Geek Girl Love

OK, this will come as no surprise to any of my readers, but sometimes I'm a complete moron.

I'd been jazzed about the Neil Gaiman signing for days. I'd spent hours deliberating what to get signed, what I would say, whether I'd bring a camera. I'd called Books & Co. for information, downloaded directions from Mapquest.

And, of course, everything fell apart on the big day.

After my horrible bout of insomnia (44 hours, no sleep; I managed to get about 3 hours the following night), I went to happy hour on Friday night with some co-workers. Cheap beer was consumed. Bad dancing to cheesy top 40 music occurred. After a few hours, I decided I'd had enough and headed home. I gave Roger Mexico a quick call and passed out, completely exhausted.

I slept for 12 hours - a miracle! - and puttered around the apartment for a while. I had every intention of leaving early so I could arrive in plenty of time. JohnnyB was supposed to go with me, and had said he would call to coordinate where and when we would meet.

It looked good on paper. Too bad it didn't translate into reality.

I finally called JohnnyB to see if he still planned on going. Alas, no. The moving in was going much slower than expected. His parents were still in town and they were on their way to go sofa shopping. (His old couch, the Narcolounger™, was in permanent residence in the parental basement. They'd managed to get the unwieldy thing downstairs, but discovered when they were packing the truck that they couldn't figure out how to get it back up the steps.)

A few minutes later, Rosencrantz called. Guildenstern wanted to get his copy of Preludes and Nocturnes signed, but would be teaching tai chi that evening. Could I take his copy with me? I agreed to stop by and pick it up on my way to Dayton.

I left the house later than I'd planned, and after stopping to pick up Guildenstern's book, I ran to Wal-Mart to pick up a disposable camera and batteries for my CD player. It was at this point I realized I'd left the directions at home.

I decided to wing it. I had a vague idea where I was headed; I had friends who used to live near the bookstore 7 years ago. If I got lost, I'd stop for directions.

Remarkably, I only made one wrong turn and dashed into Books & Co., only to discover I'd got the time wrong (7:00, not 7:30) and Neil was already reading. The place was packed. I stood in the back behind a shelf of golf books, mentally berating myself.

The Q & A followed, and it alone was worth the drive. Neil seemed to be rather personable, with a wry sense of humor. (Although he bears a striking resemblance to an older British version of Brian-the-man-who-destroyed-my-life, which is kinda creepy.) He fielded questions for about half and hour, filling the audience in on upcoming film projects based on his work.( Several of them - Good Omens, Stardust, Neverwhere, and Death: The High Cost of Living are all in various stages of pre-production, and the short story "Chivalry" has also been optioned. Wow. I've been reading this guy's stuff for 11 years and now suddenly he's the hot property in Hollywood. Welcome to the party, ya johnny-come-latelies.)

And then the signing started. I was number 150 in line. Crap. I ventured off to the cafe in search of coffee. Knowing my luck, they'd only have decaf and the store would close by the time they got to number 140 or so.

While I was waiting, I met a really nice woman named Julie who had never read any of Neil's work and had just started reading American Gods at the recommendation of her boyfriend. He'd sent her to the signing with his galley copies of and Stardust, as well as a beautiful hardbound copy of Sandman: Season of Mists. I tried not to drool too much.

Finally, my number group got called, and I got to step up to the table. I have no idea what I said. I think I squeaked out a question about the journal (which he will be continuing through the tour), but all I could think was omigodimtalkingtoneilgaimanthisisquitepossiblyoneofthecoolestmomentsofmylife. The bookstore representative took my picture with him (the film's not developed yet, but I can guarantee I had the cheesiest grin in the known universe on my face - I'm sure I look like a complete lunatic), I gushed about a thousand thank yous, and floated back to my car, drunk on fangirl love.

So I guess it all turned out OK.

But I think the saddest part is that I haven't had a chance to start reading the damn book yet. Chalk it up to that glamorous lifestyle.

Things to Do at Zappagirl's When You Can't Sleep

So last night I found myself at Zappagirl's house with a massive bout of insomnia. Why does this always happen during the work week?

As I type this, I have been up for 34 hours and all I want to do is crawl under my desk and take a long nap. Unfortunately, that's not an option. My benefits plan, as comprehensive as it is, has yet to offer time for me to curl up with my blankie in the afternoon.

Preschoolers don't know how good they've got it.

Here's a list of things to do to pass the time while the wee hours of the morning tick by slowly...

Watch cable until every single channel is showing the Miss Cleo Psychic Reading infomercials. Snicker every time she loses her Jamaican accent while interpreting the tarot cards for someone.

Watch VideoHeroin1 until they actually show a video that isn't directed by David Meyers

Consider starting American Gods. Decide against it, because you're too loopy to comprehend the English language at the moment.

Go to Scifi.com to listen to the Seeing Ear Theater production of "Snow, Glass, Apples."

Sing Richard Cheese songs to yourself. Giggle maniacally.

Catch up on websites that are firewalled at work. Get very jealous because pamie got to see Radiohead.

Get very excited because Destroy All Monsters should have the newest installment of Survivor: Monster Island up tomorrow, now that Musashi is back from his honeymoon. Figure out who to root for since Gamera got voted off the island.

Realize that you are the biggest geek in the world.

Consider posting an entry to Blogger. Decide against it because forming complete sentences at this hour is out of the question.

Make melancholy mix CDs. Realize that even though your selections are brilliant, the finished products are bound to put you to sleep at your desk when you get to work.

Start counting the hours until JohnnyB gets back into town. Hope that you haven't erased the email with the address of his new apartment.

Wonder if Roger Mexico gave you the wrong home phone number on purpose to get rid of you. Mentally berate self for even thinking such a thing.

But still fret over the remote possibility.

Pet the kitties, who are being extra friendly because their food bowls are empty.

Dread going into work, because Jools already told you she has 8 million check requests for you. Vow to stay off the internet and focus on your job. (Yeah, right.)

Mentally go through social calendar for the next few weeks and realize that you are going to be one busy chick.

Think about stopping at Dunkin Donuts for breakfast. Remember you already have a box of Pop Tarts in your desk drawer, purchased in an effort to save money.

Ponder whether you should wear hair up or down to work. Decide to pull it all back in a ponytail so it will at least be somewhat straight by the end of the day.

Play After Dark Solitaire until your eyes bleed.

Listen to the birds chirping outside. Watch the sky become steadily brighter as the day begins anew.

Listen to Zappagirl's alarm clock go off. Realize she likes the snooze bar almost as much as you do.

Damn, my life is glamorous and fun-filled. Don't you wish you were me?

Not-So-Amusing Amusement Park Rides

Welcome to the Myopic Emotional Rollercoaster. Please keep all hands and arms inside the car while the ride is in motion.

I've been a bit of a wreck today. I'm suffering from post Roger Mexico separation disorder.

Please secure all loose items.

As I had feared, the last goodbye surpassed all others in severity. We had to make a stop at the bankmart at Kroger's before we did anything (I had attempted to cash his tax refund check before he left, and the bank sent it back to me with instructions that we both had to be present to cash it. Yeah, like I'm going to cash a fraudulent check at the bank I work for.), and after that we headed off to Arlin's for a beer. The finality tension was still there, and once again we found ourselves making small talk about things that didn't really matter all that much. There was so much I wanted to say, but the idea of doing it in the middle of a happy hour crowd just didn't appeal to me. Well, that and I didn't want to start crying into my Bass.

After a while, he suggested we go somewhere where we could talk, away from the drunken Cliftonites, so we headed up to Mt. Storm Park. The sun was setting, and the last of the other park-goers were leaving for the night, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves. Not that it mattered much; we didn't leave the car. And after a few minutes of awkward silence, the emotional dam burst and we both started talking about how much our friendship meant to each other, and how much we were going to miss each other. And the entire time I found myself trying not to burst into tears while I watched the clock on the dashboard and held onto my friend for dear life. 15 more minutes. 15 more minutes and he's off to have dinner with his other friend and crash on someone's couch so he can leave early to get on the road to his new life.

I kept telling him that I didn't want to monopolize his time, that if he had to get going to meet up with his other friend, he should just take me back to his car. And the entire time I was lying. I did want to monopolize his time. I wanted to spend every last minute he had in Cincinnati by his side. I wanted to be the last person he saw before he hit the road.

We seldom get what we want in life, though. He dropped me off at my car and continued on to dinner. I texted him later about the lie I'd told him, and felt like a complete idiot the entire time I was typing it out on my phone, the entire time I waited for a reply. (I immediately followed the text with an apology for interrupting his dinner and quality time with the other friend.) He texted back that it was OK, and that he ws going to miss me too. I guess to some extent he understood.

I still felt like an idiot, though.

My sleep was not restful, and I napped on the couch through Saturday morning cartoons. After realizing that my afternoon TV choices were between infomercials, sports, and the African Heritage Network showing of Krush Groove (watching Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee try to come up with something intelligent to say about this dubious cinematic masterpiece was hilarious), I decided to venture out of the apartment to see a movie.

Warning: massive bipolar dips and incongruous tangents ahead.

I had originally decided to go see Memento, but once I reached the theater, I rethought my decision. Apparently it's one of those movies that demands the viewer's full attention, and since I was pretty scatter-brained I changed my plans to Shrek or Moulin Rouge. Since I was feeling the need for company, I sent a text to Zappagirl and Timmy (who's in town for a few days), inviting them to join me. We eventually decided to see Shrek, but at the theater closer to them, leaving me with an hour or two to kill at the mall.

Let me just say that I'm not exceptionally fond of shopping malls. I'd worked a few stints at this particular mall, and walking around it just depressed me more. The store I had worked at a few years ago was gone, and the location was still vacant. The Store of Knowledge was gone as well (apparently, they'd filed for bankruptcy a while back), and The Museum Company and The Nature Company seemed to have little to interest me on this visit. Games People Play apparently bit the dust as well. Frustrated by this, I headed down the street to the Cost Plus World Market.

I love Cost Plus. It's like Pier One for people on a budget. I hung out in the aromatherapy candle aisle, until the combination of relaxation/invigorating/balance herbs motivated me to drive to the theater across town.

Shrek was wonderful. If you haven't seen it yet, go now. I'm a sucker for fairy tales, especially ones that break the rules. (I've even written one of my own, for what it's worth. And a personal aside to Roger Mexico - I'm sorry that your character is such a jerk in that story. I was mad at you when I wrote it, and well, you were being a jerk back then. You fare much better in my as-yet-unfinished novel, if it's any consolation.) The computer animation is dazzling, and it's witty and goofy and touching to boot. I spent the last half hour of the movie sobbing my eyes out, mostly because one of the songs that they use in the movie is Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." It comes at a particularly poignant moment in the movie, but it mostly got me because that song is (in my opinion) one of the most beautiful songs ever written, and the version they used in the movie was the John Cale one. Hearing it in the movie made me think of Roger Mexico, since he was the person who introduced me to the Velvet Underground. So even though I went to an animated fairy tale comedy to escape my grief, it snuck into the theater with me, hanging onto the hem of my soccer mom sundress.

(I was also happy that the movie soundtrack included a song by eels, my favorite band that next to no one else has ever heard of. Which makes me wonder where my copy of Daisies of the Galaxy has gone. But I digress....)

And somehow after the movie was over, I ended up coming home with Zappagirl and Timmy for coffee, which turned into a much longer than expected visit. As I type this, we're waiting on a delivery from LaRosa's.

I feel kind of bad about being here. Zappagirl and Timmy haven't seen each other in some time, and instead of getting to spend quality time with each other, they're stuck baby-sitting manic depressive me. So I suck as a friend, but I'm glad they've been here today.

I wish JohnnyB was back. (He gets back this week - hooray!) If he was here, I could have called him and rechannelled my sadness through the Playstation. I think a few rounds of EvilZone would have been quite therapeutic this afternoon. (This, by the way, is the only game I have had any success in playing - minimal button requirements on the controller. As a child of the Atari age, I don't do well with anything more complicated than a joystick and a single button.)

It's after 10 pm now. Roger Mexico should be home, in his new apartment. The kitties should be exploring their new surroundings. More than anything, I want to call him and tell him that even though it's only been 24 hours, I miss him more than I thought possible. Unfortunately, I have no way to reach him. I don't even think he's got his phone hooked up at the new place, and if he does, I don't have the number yet.

Please wait until the ride comes to a full stop before exiting. Thank you for riding, and enjoy your day at Dysfunctional-land.

Please tell me this is going to get easier. Not that I'd believe it right now.

A Full Calendar

I'm going to have to be brief here. I'm off to meet up with Roger Mexico for a few hours while he's in town. And when I say a few hours, I'm not kidding. Because of the schedules of the friends that he's staying with, as well as the friend who's watching his cats, his curfew is much earlier than usual tonight. He'll be picking the cats up tomorrow morning before 7 am, then will be off to PA.

I'm not as sad as I thought I would be. Yes, I wish our time together could be longer, and I wish he wasn't leaving, but right now I'm just so excited that I get to see him that none of that matters. I'll save the moping for tomorrow.

Not much else is new around here, but the next week or so is jam-packed. I've got a family reunion-type thing to go to on Sunday, which will be good because I haven't seen most of that side of my family since February.

JohnnyB moves back to town on Thursday. I offered my services to help unload the moving van, but he thinks they'll be done by the time I'm finished with work. Yeah, right. He's deluded. Oh well.

On Saturday (the 23rd), I'm off to Dayton for a book signing. Neil Gaiman has a new book coming out on the 19th, and is doing a reading and signing tour in support of it. (He's also keeping an online journal about the publishing process. On Blogger, no less. I highly urge everyone to check it out. I'll be writing about it more in-depth in a later entry.) Since I missed the stop he made for Stardust two years ago, I'm looking very forward to this. (I've been reading his stuff since an ex of mine got me into his Sandman comics 11 years ago. Dan, wherever you are, thank you. I owe you a beer or something.) Somewhere over the next week, I need to go through all of the books I have that he wrote and decide what I'm taking with me, call the bookstore and find out if they're giving out line numbers, and try to think of something clever to say when I get to the signing table. I don't see that last one happening. I'll either choke out a shy "Um, I really like your stuff" or start babbling at him like an idiot about how long I've been reading his work, and how excited I am that Terry Gilliam is working on Good Omens and blah blah blibbety blah. And this poor guy's going to look at me and think, "Why do I get all the idiot fans? Why?"

Paisley's coming up from New Orleans for a visit sometime next week as well. I see a cookout in the near future....

Rosencrantz is teaching a dance class at the Wellness Center next week as well. Not a conventional dance class, mind you. Basically it's a class on spontaneous movement. It may end up just being all of her friends taking the class, but who cares? It's going to be fun. Not that I have a clue how to dance to Balinese music or Miles Davis (two of the musical selections that she was contemplating using). I suppose I'll figure it out when the time comes. I guess that's why it's called spontaneous movement.

Not to mention that I still have to start shopping for camping gear for my vacation. Sleeping bags, non-perishable food, outdoor eating utensils. It's not a big deal, but I really need to get on the stick here.

Oh yes, and I have to cat-sit for Zappagirl while she and Timmy are visiting with her parents. A week in suburbia, with the garage and the computer and the entertainment center and a kitchen bigger than my bedroom. Yeah, my life is really tough.

How can I have so much on my schedule, and still feel like I have nothing to do?

Movie Mania

Finally, I've got time to update! Hooray!

I'm doing a little better than I was the last time I updated. Roger Mexico made it to PA, and called me on Tuesday. Unfortunately I wasn't home; I was over at Zappagirl's watching Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Ooh, I felt bad when I picked up my messages and realized I missed his call. I did call him back the next day, and spoke to him briefly. His father was flying out to join him for a few days in the Great Apartment Hunt, and as a result of that, I've not had a chance to speak to him since Wednesday morning. Oh well. He'll be swinging back through town when he comes to pick up his cats. I'm sure I'll get the dirt on his past week then.

I saw something in the paper today that both amused and bothered me. There's a movie playing at the Esquire, the local "art house" movie theater called The Center of the World. Or rather, it was playing at the Esquire. Seems the movie was more than a bit sexual in nature, and one scene was edited out of the cut shown in the Queen City. (It involved a woman and a lollipop. Figure it out for yourself.) The decision to edit the scene was not made by Artisan, the company that released the film. Nope. The owner of the Esquire took it upon himself to delete the offensive scene. Well, the public found out, Artisan found out, the movie got pulled, wacky hijinks ensued.

Now, mind you, I had no desire to see this film. I'd read the review, and it didn't really appeal to my tastes. But it does bother me that this guy decided that since the scene squicked him out, then the rest of the city shouldn't be able to see it. I loathe censorship. I mean, the movie was unrated, with the "adults only" tag on it. I doubt anyone who was plunked down their hard-earned cash was expecting a family film. And generally, the Esquire is the theater in town who shows the movies that National Amusements won't touch. I've seen several films there that pushed the envelope. Happiness. Your Friends and Neighbors. Requiem for a Dream. (Side note: do not rent Requiem for a Dream from Blockbuster. They've done a snip job of their own. Reportedly, they cut something like 30 seconds out of the film. Whatever.) It ticks me off that my favorite theater is showing this lack of integrity by showing their own censored version rather than the version that the director and Artisan deemed as the finished product. It's kinda like putting a pair of boxers on Michaelangelo's David so his naughty bits won't be dangling in the breeze. Only in Cincinnati, folks.

Not to equate this movie with an artistic masterpiece, but you get the point. Anyway, that isn't what I wanted to talk about today.

I have pretty varied tastes when it comes to movies, and with the people I usually see films with, it's a good thing. A few people in my life are what I refer to as movie nazis. They have set rules as to what genres they will and will not watch, which sometimes makes choosing a feature difficult.

Take Roger Mexico, for instance. We saw a lot of movies together, either in the theater or on videotapes we rented. He will not watch anything animated, which meant he gave me a look every time I mentioned the latest Disney flick or South Park. He also wasn't big on comedies, which meant that about half of my video library never was taken to his house for late night viewing. He was Mr. Drama/Political Intrigue/James Bond/War Movie guy. So somehow I ended up watching The Thin Red Line over Memorial Day weekend. It was OK, but it really wasn't I went into Blockbuster to rent. Of course, it meant I had someone to watch The Contender with, so I guess things could have been worse.

And then there's JohnnyB, the cinematic polar opposite. He will see practically anything animated (being an artist and all), and he's all about bad comedies. Yes, he's the one who dragged me to see Little Nicky. He's the one I rented Road Trip with. He's also a bad sci-fi/horror movie fanatic. I don't want to think about the profanity that has escaped my lips in Hollywood Video when I catch him eyeing the schlocky straight-to-video movies. He made me watch Blair Witch 2: Book of Shadows. Let us never speak of it again.

Trying to get JohnnyB to see anything at the Esquire is like pulling teeth. I managed to get him there twice: once for Being John Malkovich, once to see Princess Mononoke. Unfortunately, he made me sit through House on Haunted Hill after Princess Mononoke. Gaaaaaah.

As he put it once, he looks for at least one of three things in a movie: big guns, scary monsters, and women in various states of undress. Do you see what I'm dealing with, people? At least we met all three requirements when we rented Heavy Metal 2000.

Actually, Roger Mexico also had a penchant for the sci-fi/horror thing. He was obsessed with renting Hellraiser for over a month. Alas, our local Blockbuster sucks, and didn't have it.

To this day, I have a hard time remembering who I saw Stigmata with and who I went to End of Days with.

It's a good thing I love those boys, or someone would have been throttled in the New Releases section by this point.

Thankfully Zappagirl isn't a movie nazi. She understands my chick flick needs (Charlie's Angels, What Women Want, Bring It On), not to mention the musical thing. It's a proven fact that most women our age have the Grease gene. (Roger Mexico rolled his eyes and said he's rather be trapped in a closet for 5 days listening to the Backstreet Boys than watch Grease.)

So guess who I'm going to see Moulin Rouge with? (Roger Mexico didn't even know it was a musical, and looked a little terrified when I mentioned that I wanted to go see Obi-Wan sing.)

(Oh, and one more thing...JohnnyB? I'm sorry I was such a killjoy and resisted when Rush Hour was playing at the cheap theater. Zappagirl and I rented it last night, and I rolled on the floor giggling the entire time. I'll make it up to you on the sequel, OK? Opening night? And if you play your cards right, I might even go see Tomb Raider.)

Last Sunday Redux

Last Sunday

I am the goddess of bad timing...

loads of dirty laundry
sorting your life into piles
things to keep
things to give away
stuff for the dumpster
how do you fit 24 years of your life in the back of a Subaru wagon?

I watch your efforts while I pretend to read your beat up copy of Less Than Zero
I feel like I'm in the way
your life, your future lies in a faraway place
and I'm not sure where mine is
funny, I thought it was with you
actually, I think it still might be
but we both know there's no room in your Subaru for me
I have no right to even think about asking you to stay
and you couldn't even if I did
too early to call it love
too late to just forget
my life feels like it's beginning
and you're taping boxes shut
and stacking them against the wall
I used to always say I'd written the perfect man for me
so he couldn't possibly exist
how wrong I was
you put my best dreams to shame
every cheesy love song on the radio has new meaning
songs of lovers departing
and feelings unspoken
lyrics that only touch on what I feel
no song could encompass the emotional turmoil I feel right now
I'm counting hours
as if I was on death row
with no chance of a call from the governor
hell, at this point death seems like a much easier situation

frustrated, you look up from half-filled boxes and piles of unmatched socks
"I don't want to do this.
I don't want to play this game anymore."
neither do I
but I can't find a referee to contest the rules.

June 8, 1999



As you can see by the date on this poem, I wrote this two years ago, when Roger Mexico was packing up his apartment to move to Albany. After all this time, it hasn't gotten any easier to say goodbye.

As I write this, Roger Mexico is on his way to Pennsylvania with all of his worldly possesions packed in his grandfather's truck with a U-Haul trailer. And I'm here, trying to hold it together. I'm not doing a very good job at it.

He will be back in town in a week or so for a short period of time; he has to go back to his grandparents' home to switch cars with them. That's not making it any easier - in fact, it's quite the opposite. As difficult as this weekend has been for me, the next time I see him will be even tougher, because that time will be The Big Goodbye. For real. For good.

His job doesn't start until mid-month; right now he's driving out there to find a place to live. He's pretty optimistic that he'll be able to find a place near the university (where he'll be working), but he's still apprehensive. He's taking a big risk, a major step. He knows absolutely no one there. He doesn't have a place to stay. I'm sure he's feeling just as sad and lonely and scared as I am right now, if not more.

He's better at hiding it than me, though.

For the past few days, I've pretty much been in shell shock. I've spent the entire weekend watching happy movies to try to cheer myself up, interrupted by helping him prepare for the big move. We've run to Wal-Mart to get cat carriers. I've run errands for him while he was too groggy from the painkillers. (Yep, still in kidney distress...the doctor moved him up to Percocet. He's named the stone Peggy.) I've just sat in his apartment keeping him company while he packed up all his CDs. And the entire time, I've tried to put on a brave face, thinking that if I didn't appear upset, it would keep his spirits up. The last thing I wanted to do was add to his stress. Unfortunately, I am a terrible actress and he's known all too well how much his departure is affecting me. No matter how much I've denied that I'm upset, he's seen through me and told me to stop lying to him. I did lose it the other night and burst into tears at his place, explaining how hard this whole situation is from where I stand. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so emotional about things; the last thing he needs at this point is a sobbing woman sitting in his apartment telling him how upset she is over his moving.

How incredibly shallow and self-centered of me. Yeah, me me me, it's all about me.

He left Iggy and Bowie (his cats) in town while he searches for a new apartment. Originally, they were supposed to stay with me, but I bowed out, giving some lame excuse about never being home and my apartment not being cat-ready. The truth of the matter is that I couldn't handle the thought of the boys staying with me, constant furry reminders that he was not there. I hated the idea of getting used to having them at my place, only to be whisked away on his way back through. I'd gone through that two summers ago when I watched his cat Sherlock (now unfortunately deceased) while he worked for The Evil Cruise Line. He came back, collected his cat, and departed from my life. (This was back when we were still dating; his return coincided with our breakup. It was ugly for a few weeks, but we worked through it remarkably.) Between my feline separation anxiety and a bit of remaining mourning for Elvis, I made the decision that it would be best if the boys went to stay with his intern friend.

Selfish, selfish, selfish. I felt like I'd let him down, focusing on my stupid insecurities rather than helping him when he needed it. Some friend I am.

I took a nap Saturday afternoon and dreamt he had given me a letter saying goodbye and all the things he wasn't able to say to me in person. It was an amazing letter, beautiful and touching and poignant and gone when I woke up. Well, not entirely gone. I read it. It's still inside me.

(On a completely unrelated note, I also dreamt I was in a Tae-Bo class with that Australian woman who created Nads. Word to the wise: do not fall asleep to infomercials.)

He had a going-away party Saturday night, and I felt bad because he spent a lot of the evening checking to see if I was doing OK. Actually I did manage to have a good time, given the circumstances. I got a chance to talk to a lot of people and had more than a few good laughs. But the entire time the finality was hanging in the air. This was it. This was the last party he would throw at his place, possibly the last time I would see a lot of these people. In 24 hours, he would be far away. It wasn't his responsibility to ensure my happiness, but he still wanted to make sure that I was talking and laughing and not sitting in the corner pouting. And I tried my best. But, like I said, I'm a lousy actress and he knows me better than that.

I stopped over at his place as he was packing the last of his belongings in the truck. It was strange being in the empty apartment. While he ran the trash down to the dumpster, I paced the apartment, remembering where things used to be. Here was where the table was, where I used to dump my keys when I stopped over. Here was where the keyboards were, where he would work on his music. Here was where the couch was, where I would furiously scribble into notebooks while he worked on finding the right sound for a drum line. And all that was left was a few beer bottle tops from the previous evening's festivities and a small family of dust bunnies composed mostly of cat hair. The apartment even sounded empty, like places always do when devoid of furniture.

We went to Friday's for dinner, and it was possibly one of the most uncomfortable meals I've ever had. The inevitablilty was catching up with us, and neither of us spoke much. I picked at my order of potato skins, thinking, "Less than one hour. It's down to minutes." Again, I tried to wear the I'm-not-depressed mask, and again he called me on it.

He walked me out to my car, and said goodbye, reminding me that he'd be back in nine days. And all I could think was "Yeah, and then it's forever."

Me, me, me. Poor little me. I hope my sadness about his leaving didn't add to his stress. I would hate to think I made things any harder for him than they already were.

But now he's miles away and I can't say that to him. All I can do is sit at the computer, clacking away at the keyboard, spilling out all my thoughts to Blogger, hoping that he'll read this once he gets settled and has internet access.

Drive safe, babe. Find an apartment with lots of windowsills for the boys to sleep on. Show this university what you can do and make them glad that they hired you. Write amazing music, become rich and famous. I know you have it in you. I'm sorry if I made this last week tough for you. I wish you nothing but success and good fortune.

But don't forget your way back. My light's always on for you.