A quest to make sense of it all. Or a sense to make a quest of it all.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Dig on it.

Apparently someone scored a box of these bottles, which were found during the 2002-2003 Memphis FedEx Forum excavation. They're from Sall's Brewery, an 1860's Memphis brewer. This someone dropped the box off to someone down here in Corinth, and the box sat in storage for years. Until now.

We only managed to get one, otherwise I'd have already ensured that this awesome Memphian receive one to treasure as well.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Valentine's Gay Day.

I've uttered the usual "Valentine's is so contrived, so commercialized, so fake, blahblahblah" enough times, and I do mean it. For the most part. But I'm a human, and humans love to get stuff, especially when that stuff is from someone you're into.

On this holiday last year, I was sitting at work, all happy and feeling good about my relationship. I thought I may even get a little silly something. A trinket, maybe a bouquet on our date. The guy floored me: he sent, to my place of business (because that's how smart men do it), a huge bouquet of gorgeous long-stemmed roses, a box of quality chocolate, and an embarassingly large bunch of balloons. He also had it set up so that the deliveries would all come separately, so I would keep getting surprises at work all day. Points. He got points like you ain't nevah seen.

And he shouldn't have. I refer, of course, to The Engineer, who was full of "I love you"s but not much to back it up with when it came down to it. I fell for his line of wooing-via-Discover-card, though, fo sho. Starting with the Uggs he got me for Christmas. While his gifts were extravagent and certainly appreciated...they were pretty generic. Which pretty much sums up our relationship. A lot of fanfare and little substance. Maybe because we already knew each other when we met (and if you've ever had that kind of connection, you know what I mean), little attention was paid to the foundation. We had a perfect beginning. Our screwing it up remains one of the bigger disappointments of my life...and his, too, if my intuition is still accurate. But that's done, and I'm scarred, and there's no going back.

Fast forward a year. I have steadfastly avoided becoming entangled in any new committed relationships. When anything has become promising, I've quietly slipped out the back door and shaken off whatever warm fuzzies were developing, and fallen off the social media planet until it's cooled off. I have been committed to not committing. So when Valentine's rolled around this year, I was...curious. I have been seeing The Pharmacist regularly, and despite my warning him that my wall is an extremely difficult one to scale, he seems determined to scale it. So when the first deliveryman showed up in the lobby at work, I smiled broadly, thinking "And here they are." Ha! Not for me.

Lather, rinse, repeat, until every woman in the building has received goodies except for the increasinly ill-tempered brunette working the teller line. (Me.) All day, I received nothing from him. Oh, I was ready to kick ass and take names. I was even saying ridiculous girl stuff like, "Oh, he's in trouble!". Wtf? This is what happens to me when I work around other women too much. No one's gonna get in trouble over some stupid stuff like that. That was the pack mentality talking. I digress. Anyway, he and I had scheduled a date for that night, and I was already over the flowers thing by the time he showed up. I spied a gift bag in the back seat, but didn't say anything. We went out to Pizza Grocery, where we shared fig pizza and calamari and a damn fine conversation. Later in the evening, he presented me with the gift.

It was a book. Bag of Bones by Stephen King. One of my very favorites in the world. It was a very nice hardcover, which I didn't previously have. I was pretty impressed: this dude really has been paying attention. I mean, he picked something actually based on my personality and preferences.

Oh, but there's more: He said, "It's a first edition." Sure enough, a glance at the copyright page confirmed this. Then he said, "Oh, there's some writing in it." *GULP* Sweet sugar, the thing is signed by my man Stephen himself.

To hell with some flowers. I wouldn't have cared it if had cost 38 cents, as long as some thought went into it. It's not a price tag that makes a gift sweet. (Although some Googling and a consult with a friend who collects first-edition Stephen Kings has revealed that a dizzying and wholly inappropriate amount of money was spent on this book.)

He's on the right track. And it has nothing to do with the amount he spent. It's that he knew me and he knew how close to my heart that particular book is, and why.

In contrast, this was a way better Valentine's than last year. And even though I am still keeping this at arm's length for my own protection, I'm thawing. I don't have to wonder where I stand, and that's a pretty bitchin' feeling.

Thursday, February 10, 2011


Mom: You need to read some romance novels. For the humor.
Me: I've read one. No thanks.
Mom: You're not supposed to take them seriously. That's what's wrong with you.
Me: Excuse me?
Mom: You say you're incapable of feeling romantic toward people anymore, right? You need some romance novels so you can remember.
Me: Oh, good grief. Romance novels are too ridiculous. Reading them would just depress me.
Mom: How would something so stupid depress you?
Me: One, they raise expectations way too high and no man can ever live up to those expectations. Secondly, they all glorify the damsel-in-distress theme. I don't need rescuing! They're all blahblahblah, gorgeous girl needs handsome man in order to feel happy and blahblah..
Dad: Oh, let's just all drink some herbal tea and re-read The Bell Jar.

A couple hours later, watching TV:
Dad: Ugh. I hate Zales commercials.
Me: Why's that?
Dad: For the same reason you hate romance novels.

Monday, February 07, 2011

Plans to make this blog public.

...are in effect. So if you notice any rearranging, that's why. This thing started public, and it was interesting and funny (maybe). Since it's been private, it's been a nearly nonstop insight into every dark/crazy/self-indulgent/self-absorbed icky thought that shouldn't have been seen. So I'm going to resurrect Shannon's Fury, which hasn't been used since back in 2007, for my mean thoughts and get this one back to its public roots.

Oh, yeah.

Received this text:
"I like you a lot. I'm trying to let you lead because I have a history of scaring you off and I don't want to do that. So please don't think I'm not into you just because I've been playing close to the vest. "

I don't know how to deal with this, so I'm going to take a page from the Guy handbook:

AVOID. Ignore. When the texts reach ridiculous volume or I realize I'm hurting another human being with my indifference, I'll give a vague "sorry, I was ____, hope your day got better. gotta go, text ya later!". double points if the ___activity is something that no human would need 12 hours to do and wouldn't have had their phone with them. But if he rightfully points out this disrespect and wants to know why I couldn't have just said "I don't feel like texting/talking about this right now, but there's not a problem", I am required to call him crazy and say he's overreacting. He will then feel more confused and will further seek my approval, which will make this mess bigger than it had to be. I will be about 60% to blame but will still come out on top.

It's a power struggle, see? The bigger jerk you are, the more upper hand you've got. And who doesn't want the upper hand, even if it makes you d-bag of the year?

I'm not serious, of course. I'm a lot of things, but "cruel" isn't one of them. And he's a seriously awesome guy. So I told him the truth: the issue isn't him, at all. It's entirely me and my skittish nature and aversion to meaningful relationships. I'm sorry that he's gotta deal with the baggage the last guy left on my emotional doorstep. But I'm working on it.

Thursday, February 03, 2011

I love olive oil, but I'm not putting it there.

This just in: Casanova used crude condoms made of linen, and called them "English riding coats".

Relatedly, I'm reading up on prostitution throughout history and learning all I never needed to know about primitive forms of contraception. Equally interesting: Lysol was (briefly) a popular means of contraceptive in the 1930's. There were seriously advertisements for it as "a feminine hygiene aid" which translated to "hopeful post-nookie cleansing" to prevent pregnancy. It wasn't so great at that, but it was great at vaginal "scalding", and quickly went back to being touted as a cleanser for the home, and the home only.

There are Egyptian paintings dating to 3000 B.C. that show men wearing condoms. It's unclear whether the devices were meant as contraception or ceremonially. Or maybe those kooky Egyptians just loved to accessorize everything.

This is fascinating.

Should prostitution be legal?


Wednesday, February 02, 2011

With a little help from my friends.

Tonight I went shopping with Katie, and then we met Jacob for dinner at Mi Toro. I'm so happy about her transfer. She's been wanting to move back to Birmingham for a long time. But damn, I'm gonna miss her. I can't believe she'll be gone next week. Guess we'll just have to do more driving to see each other. That girl is someone I can say I care about and know the affection isn't something I've made up or twisted. Jacob, too. He and I have gotten closer than I would have expected. Being around them is so comfortable and warm. I love my zany weekends most of the time, but sometimes the best thing in the world is to stay in pajamas all weekend at their house, watching movie after movie and laughing our asses off.

Guess I'm about to get to know Birmingham better.