Do you ever feel like you’re behind the times, the works, the world? No? Well then, it must be just me then.
Thinking everything’s caught up and even ahead I leave the office after dark each weeknight I spend here in Charlotte, yet- somehow, somehow more work piles up during the few hours I am gone and when I get back it’s like I haven’t been here in months. How does that happen?
It’s the idiot customers- wait- I said I’d be nicer, more patient with the customers…. Can’t always keep those decisions I guess. Everyone has an emergency, everyone wants their deal closed yesterday. Never mind I’ve told them their lack of planning doesn’t make it my emergency. Never mind I’ve told them to forward me the deals as soon as they know they intend to buy, never mind all that- it’s unintelligible stuff to them even though they vigorously shake hands and heads while in my office. Do I not speak clear English these days?
Add to that, the nearly uncontrollable mania Napoleon harbors of wanting to know every detail every minute- even if he is in Hanoi. It gets crazy in here- unnecessarily crazy, unnecessarily hectic.
“No, you are not Trump, it really matters not if your deal closes or not in a week. Perhaps you should’ve considered your deadline while you were shopping it around for a month before you finally brought your deal to me- to be closed in a week even though you still haven’t brought me all the documents I asked for.”
Every investor thinks they’re gonna hit it big ‘cause they’re so smart and they go to investor meetings and they buy investing tapes and DVDs. But it’s not really all their fault they get to me sometimes- it is a combination of many things at once.
Add to that having to take out the piling bags of garbage from the already crowded hallway at my front door simply because Gay Husband doesn’t want to take out the garbage anymore. What’s his problem? I mean c'mon I'm only back at home two days at a time- there's barely any time for other stuff as it is! He says he’s been telling the neighbor that he refuses to take out my garbage while I have a boyfriend. He refuses to take out the garbage while I spend my time getting busy.
Thing is I don’t think I have one- a boyfirend that is. Sure, Vas and I have been hanging out a lot but does that make him my boyfriend? I mean shouldn’t he ask, send a note, sing a song, send a flower or something?
How does one know for sure when one is or isn't a boyfriend or girlfriend for that matter? I refuse to leave it in the “you-just-don’t-talk-about-it-you-just-know” category. Doesn’t that just cause more problems- or rather confusion? Isn’t easier to actually say it, ask it? Or does saying it “kill the magic?”
I don’t recall having had a boyfriend in grammar school. Wait! I’ll take that back, now that I think about it I seem to remember a little boy who lived at the end of my street who coulda been my boyfriend. He once asked my grandmother if he could be my boyfriend and I think she said yes. That must's been before all her thoughts and all she was got eaten away by the jealous love of JesusChrist her Lord. I sat on the front steps of our porch with that little boy a couple of times too- so I guess he was my boyfriend. Plus I have a picture of us at the park where we’re kinda leaning into each other- so he was definitely my boyfriend. So see? My point remains- somebody has to ask somebody for it to be official.
I can see it now, Vas will come in and with a very grave look on his face- while holding a pint of Moosehead- will have to ask GH if he can in fact be my boyfriend. Then GH will turn away very dramatic like and bite his bent index finger while desperately wrestling with the questions racing thru his fevered mind. He will turn to face Vas, they’ll squint at each other and simultaneously turn away. GH will traipse over to the balcony door, whip his head back, march out onto the deck, fumble for his lighter and a camel light (left over from his drunken stupor at the Gravity the night before) light it and inhale it deeply; a look of unspeakable torture never leaving his face.
Meanwhile, Vas will remain indoors- impatient, angry even at having to ask. “I’m a grown man,” he will think to himself. He will finish his Moosehead and reach into the fridge for the only remaining beer- the Fishizzle Snizzle the Captain brewed and gave me for Christmas.
Oooh, I can’t wait- maybe I will have a boyfriend in 2006!
Thinking everything’s caught up and even ahead I leave the office after dark each weeknight I spend here in Charlotte, yet- somehow, somehow more work piles up during the few hours I am gone and when I get back it’s like I haven’t been here in months. How does that happen?
It’s the idiot customers- wait- I said I’d be nicer, more patient with the customers…. Can’t always keep those decisions I guess. Everyone has an emergency, everyone wants their deal closed yesterday. Never mind I’ve told them their lack of planning doesn’t make it my emergency. Never mind I’ve told them to forward me the deals as soon as they know they intend to buy, never mind all that- it’s unintelligible stuff to them even though they vigorously shake hands and heads while in my office. Do I not speak clear English these days?
Add to that, the nearly uncontrollable mania Napoleon harbors of wanting to know every detail every minute- even if he is in Hanoi. It gets crazy in here- unnecessarily crazy, unnecessarily hectic.
“No, you are not Trump, it really matters not if your deal closes or not in a week. Perhaps you should’ve considered your deadline while you were shopping it around for a month before you finally brought your deal to me- to be closed in a week even though you still haven’t brought me all the documents I asked for.”
Every investor thinks they’re gonna hit it big ‘cause they’re so smart and they go to investor meetings and they buy investing tapes and DVDs. But it’s not really all their fault they get to me sometimes- it is a combination of many things at once.
Add to that having to take out the piling bags of garbage from the already crowded hallway at my front door simply because Gay Husband doesn’t want to take out the garbage anymore. What’s his problem? I mean c'mon I'm only back at home two days at a time- there's barely any time for other stuff as it is! He says he’s been telling the neighbor that he refuses to take out my garbage while I have a boyfriend. He refuses to take out the garbage while I spend my time getting busy.
Thing is I don’t think I have one- a boyfirend that is. Sure, Vas and I have been hanging out a lot but does that make him my boyfriend? I mean shouldn’t he ask, send a note, sing a song, send a flower or something?
How does one know for sure when one is or isn't a boyfriend or girlfriend for that matter? I refuse to leave it in the “you-just-don’t-talk-about-it-you-just-know” category. Doesn’t that just cause more problems- or rather confusion? Isn’t easier to actually say it, ask it? Or does saying it “kill the magic?”
I don’t recall having had a boyfriend in grammar school. Wait! I’ll take that back, now that I think about it I seem to remember a little boy who lived at the end of my street who coulda been my boyfriend. He once asked my grandmother if he could be my boyfriend and I think she said yes. That must's been before all her thoughts and all she was got eaten away by the jealous love of JesusChrist her Lord. I sat on the front steps of our porch with that little boy a couple of times too- so I guess he was my boyfriend. Plus I have a picture of us at the park where we’re kinda leaning into each other- so he was definitely my boyfriend. So see? My point remains- somebody has to ask somebody for it to be official.
I can see it now, Vas will come in and with a very grave look on his face- while holding a pint of Moosehead- will have to ask GH if he can in fact be my boyfriend. Then GH will turn away very dramatic like and bite his bent index finger while desperately wrestling with the questions racing thru his fevered mind. He will turn to face Vas, they’ll squint at each other and simultaneously turn away. GH will traipse over to the balcony door, whip his head back, march out onto the deck, fumble for his lighter and a camel light (left over from his drunken stupor at the Gravity the night before) light it and inhale it deeply; a look of unspeakable torture never leaving his face.
Meanwhile, Vas will remain indoors- impatient, angry even at having to ask. “I’m a grown man,” he will think to himself. He will finish his Moosehead and reach into the fridge for the only remaining beer- the Fishizzle Snizzle the Captain brewed and gave me for Christmas.
Oooh, I can’t wait- maybe I will have a boyfriend in 2006!
3 comments:
what is the point of writing about this, or pondering? the point? im sure you know what love is, although you'd never admit it, and you either have it or no.
is anything sacred? why dont you just ask him? just put it out there, and see what happens? we all know you dont believe in chivalry, or (hetero.)gender roles for that matter. i didnt think you even believed in relationships. i guess so.
good for you.
GH wrote:
Thanks for the enlightenment on gender roles - my several psychiatrists never cleared this up for me - you have been most helpful. GH can be most chivalrous when needed and although familiar with homo gender roles I have been subjected most of my life to "icky" hetero values and am at the very least familiar with them. I hope that you have it all figured out in your life since you are so good at dispensing advice to others.
Happy Hetero Day
If your intention was to pierce my heart with an arrow-
then...........
BULLSEYE!
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