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The event: All of a sudden Violet and I start jumping around, dropping
dog treats all over the ground while squealing “Treat Party! Treat
party! Treeeeeat party!!!” and get the Seal as worked up and happy and
excited as possible.

The reason: Supposedly if she is ever in a life threatening situation,
like bolting into the street to chase a squirrel with a semi coming at
her, we can yell “!!Treeeeeat Partyyyy!!” and she will stop whatever
she is doing and coming running back to us.

When Violet first explained this whole thing to me I was extremely
resistant, as in no way, like I usually am with anything new that I
don’t understand or that will entail me acting like a moron. But she put
her foot down and said that we HAD to do this.

Seal came running into the room and was so unbelievably ecstatic while
gobbling up her treats, hopping around with us and wagging her tail so
hard that she almost knocked herself over I started laughing that
laugh where you aren’t quite sure if you’re laughing or crying – or
some sort of combination.

My life at 7:45 a.m. on a Wedensday: Two girls and a Seal dog, all three of us, in our livingroom, hopping around chanting nonsense like we are totally crazy and out of control. It was awesome.

I have no idea what the Seal’s first two years of life were like but I
am convinced that if, at the end of her life, she wrote down her top ten
favorite moments, that her first !!Treat Party!! would probably make
the list.

I’m willing to bet the same for me.

*my dog’s blog name, ‘Dog’, just happens to be the same as one of my
favorite blog’s dog’s names, also Dog. And so, to keep some
distinction within these fabulous queer blogs, from here on out, my
dog, the artist formally known as ‘Dog’, will now be referred to as the
Seal (which is what Violet and I call her anyway, because that is what she looks like in the water and when she’s sleeping).

I’m both, really. Ever since my cornered conversation with my grandma I’ve been reviewing my own personal relationship status with people/ friends/ family. That quick little back and forth last weekend really upset me and I feel like I need to do something, but none of my natural reactions feel right.

My usual response is to first fight a bit and then flee to whatever degree I deem necessary. Really, Violet is the first person in my life where the impulse to flee has diminished so greatly that sometimes it just takes stepping into the next room for a minute so that my rational brain can reattach to my body before my mouth opens again. But besides my relationship with Violet, if you corner me into feeling defensive I will usually bite back some and then get the hell out.

When I was 19 and found out my first love, my high school sweetheart, had cheated on me I booked a flight from Oregon to Vermont in the middle of January. It was a bold and cold (weather-wise) move bought and sold entirely by a first-time broken heart. I fled the scene in hopes of my aches staying behind, and that taking me away from her would hurt her. My plan was to go far, far away from the chaotic cloud of a break up and dance in the streets on a different coast, any street, free. And so I left. And what I thought would be a few months wandering aimlessly to pick up the pieces and come home ended up in my landing and living in Atlanta, Georgia for a few years (where my heart finally healed enough to get by and I ended up meeting my next great love. I never did move back to Oregon).

Another relationship’s end, in my mid-twenties, resulted in a one way ticket to Croatia, where I traveled most of Eastern Europe by myself for several months (Dubrovnik – go there!)

I think I must have learned this fight and flight technique from my dad, or at least that’s where it was introduced to me. When I was little, he and I got into it all of the time, over anything and sometimes everything. I’m have vague memories of spatting angry words back and forth over a two-by-four I loved, or something just as pointless, until eventually we’d both mutually retreat to somewhere away from the other, until later (the time frame that ‘later’ refers to varied depending on the individual level of injury due to insult).

When I would storm off, usually to my bedroom before he could tell me to go to my room, I would hide in the closet (yes, literally) and make and hang signs on my door that read things like, “Anyone can come in this room unless you have a mustache” or “All welcome, except for guys named William”. He thought this was cute, but it was my anger finding a way out. If I couldn’t leave I would keep him from coming in.

The first time I really upped my ability of flight was after a big blow out with dad. I can’t remember how old I was exactly, maybe 8. We were yelling aimlessly at each other and I remember it originated with a fight I was having with my brother and my dad taking his side. I stormed off yelling, “Fine. I don’t want to live here then! I’m running away!”

There was no response from dad, which was typical, meaning he was pissed, which was exactly what I was looking for. I packed a t-shirt, a pair of shorts, a yoyo, my rubik’s cube, a few marbles, a little notebook and a small pencil into a handkerchief, that I would later tie to the end of a stick, just like in the movies, and walked out of my room, nervous and prepared for more battle.

“Ok, I’m leaving now!” I yelled, kind of wondering why he wasn’t right outside of my door.

“Wait. Here.” Dad said, coming out of the kitchen holding two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cut diagonally, the way I liked.

And I left, right out the front door. I walked down several blocks in our subdivision until I got to a point where I would have to cross a pretty busy road. I stopped and stared. I was so torn. I wasn’t allowed to cross that road without an adult… but I needed to run away to prove a point… but I really didn’t want to break that rule and the road kind of scared me.

So, I stood there until finally I sat down there, at the edge of that busy road. I ate one of the sandwiches dad had made for me and then became really thirsty – too much peanut butter like always! I stared at that road and started to obsess over the idea of a cold glass of milk. Eventually, the milk won and I turned around to go home.

I walked back in the house, having been gone all of 45 minutes and went back to my room to unpack. Dad came inside from the garage and said with a surprised voice, “You’re back, huh?” which made it all feel worth it to me for some reason. (He told me years later that he had secretly followed me, just in case, and when I came back he acted like he was in the garage doing something).

Later that evening we were all watching TV, Scarecrow and Mrs. King to be exact, and I asked my dad if I could sit on his lap. He patted his legs and said, “Get up here,” and that was that.

There’s no point to this I guess, except that I am realizing that I need to learn how not to leave, or I need to pay more attention to my intentions for leaving. When I’m arguing with Violet I usually leave so that I don’t say things I don’t mean. The other night when my grandma cornered me I left with Dog for a walk and when that didn’t work I left by drinking my way out of the situation so that I wouldn’t have to accept what she said as something she really said.

But thus far, every conflict I’ve ever been in with someone I love has either worked its way out or it hasn’t - and that’s just the way things go and will go whether I’m there to see it through or not. So, my grandma is going to be here this weekend, and in every way I can figure out how to, I’m going to try to be too. We’ll see.

Monday morning. 6:45 a.m. Alarm goes off. I hit snooze and roll over towards Violet:

me: I’m very jealous that you get to fall back to sleep after I get up.

V: I don’t fall back asleep.

me: Oh please. I come back in here after my shower and you’re sound asleep.

V: No I’m not. I’m just lying here.

me: Doing what?

V: Thinking.

me: With your eyes closed?

V: Yep.

me: Well, I’m going to think with my eyes closed earlier tonight. I’m tired.

While driving in our very old car, when Paradise City comes on the radio:

me: Man, nothing else can make that sound.

Violet: What sound?

me: The Axl Rose sound.

Violet:The Axl Rose sound?

me: It’s not a car part, Violet. It’s the guy singing on the radio.

Violet: Oh that is just awful. His mother must be so embarrassed.

 Last night Violet came home quite a few hours after me. I was already in pj’s, curled up on the couch watching old episodes of Roseanne when the front door opened. She tossed her bags, smothered me in kisses, sat down next to me and asked, “Hey love, did you get me bobby pins today by any chance?”

me: You know I did. I called you from the bobby-pin-hair-stuff aisle of the store to see what color you wanted… while you were at a store too, might I add.

Violet: Ooooh, thanks baby!  My hair is everywhere. Where are they?

me: In my bag. What’s the deal with you always wanting me to pick up bobby pins… even when you’ll be at a store too, like today?

Violet: I told you, it’s very romantic.

me: Oh right. Romantic.

Violet: (while raiding her hair with a handful of new bobby pins, destined to eventually be lost and found all over our bed) Jesse, it just is. It’s a very romantic gesture and I love you for it… (still mindlessly pinning her hair) You know, this is the kind of stuff you should be blogging about.

Violet is out of town visiting family and doing business stuff on the east coast for the week. This means I’m home alone for 9 days. This means I am partaking in all of the things that don’t fly when Violet is home. My favorites: leaving not just my boxers, but all of my clothes on the bathroom floor. On the fourth day alone the pile grew tall enough that I now have to hop over the mound to get to the toilet, which makes me smile every time.

Dinners have consisted of prepackaged and/or frozen goodness that require a maximum of 5 minutes to prepare. A few favorites: mac n’ cheese (obviously), frozen potato perogies (boil, fry, eat), and frosted mini wheats.

*just to note: I have had at least one salad a day. For some reason, I know this makes Violet less anxious about my eating mac n’ cheese right out of the pan, over the sink, a few dinners in a row.)

I have been staying up too late, for no good reason, watching old episodes of the Golden Girls, but this is nothing new.

Oh, and last night I learned something important. Something I feel obligated to share in hopes of potentially saving others.

Lesson of the week: Do not spend thousands of dollars over the internet while high.

Last night, I spent over a thousand dollars on the internet while I was high. This was not a good idea. I don’t regret the purchase; it’s just that I purchased my purchase wrong.

My 86 year old godmother, Ruth, and I are taking a trip together in Nova Scotia this summer. I’ve already booked the tour and so last night I spent some time looking for plane tickets. All of a sudden this great deal appeared on my screen and I realized I better just buy them right that very second! I got out my credit card and started entering the needed information.

I entered in all of my info with ease because it is my name and address and so I know it well, even when I’m a little stoned.

Next, I entered Ruth’s name and address, again, with ease because even when a little stoned, I have known her for 31 years, and so, I know her name and address as well as I know my own. 

I entered in all of my credit card info and clicked ‘accept’.

A second later a confirmation email was sent to my inbox for my review.

I reviewed.

Looked fine… except, wait…  I jerked forward, squinted at the screen and looked it over very, very closely.

Passenger 1: (first name) jesse (last name) james

Passenger 2: (first name) Ruth (last name) Hanson

Wait a second. Uh oh. Hanson? That’s not her name! Ah! Did I seriously put her maiden name instead of the only last name she’s ever had since 1943? Yes. Yes I did.

To keep the boring part of weaving my way through the customer’s-have-no-rights-bureaucracy of airline companies and entities like CheapTicket (who has the shittiest policies and customer service ever!) as painless for the reader as possible, all I’ll say is that 3 hours, 8 phone calls, 11 robot operators, and 9 painful hold-music songs later, a real human at Continental calmly listened to my panicked ramble and changed Ruth’s last name from Hanson, which it is not, to Mori, which will now match her passport.

• 2 tickets to Halifax: $1300
• 1 typo on Cheaptickets: $9 and 3 hours on the phone
• Recognizing, through the haze of my stoned, one man, nine day bachelor party, that I would much rather pick up my dirty clothes off the bathroom floor, spend three hours cooking real food, and get nagged to stop watching the Golden Girls and come to bed at a reasonable hour any time over all of this glorious freedom: Priceless.

More than not, it’s the off guard, unpredictably random, who-woulda-ever… can’t-make-this-up moments that fling me flat on my face, 117 million feet into the ground, inlove, than last time… again.

At the kitchen table this morning:  

me: “Hey, what are you drinking?”

Violet: “Cherry juice. Want some?”

me: “Don’t you mean cranberry juice?”

Violet: “No, cherry juice. Do you want me to pour you a glass?”

me: “When did you get cherry juice?”

Violet: “When I got all of that cranberry juice.”

In unison: “They were on sale!”

Violet: “Oh, you remember?!? You’re sweet.”

I don’t know why. I don’t know what happened. I don’t understand what changed. And I will never ask for an explanation… ever.

Saturday, while I was out with my out-of-town friend Violet called. I excused myself, answered the phone and she said, “Hey, do you have a second?” I said, “of course”, of course. Violet said, “Today at my gardening class i had a revelation.” I said, “mm hmm, and what was it?” Violet said, “We should get a dog. How about in June? Lets get a dog together in June.”

I had nothing to say because:

1. I was in the bathroom peeing and someone walked in, which is awkward and 2. Oh.My.Gawd.

So, now the conversation has moved from: “Can we please get a dog? Please! Pleeeeeease? Pleeeeeeeease!!!”

-to-

“What kind of dog should we look into getting?”

We have both agreed that a mutt is the only option, but Violet would prefer one mixed with Australian Shepherd and i would prefer one mixed with Boxer. The only reason i mention this is because of the uncanny resemblance that we each have with our prefered breed. Vain or good taste?… Probably a mix of the two.

My brother gave me his old tv for my birthday. Violet and I agreed not to have a television in the house for 2 reasons. 1. most of what is on is total crap and 2. we know this and would watch it anyway.

For two months the tv has been in our loft upstairs, hidden in the corner, covered with a sheet because Violet says it’s a feng shui void thing that sucks energy or something like that.

Last night, while I was on the phone downstairs i heard the zzzzzap sound a tv makes when being turned on or off and then heard the channels flipping around. I was on the phone for at least an hour; all the while I could hear the tv in the background. I got off the phone and hollered upstairs:

“Hey Violet, are you watching tv?”
“Uh huh.”
“Really?!? What are you watching?”
“Oh, some PBS documentary on public health policies… and, um… shvivsh shvommmp.”
“Huh?”
“A documentary!”
“Ya, I heard that part. But what else are you watching?”
“A really interesting documentary… and Wife Swap, ok!”

Zzzzzap.

   I’ve been waking up every morning at 3:30 a.m. for months now. After I wake up it takes and hour or several for me to fall back to sleep. But just recently a new sleep disturbance has started taking place. This seems to be happening somewhere around 5 or 6 a.m., right after I finally fall back to sleep.

Violet has a very particular sleep pattern. I know this because I have plenty of time in the middle of the night to observe. She starts off sleeping on one side, curled up like a sweet little hedgehog.

    By the time I wake up, around 3:30, she has shifted into the sleeping-snow-angle position where she is flat on her back and taking up as much room as possible. This is the first of three phases.

Next, she’ll move her arms up so that they curve and curl around the top of her head. This pose looks quite delicate and artful really, but as I’ve come to learn, this is just a pretty looking launch position.

At some point, and you can never know when exactly, she’ll start to shift back into her original hedgehog pose. This is the final phase… the strike:

As her body begins to curl and turn towards me her arms attempt to shift with her. But as they have been above her head for quite some time they are even more asleep than she. So as they begin to unconsciously move with the rest of her body those two lifeless limbs begin to wobble with a sloppy, drunken stagger towards me. And then, all of a sudden: BOOM! Elbow in the eye.

An hour later the alarm goes off and I say, “You know, I’m really starting to hate waking up to your elbow clubbing me in the head,” and she replies, “Oh ya? You hate it?”

Shit.

This is the girl who comes home with 9 bottles of unsweetened cranberry concentrate because 1. it was on sale and 2. if we ever get bladder infections we will be prepared.
This is the girl who calls me ‘mushroom-shrimp’ in public.
This is the girl who finds out our new house has a 1 foot by 3 foot fish pond and says, “Perfect. Now we can get ducks!’
This is the girl who gets really upset with me when I buy green grapes in December because “They. Are. Not. In. Season!
This is the girl who signs us up for a 9 hour goat cheese making class that requires an eleven hour drive to and from.
This is the girl that assures me I could never be a plus size model… because I am too short.
This is the girl who believes that kale goes in/on/with everything.
This is the girl who says “I’m as wound up as a yo yo!”
This is the girl who has no idea what a ‘well drink’ is.
This is the girl I wake up to.
This is the girl.