You know how calendar years have their highs and lows? How after President’s Day there’s this barren wasteland of weeks melding one into the next, not a bank holiday in sight until Memorial Day? And everyone just kind of goes about their business, calming down, spring cleaning, saving money, just kind of . . .
OK, I can’t do this. I’m being interrupted by this obnoxious banging in the hotel room adjacent to mine. And let’s just say that the banging isn’t coming from a hammer, if you know what I mean. It’s coming from a cock and vagina. Basically, he seems very into it; she seems encouraging. Lots of “Yeah baby” and “Oh yeah” and full on grunting. Not the controlled moans that most people use, or the oohing and ahhing of pleasure – but discernible grunts. Like he’s really putting some effort into it. It’s kind of sweet (Beach! Vacation! Anal! Aww…), but at the same time kind of sad. Because while clearly she is proud of his go-get-‘em attitude, if I read her moans between the lines correctly, let’s just say she’s with him more for the fact that he can afford this outrageously luxurious hotel than she is for his work ethic.
None of which really matters because the fact remains that it just stopped and it only lasted about 16 minutes and 49 seconds, based on my unscientific calculations. And everyone knows that the only thing that matters when eavesdropping on other people having sex is if they go longer than you do. And I’m no marathon runner, but I used to bike a good amount. And given good conditions and some even terrain I could pedal for a reasonably long while. It’s not so much that I would get winded – just that, you know, my butt would start to hurt or it would be getting dark. Because at the time I was working construction in the
They did, however, ruin my train of thought. What I was going to say, ironically, was that everything just gets kind of boring. On the flip side, there’s the last six weeks of the year, jam packed with Thanksgiving, and family, and shopping, and Christmas, and parties, and presents, and getting fat and drunk on nostalgia and the good scotch, and then maybe throwing up on a street corner on New Years’ Eve because the hope fostered by brand new resolutions can’t overcome the self-loathing of 15 years of unfulfilled expectations, and champagne makes you feel fancy, like that job you promised to quit four years ago doesn’t matter so much and maybe that girlfriend you meant to dump back in June isn’t so bad after all?
Point being, since Brooke and I first decided that we were moving to Miami a little over a month ago, it’s been like those last six weeks of the year, but like times 1000. So much has happened – and we’ll get to all that in due time, most likely in “Lost”-style flashbacks – but right now, here’s all that matters: I’m an uncle. And normally I am the first person to claim that all newborns look the same, but if you ask me, Ronan here’s got some good features going for him, some real personality in his face, kind of like a young Paul Newman.
The fact that all our worldly possessions are on a truck, which was delayed halfway between
And for the record, Brooke loves me for my work ethic. I could never afford our current digs. Brooke’s company generously put us up here until our furniture is freed from the foothills of