basketball game?)

Here's a song I'm playing over and over as I down the biggest cup of Circle K coffee ever:



I have a crush on this song. I wish I could feel about a boy the way I do about this song. This song is a 6-foot-tall, brown haired dude with a beard and hidden tattoos and a husky laugh and fantastic cooking skills who can open jars and wears Band of Outsiders. THAT'S how much I love this song.

Listen up, readers.

I hate that I have to clarify this, but just to be sure:

Please do not repost my blog posts into your blog without giving me credit. It's not flattering; it's creepy.

However, if you want to share something I wrote, gimme a little credit (or a lot; I love a good shout out) with a link back to my blog or something.

Thanks!

Listen up, boyfriend(s).

Late night thoughts about...boys. (What else?)

*Style.  Mine: If I hold up two dresses and ask you, "Which one should I wear?" You better pick one, and have a  good reason for it ("I like your rack in that one" never hurts.). If you give a half-assed response such as, "You look good in everything," I will fight you. That is not a compliment. It's laziness. Also, you aren't allowed to be mad when I inevitably go with the other dress. Bonus points if you take even a tiny interest in my style. Yours: fitted dark denim, classic looks, and a tattoo or two would not be judged negatively. Also, be able to grow facial hair.

* Music. Know a lot of it and a lot about it. More than me. All kinds. Old-school R&B is non-negotiable.

* Movies. Lots of these. If you don't do subtitles, get out now.

* Humor. Mandatory. Laughter is way sexier than...well, than a lot of things. Making me laugh is hugely important. If you think I'm a little bit funny, then this deal is sealed.

* Nerdiness. Also mandatory. Dudes who care about things totally do it for me. Please read books. Please.

* Dates. I could not care less about Valentine's day, red roses, or steak dinners. Be prepared for lots of laziness: bottles of wine and endless albums on a Sunday night, or heads bowed together over crossword puzzles (in pen!) in the corner of a coffee shop. Also aimless walks and talks. Tons of those.

* Dogs. Must be a dog person, or at the very least, a Maya person.

* Friends. Treat me slightly better than yours, and adore mine just slightly less than I do. I will do the same for you and yours. 

* Miscellany. Be able to: open jars, untangle my really tangled necklaces, stay calm if I cry (not often, but it happens), drive stick-shift, make conversation with my family, tolerate my personal dramatics, have street smarts (I am too naive), be slightly more realistic than me.

This is probably why I haven't been in a serious relationship for a while. But what can I say? I like being overly specific. If it were up to my Oma, any ole doctor or lawyer would do ("And if you don't like them that much, their jobs will keep them so busy that they'll barely be home anyway."). Oh well.