1:22am. Dark in the house. Dark in the office but the computer light shows that nothing stands between me and it so I stride gracefully thru the blank space. I throw on my headphones as the system warms up. The French Band, Phoenix is on stand-by to play. But I'm not pushing start yet. I'm enjoying the quiet the headphones make being in the ear but not on. I love Phoenix though. I'm tempted. But I know I'll become distracted and not want to write. I'll likely dive into my 23,085 MySpace messages and get nothing accomplished. I wish I spoke better French. I don't speak French at all. So I change my wish. I wish I spoke French. The closest I ever came to knowing French was when I used to smoke. I vacationed in France over the summer but had already quit smoking so I threw my Japanese at them. Arigato Mon Cherie.
I can't sleep thanks to thanksgiving food. I know, I know. The turkey myth is that we all sleep heavily after. I guess I didn't have enough bird to satisfy the sandman gland. Or I must've counteracted the sleep aid by devouring a pie and half, equal parts pumpkin and coconut crème.
My niece kept untying my shoes from under the table so I took back the Happy Feet Penguin I got her with the intention of sending her letters from around the world as the Penguin migrated back to Antarctica. It was the kind of joke that will be better in the long term noted my brother, as the short term revealed a heart broken little 5 year old and an angry mother of said spoiled child. I caved. The chance to teach the child something about geography and correspondence has faded. So has the teensy speck of interest I might have had about having kids. No thank you.
My parents have been divorced since I can remember. My niece will grow up the same. It runs in the family. If I were to trace the ancestry for her, it wouldn't look so much like a tree as it would a sprawling ice plant covering the whole yard. She's already used to the dual households, though as she gets older she might find it more and more difficult to divide the time, especially when she's in town for only a few days and has learned to spell guilt.
The dog is the best thing about coming home. She's getting fat thanks to her new diet of snacking all the time. It seems to be making her coat nice and fluffy. One of her charming characteristics is how she'll lick her butt for so long that when she comes up for air she's out of breath and panting like she's just chased a rabbit. This morning we napped on the couch together in and out of parade highlights, and then tonight while watching Shopgirl, she slept with her head in my hand while I wondered if I'd ever meet someone special, kind of the way Claire Danes met Steve Martin and got a taste of something special but earned a more true love later thanks to a dedicated Jason Schwartzman. I wondered if my Jason Schwartzman was out there bettering herself for me. And then I realized that all I really need is to take my dog with me back to San Diego. It's a lovely idea. But it wouldn't fly. She's lost her hearing and doesn't even notice when I get up to get more pie. I need a girl who will stop me from eating so much pie. Pun unintended.
I lucked out by getting one of the houses to myself this Thanksgiving Night. It's just the dog and I. I played the drums while the doggy slept cozily by my seat thanks to her burgeoning deafness. We went out to pee several times in the cold and rain, she squatting in the lawn, me standing freely watching the steam rise from the stream. We snacked. We hugged. We scratched. And we stretched.
All is quiet. Headphones on. Still nothing playing in them.
And for all that we can hear at this hour and for all that we can see in the darkness, we are thankful. For life really only exists at this moment. And at this moment I've got my chubby dog and my bounding thoughts, plenty to practice gratitude on.
