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As the boys and I were going out to dinner last night after my failed Ling homework session with Kim, it started storming fairly severely, so I stepped off the porch and got soaked. I was a little put out that Bryan insisted we go to my house and get me changed and toweled off. Apparently it's not socially acceptable to go to dinner drenched. They went to Walgreens to get Bryan some cigarettes while I made myself socially acceptable (against my objections, because I am a quicker change than any of them), and on the way back, Stephan's car apparently drowned in the moat that appears in my driveway in inclement weather. It was making ominous noises and shaking, so we went back to Swift House and switched cars, and Bryan drove us to campus to pick up Nick (the boyfriend of Stephan's graduated musicology colleage Lauren, and a reasonably interesting dinner companion) and then to Bellaire for Chinese.
It was one of those times, that you not only look back on as an example of the good old days, but you appreciate it as it's happening. Probably it wasn't as funny as we found it; possibly every inside joke we've compiled among ourselves made an appearance, or more than one, in that one night, dinner and the drive back. It was a night out with the boys. I was admired with a kind of shocked approval for my knowledge (limited, but unexpected and conspicuous when I choose to display it) of slang for gay sex acts. Bryan could barely hold himself together when I put the name of deckchair to what he thought was a hypothetical position he was describing.
After dropping Nick off, the four of us finally got to see the second episode of Studio 60 together. Ben and Stephan wandered off after that, increasingly drunk, while Bryan and I got through a Rome and then both decided it was time to crash, though it was hardly midnight. Wednesday night caught up with me, so I went to couch in Ben's shorts and a sports bra, having forgotten the usual clothes satchel. That was a first, and made me appreciate how much I actually kind of live there. But I couldn't get to sleep, first because I had no choice but to eavesdrop inadvertently on what Ben and Stephan probably thought was a deeply profound conversation, then for no discernible reason.
I was not meant by Fortune to sleep in on a Saturday morning. The extremely loud trash truck came by, the construction on the corner across from us resumed, Bryan made a few trips through the living room (for what, I'm not sure) Ben's brain-frying alarm went off twice (Bryan eventually went in to turn it off, only to discover it was all of eleven inches from Ben's head and he still hadn't woken up), and then, when I thought the volume limit for reasonably plausible events had been passed, somebody revved up a chainsaw in the street right below us, possibly to cut up a lightning-struck tree.
I got up, feeling possibly the least put-together I've ever felt in a morning over there, wrapped the blanket around my unsightly abdomen, and went to talk to Bryan, who was having breakfast. Apparently this plethora of maddening noise is standard, but I must have slept through it in previous mornings. If I live there next year, I'm going to invest in some earplugs and use my phone's vibration as an alarm.
Speaking of living elsewhere, my mom's gotten a call and a visit from a realtor interested in this house for $85/sq-ft, which would be spectacular, especially as we wouldn't have to start over and fix the foundation (again), take the roof off, and match the fixtures to remodel it. My vote is we gut it for the stone and moulding, maybe even the can lights, if we're being real packrats, and let them bulldoze if for whatever they're going to build. It's been awhile since we moved, but I remember how it works. Though I do like this house and its location, it's just a house, and it's been part of life for me for as long as I can remember to get another one, make it better, and sell it for more. That's how my mom makes money, and why she doesn't have a real job besides a church gig and some voice lessons. She's really good at it. The fiasco in Santa Monica was a complete fluke, caused by a conglomeration of prejudice and powertrips no one could reasonably have expected. But we've done the real estate investment-improvement thing my whole life, and this is a pretty good opportunity; apparently it's a very, very friendly sellers' market in Houston right now.
The upshot: maybe we'll dump this house, and I'll be living with Ben and Stephan next year with no HQ to return to. It'd be different.
But for now, to finish the Ling reconstruction homework so I can check it with Kim so I can faff about doing nothing the rest of the day (a refreshing thought) and take whoever can go to the Symphony tonight for some Russian piano concertos.
It was one of those times, that you not only look back on as an example of the good old days, but you appreciate it as it's happening. Probably it wasn't as funny as we found it; possibly every inside joke we've compiled among ourselves made an appearance, or more than one, in that one night, dinner and the drive back. It was a night out with the boys. I was admired with a kind of shocked approval for my knowledge (limited, but unexpected and conspicuous when I choose to display it) of slang for gay sex acts. Bryan could barely hold himself together when I put the name of deckchair to what he thought was a hypothetical position he was describing.
After dropping Nick off, the four of us finally got to see the second episode of Studio 60 together. Ben and Stephan wandered off after that, increasingly drunk, while Bryan and I got through a Rome and then both decided it was time to crash, though it was hardly midnight. Wednesday night caught up with me, so I went to couch in Ben's shorts and a sports bra, having forgotten the usual clothes satchel. That was a first, and made me appreciate how much I actually kind of live there. But I couldn't get to sleep, first because I had no choice but to eavesdrop inadvertently on what Ben and Stephan probably thought was a deeply profound conversation, then for no discernible reason.
I was not meant by Fortune to sleep in on a Saturday morning. The extremely loud trash truck came by, the construction on the corner across from us resumed, Bryan made a few trips through the living room (for what, I'm not sure) Ben's brain-frying alarm went off twice (Bryan eventually went in to turn it off, only to discover it was all of eleven inches from Ben's head and he still hadn't woken up), and then, when I thought the volume limit for reasonably plausible events had been passed, somebody revved up a chainsaw in the street right below us, possibly to cut up a lightning-struck tree.
I got up, feeling possibly the least put-together I've ever felt in a morning over there, wrapped the blanket around my unsightly abdomen, and went to talk to Bryan, who was having breakfast. Apparently this plethora of maddening noise is standard, but I must have slept through it in previous mornings. If I live there next year, I'm going to invest in some earplugs and use my phone's vibration as an alarm.
Speaking of living elsewhere, my mom's gotten a call and a visit from a realtor interested in this house for $85/sq-ft, which would be spectacular, especially as we wouldn't have to start over and fix the foundation (again), take the roof off, and match the fixtures to remodel it. My vote is we gut it for the stone and moulding, maybe even the can lights, if we're being real packrats, and let them bulldoze if for whatever they're going to build. It's been awhile since we moved, but I remember how it works. Though I do like this house and its location, it's just a house, and it's been part of life for me for as long as I can remember to get another one, make it better, and sell it for more. That's how my mom makes money, and why she doesn't have a real job besides a church gig and some voice lessons. She's really good at it. The fiasco in Santa Monica was a complete fluke, caused by a conglomeration of prejudice and powertrips no one could reasonably have expected. But we've done the real estate investment-improvement thing my whole life, and this is a pretty good opportunity; apparently it's a very, very friendly sellers' market in Houston right now.
The upshot: maybe we'll dump this house, and I'll be living with Ben and Stephan next year with no HQ to return to. It'd be different.
But for now, to finish the Ling reconstruction homework so I can check it with Kim so I can faff about doing nothing the rest of the day (a refreshing thought) and take whoever can go to the Symphony tonight for some Russian piano concertos.