Triscadecaphobia

Happy Triscadecaphobia Day!

Triscadecaphobia is the fear of the number 13. Many believe Friday the 13th is an especially unlucky day.

In Ancient Rome, the citizens dedicated the 6th day of the week to their beautiful Goddess Venus. Eventually this day evolved into Friday, and was considered to be the luckiest day of the week.

Muslims claim Friday as the day Allah created Adam, legend has it that Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit on a Friday, and later died on a Friday.

Christians consider Friday as the day on which Christ was crucified by the Romans. The Last Supper was Jesus said goodbye to his apostles before being crucified. How many were at the table? 14, including Judas.

Next up was Friday, October 13, 1307. The Pope of the church in Rome in Conjunction with the King of France, carried out a secret death warrant Against "the Knights Templar". The Templars were terminated as heretics, never again to hold the power that they had held for so long. There Grand Master, Jacques DeMolay, was arrested and before he was killed, was tortured and crucified.

The Scandinavians believe that the number 13 signified bad luck came from their mythological 12 demigods, who were joined by a 13th demigod, Loki, an evil cruel one, who brought upon humans great misfortune.

Please proceed with caution.

Farewell Vonnegut

If I write one more article or press release, design one more newsletter or direct mail piece, write one more grant or change one more detail on our website, I'll scream. I cannot wait for our vacation, belly and all. My favorite thing Matt says: You win in every category. My other favorite thing: I think it's sexy. : )

Why can't I stay home and write a book? Why must bills exist?

Kurt Vonnegut died today. Kevin and I saw him speak a few years back. Old and sharp and wry, just the way I like my authors. We'll miss him.

Treadin' Trodden Trails for a Long, Long Time

Friday, we had dinner with my bestest guy friend Eric and his new keeper girlfriend Stephanie (a la Sandra Bullock, only prettier) at Oakley’s. Matt and I arrived early (being prompt is my mantra) and received free situational comedy as we witnessed a room divider fall on two customers. I live for moments like those. It fell once, and they put it back up. The second time it fell in the opposite direction and landed on a lady’s head just as she tasted her gourmet mushroom soup. She exclaimed, “Ouch!” and I laughed, because I’m a horrible person, but she wasn’t hurt, so there. Matt said, “This place is a litigator’s dream!”

Eric is more organized than I could dream of being, and he’s not even a Virgo. One of the most sought-after production managers in the country, he’s befriended many bands over the years (and, thanks to him, so have I!). He and Stephanie already booked flights to Palm Beach to hang out with the Dave Matthews Band in September. I thought Matt and I were on top of our flights in May!

Digression: I met Dave Matthews backstage once. I planned the whole thing. I wore my college boyfriend’s Virginia t-shirt, and Dave came up to me and said, “I’m from Charlottesville!” I said, “Really?” (This was my trick, to play it off, be cool, not tell him I spent every other weekend there for five years.) He then said, and I quote, “I have to kiss this girl for wearing this shirt.” There were about 4 people standing around, including Eric, who just looked at me and laughed. I closed my eyes and puckered up, I guess, and felt Dave’s lips gently plant one on my cheek.

(Oh well, a Dave Matthews kiss on the cheek was fine, given that I’m not really a fan, anyway. I was much more excited when Peter Gabriel said hello and bowed to me in the backstage hallway!)

Return: Saturday Matt and I searched for places to live…and I think we’ve found one. The coolest part about it: a screened-in porch with a fire place in the middle of the backyard. It’s for sale or rent….hmm, decisions, decisions. Matt kind of wants to rent in case we move, but my savings is burning a hole in my bank account. I’ve never bought a house, and I keep throwing money into the “someday” account. In the back of my mind, I’ve always saved it for my escape to the South of France, it’s just that now I have a guy I’d take with me. Nice is so nice.

Sunday, I woke up extra early to place the Easter basket Matt's "bunny" left for him in a hot spot. I heard Matt stirring, so I quickly plopped it on the bathroom floor. Matt got up, walked in there, and said, “Honey, the Easter Bunny visited the bathroom!”

We visited my grandmother yesterday, who has a crush on Matt. He said the feeling is mutual—he is amazed by her sharpness and wit. They renewed their memberships in the Mutual Admiration Society, then Matt and I headed home to cook our Easter ham. Not a good day to be a pig, eh?

My sister did a last minute trip to Walgreen's for some extra loot for Eva. Problem was, she took Eva with her. Although it was a clandestine mission, Eva opened her stuff and said, "Mommy, the Easter Bunny shops at Walgreen's too!"

This Planet Earth

Today it is raining; I am pensive and solemn. We’ve watched “Planet Earth” on the Discovery Channel for the past two nights, and I haven’t been able to sleep due to worry about polar bears. This is my curse and my blessing of being hypersensitive, especially to animals.

Sure, I have data and answers about greenhouse gases, and a truly honest Republican administration (wait, did you catch the sarcasm there?) that says, “Who…us?”, yet I am flummoxed by how human beings, myself included, can ultimately care so little and do so little for the survival of these magnificent animals.

Bears have always been my favorite animals to watch. I prefer Kodiaks, but today I’m turning it over to the polar bears that are suffering, starving and drowning by the hundreds. Not that I wouldn’t protect you too, little seals, but you are the sustenance of the Arctic’s bellwethers, and there are plenty of you to go around.

I’ve been looking for ways to adopt a polar bear today, to no avail. I did find a website that allowed me to adopt Manfred, the Kodiak from Legends of the Fall, but I want a polar bear for a pet.

Last night, after watching a young polar bear surrender to the precarious ice, I told Matt we should help collect them and put them all in zoos. I know, shudder the thought, but at least they’d be alive. At least I could relieve this guilty conscience.

By the time my children, or maybe their children, are grown there will be no polar bears. Makes me want to ride a bike to work, but I would look silly, and where would I keep my bike all day, and what about rain storms, and what about days I wore skirts and, oh, someone else will take care of it.

He's My Cousin...

Matt and I went to see “Goldie,” a cool local black jazz singer, last weekend. We’d seen her at the Chatterbox before and, after requesting something by Nina Simone, were surprised when she nervously said, “Someone else asked me to sing something by her…I’m not at all familiar.” Zak! That’s like an English major never having heard of onomatopoeia.

This time, Goldie seemed a little more comfortable in her skin (although she still didn’t manage one single Nina song), but she had this audible schizophrenic thing going on where she dipped her solos low into a crazy baritone, then lofted them high into a childlike soprano cartoon character. The act needed another dress rehearsal.

Sitting next to Matt, with his raised eyebrows and I’m-gonna-lose-it face, gave me the kind of uncontrollable laughter attack I used to get in church. When she broke into a soulful original about her love for her husband, and I thought she was singing about her cousin (it sounded like a drawn out “c-o-u-s-i-n,” I swear), Matt said, “Jill, I’m gonna lose it – let’s get out of here.” And so we did.

Learn some Nina. I’m just sayin'.

Swim Meet

Matt and I house hunted all weekend. I go for the charming, Old World, dark wood accents and pine floors; Matt wants to be close to restaurants. : ) All we know is we've gotta get out of the 'hood we're living in now. We're going to rent a house in Meridian/Kessler or Butler/Tarkington, both of which Matt calls "Broad Ripple." He said he could live on the corner of Kessler and Meridian and it would still be Broad Ripple, to him.

We did manage a night out to the Jazz Kitchen on Friday, and we "swung" by Jason's State Masters' swim meet held way out in Bumbletucky Avon on Saturday (he won all 4 events he was in, of course. Lane "5" in photo). Jason's friends nicknamed him the appositive "diamond" years ago. Jason was always the champion swimmer; I was the putz-around-the-pool-being-cool lifeguard/diver. If he is the diamond, I am the piece of glass you step on at the beach.

I hadn't watched him swim since his college years. It was so fun watching the next generation, Liam and Finn, screaming "D-A-D!...D-A-D!" as Jason glided through the water. It was just as wonderful having them climb all over Matt and me. Adorable little beasts.

Happy Birthday, Billy Collins

Billy Collins, Poet Laureate 2001-2003

Billy Collins was born in New York City. He is one of America’s best-selling poets. His books include “Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems” in 2001, “Picnic, Lightning” in 1998, and “The Art of Drowning” in 1995. In October 2004, Collins was the inaugural recipient of the Poetry Foundation’s Mark Twain Award for humorous poetry. He has served as a Literary Lion of the New York Public Library and he is a distinguished professor of English at Lehman College, City University of New York, where he has taught for the past 30 years.


Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Billy Collins

Memory: Luna

I keep threatening to put more of my concert reviews on this blog, just like I’ve been threatening to post every single band photo I’ve ever taken (well, almost every single) on Flickr.com. I’m not lazy, I’m just busy. Where in the hell do these myspacers find the time?!

I’ve been listening to Luna at my desk today: the perfect rainy Monday music. Sadly, the band threw in the towel a couple of years ago, but I'm reminiscing having beers with Dean, the lead singer, in Chicago one night several years ago with my (that particular night) extremely intoxicated friend Alex. Star-struck days were so fun.

The funniest Luna story, however, was when I finally got to see them in Indy. A pretty girl started screaming at me out of nowhere about her boyfriend, with whom I’d had three dates (and, of course, he hadn't mentioned her). As a rule, I never argue with crazy people, and I simply said, “Thank you for the information.” She stood there continuing to tell me recent stories about the two of them and I said, “Look, thank you. Boyfriends come and go, but Luna has never been to Indy. You’ve paid your money, so you’re welcome to stay, but the band is about to take the stage so please remove yourself from my view” (oh, Jill, so quick on your feet!).

Her face went white. Shucks, I'd disappointed her; she was hoping for a fist fight, I think. She left, missing one hell of a show. I still remember her bright red lipstick; I forgot to ask her the color.

Perplexed for about 12 seconds, I wondered how in the hell she knew where to find me. Ah-ha, the preview:

Nuvo Newsweekly
Luna Preview
Feb 4 - Birdy’s

Despite the bleak dull-gray of winter, a full moon rises: The softcore rock band Luna will play their inaugural Indy show at Birdy’s on Tuesday, February 4. You there, romantic and pining sap…you don’t want to miss it.

Forming Luna in the early 90s after leaving his band Galaxie 500 (the predecessor to Luna’s delicate rock), lead singer Dean Wareham is still lead singer/guitarist/protagonist, though the cast of band characters has changed several times throughout the years. Drummer Stanley Demenski (The Feelies) has long since been replaced by Lee Wall; Justin Harwood (The Chills) by beauty Britta Phillips, yet Sean Eden holds his own on lead guitar. Hardly label allegiant, Luna recently set up camp at Jetset Records and, derivative of Galaxie 500, keeps producing gorgeous, restrained torpor in their own kind of Velvety Underground. Their 2002 release “Romantica” is followed up by their seventh wonder “Close Cover Before Striking.” Strikingly so, is a familiar template of their soft melodic flux. Harvard graduate Wareham’s unique, attentive voice forces most radio stars to keep beating the hackneyed dead horse. His timbre is melancholy and sweet, like an organ pipe that’s allergic to candy, and many of his lyrics border the insane: “Is there a doctor in the house? In the house of pancakes…”

Luna derived its name from Diane Keaton’s character in Woody Allen’s movie “Sleeper,” and ‘sleeper’ terms an apt resolution for Luna’s slowly advancing popularity, but that’s what makes cult bands good—right? Myself, and three others, once waited to meet Luna in a dismal Chicagoland alley after they played a show: the three of us, strangers, were from Indy, Bloomington and Terre Haute. Wareham, probably surprised that the Hoosier hand he’d just been dealt was not, in fact, euchre, grinned and said, “I guess we’d better get ourselves to Indiana.” And so they are, and they’re so worth your Tuesday night.

Lady In Waiting

My honey is on a jet plane heading back to me – I pick him up first thing in the morning. The week went by so quickly. Forget Skype: we talked 1-2 times a day from his cell phone (cannot wait to see that bill, charged to his company, of course). He had some pretty interesting stories of the astounding socio-disparity between Dubai and Delhi: marble streets in Dubai; cows in the streets of Delhi. Told me some other pretty interesting stories too. We can’t wait to hit “resume” on our life tomorrow.

Ironically, I heard at least 4 stories on NPR this week about Dubai’s corruption. Each time Matt called, I’d fill him in, and he’d say, “Doesn’t surprise me.” Single women from Indonesia, Philippines, etc. go there to earn a buck for their starving families. They end up as housemaids, where it is written into the law that they have no rights because they’re “family.” They’re beaten, sexually abused, and work about 20-hour days. Horrible. Matt said it’s not a place he’d care to see again.

While he was gone I bought a banjo…ah, she’s a beauty, a 5-string Fender. He called to tell me about his last day in Dubai, and I said, “That’s nice, I visited Sam Ash music; $400 later, I own a banjo.” Matt started laughing and said, “You’re kidding – that’s so cool!” Talk about disparity, but that’s why we get along so well. He’s the serious (although, for an attorney, wickedly funny) merger/acquisition type, and I’m the artsy one who starts a new instrument on a whim. Last night I sent him some photos of me holding my banjo, and I guess I’ll take some blog-friendly photos soon enough. : )

I’m researching vacation destinations today, and when he returns we’re running off somewhere for a week together. No family, no Treo (ok, probably the damn Treo, but we’re not answering it) and absolutely no one bothering us.

Maybe we'll go to Springfield, Illinois.

Matt's Underwear

Recently, Matt purchased some silky, sexy colorful new underwear. He got them home, ripped the tags off, tried them on and decided he wanted the next size up (perhaps I feed him too well?).

Since they couldn't be returned missing the tags, Goodwill does not take underwear, and they weren't really used, I gave them to my brother, who is exactly Matt's height, same build, just a little leaner (just a little).

Today, Jason sent his wife and me an e-mail with this subject line: I'm wearing Matt's underwear. He continued, "They're silky and soft and nice. Fit like a glove. Thanks."

I'm still laughing. No photos with this particular post.

Hip Day!

Gord Sinclair did a radio interview this week with local station WTTS. The DJ said, "We're getting a lot of calls regarding your new album and your upcoming show at the Vogue." Gord replied, "I think I know who's calling..."

The Hip were in town Tuesday so I took the day off (and the following day, too). They were stuck at Conseco Fieldhouse for the day, so I picked up Gord and Rob and took them to the art museum for the afternoon. Rob and I went head-to-head on our art history, and I had to rebuff a couple of his “facts.” We grabbed a late lunch at Wolfgang Puck’s and I gave them the Meridian Street tour, then I returned them to their rock-n-roll setting for sound check.

I attended the concert solo, and I give Matt so many cool points for this. Not many men are confident enough to allow their girlfriend to run off with 5 guys in a band, but I talk about/to them all the time, and Matt knows we’re friends. Besides, poor Matt was working late, but he trusts me completely. He and I keep growing into this amazing perfectness and, silly as it is, we text messaged all night. I’m with the guy every single day, yet I text message with him during a Hip show. Who am I, and what have they done with Jill? I’m taking him to the next show, for sure.

The show? Oh, amazing. The band let me sit in their guitar pit, just off the stage. I parked it right behind the Who’s wealth of guitars. There were already hundreds of people at the show, either there to see the Hip (I heard many scream-outs), or waiting for the Who to take the stage, but I was too shy to look out…I was basically sitting in front of everyone. The Hip only played a 50-minute set, but I sang every word and they all smiled and nodded to me throughout the show. I felt kind of, ya know, spoiled.

Their entourage wasn’t there since, after all, they were in Indy, so I got them all to myself backstage, where we sat, drank beer and talked until the Who finished. I got to be witty and bubbly with no outside interference!

A cute African American woman (I’m socially conditioned never to say “black” anymore, although I’m almost certain this woman had never been to Africa – another blog) was sitting outside of Roger Daltrey’s room, guarding his privacy. I walked by and said, “Cool job!” She admitted that she’d never heard of the Who until THAT DAY, and I said, “Oh, honey, you are sitting outside the room of a very famous person.” She smiled and asked, “Really?” So, so cute.

I am not a Who fan. Gord and I walked across the street to Mo’s, and I caught one song from backstage, the “Whoooooooo are you, who who, who who” song. A conversation ensued:

Gord: You like this song, don’t you?
Jill: Um, I know this song. Not my thing.

We had one beer at Mo’s, and they were off to Rochester, NY. The boys are back in May, and Matt’s in for such a treat....since he likes when I'm witty and bubbly. : )

Spring Dreaming

Matt nudged me this morning, saying, “Honey…the sun…look!” He neglected to mention that it’s also Friday. Ah, so happy.

We had several “OMG!” moments this week, but it passed, as things do, and tonight we’re going to snuggle close over a relaxing feast at R Bistro. I’m turning Matt into a regular foodie.

….Which leads me to the dilemma he’ll be facing soon when he travels to Dubai and India: what will that boy possibly eat? He’s a wee bit of a steak and pasta kind of guy (no steak in India), so I told him I’ll pack him lots of snacks for the trip. He plans to live on beef jerky (possibly the grossest “food” known to mankind). I shudder.

Not that I want to see him go, but I love the missing part. A little separation is good. I’ll miss the daily email exchanges and his call every afternoon at lunch time to “see how I am,” but honestly, I revel in doses of alone time. He’s downloading Skype to my computer, and loaning me his microphone so that we can talk every day. I wouldn’t tell him this, but that makes me purr inside.

My friends across the country are saying, “Come here for a week!” San Francisco is tempting. Free plane fare to any Hip show (currently on tour – tickets on sale now) is even more tempting but, strangely, I look forward to my role of taking to /picking up from the airport, hearing him on Skype and awaiting his return. It’s romantic, and I’m a sucker for that.

We’re planning our own trip when he returns. We’re considering Ixtapa, as we both like Mexico. I haven’t been to the parts where he has been, and vice versa. We may settle for Florida. Where ever it is, it’s going to be hot, and there’s going to be sand and a whole lotta lovin. After all, Spring is in the air.

His company just acquired a very large distributor in Denmark, and minutes after congratulating him for finally closing the deal, I said, “Let’s move there!” I’m pretty sure I was born to live in Europe – I absolutely love it there. Matt said, smiling, “Hmm…could be a possibility.” Oh please oh please oh please. I can write anywhere!

One of my favorite memories is the day I took a bike ride by myself in the countryside of France. I rode one of those big “Dorothy” bikes from the Wizard of Oz, and I swear a huge baguette on the back would have completed the look. I stopped and took photographs, picked wild flowers, walked in fields of lavender and waved to the locals—I want more days like that.

Matt and I kick around a California move a lot – I was “made” there, and he was raised there, and we both certainly have the laid-back attitude (and blonde locks). But there’s history, culture and sophistication throughout Europe that no city in America contains. Certainly not Las Vegas, and by no means Reno. I’m fairly certain of that.

We’ll figure it out; we’re both seekers, so that’s half the battle. And now I must go write something for a living…

Sweet Comic Valentine

Damn it, if I were cooler and had a Myspace account, I could emoticon my present mood, but I’ll just have to verbally express it here: sick of winter.

Valentine’s Day was good: Matt and I celebrated our first date and first kiss by eating at the Rathskeller for dinner…where we had our first lunch date two years ago. Suddenly a German biergarten seems wildly romantic.

It was such a cold, snowy night. We’d enjoyed two snow days at home, a whole lot of lounging around making each other laugh, and last night I got him to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Nothing bad could ever happen there.

A little e-drama came in from Tyrannosaurus Ex, but now I just shrug and go to sleep. I look back over the past two years and realize that so much has happened, but it’s all good. It’s like eating scrambled eggs in the diamond section pretty much every day.

Up All Night

I have been in fighting relationships before, relationships that turned me into a yeller, and relationships that turned me into a mouse. With a couple of boyfriends, the authorities have yet to find the bodies. It is nice to finally be in a relationship where we rarely, if ever, argue. Sure, we’ve had some blow-ups over the past year, but Matt finally backed his bus out of the cul-de-sac and parked on my street, leaving us nothing but time on our hands, always happy.

When we do fight is while we’re sleeping. Each night I have to come up with my escape route for Matt’s utterly chaotic 8-or-so hours of slumber. I have never experienced anything quite like it.

First of all, he talks in his sleep. No secrets have ever been revealed, but often he’ll sit up and say things like, “I told you not to go in there!” or “Damn it, I don’t know!” and I wake up thinking, “What the hell?” He’s a vivid dreamer, and he physically participates in them.

The avalanche: Often times, in the middle of the night, Matt lifts the blankets and sheet, rolls over in mid-air and “lands” on me, while also pushing me to the edge of the bed. Regularly, this leaves me less than 1 inch of personal space in which to, ahem, rest.

The gate: When I feel the avalanche about to erupt, I lock one leg down, creating a gate that he can’t get past. This eliminates being completely pushed off the bed, which I have experienced. When getting pushed off the bed I simply get up, go to his side and sleep on his pillow until the avalanche erupts in the other direction.

A tip for sleeping with someone like this: always keep a reserve of blankets wadded up near your head so that you can fist them pretty quickly. Obviously, I’m a light sleeper, and can think through these scenarios consciously, reacting appropriately.

After Matt’s consumed a few beers and/or a few glasses of wine, I really must be on my toes, so to speak. Last week, after being pushed off the bed at 3 am, I got up and took digital photos of him lying in the pile of blankets...on my side of the bed. I showed him my proof in the morning, threatening to publish it here. He shrugged. I really don't scare him, I'm afraid.

I like the idea of spooning, but I'm a spooning menace. I mean, it’s nice to start out that way, but within ten minutes I’m usually hot or uncomfortable. But I find him in the middle of the night, snuggle and get warm again then I shut the gate.

Almost every morning I have a sleeping story to relay; I usually threaten him “if it happens again…”, and we laugh.

Babel On And On

There’s a sadness in George Bush’s eyes; with the lowest approval rating ever, no laudable plan in sight, and no brain to speak of, it’s gotta be tough getting out of bed in the morning. We watched his State of the Union address last week, and for the folks out there who’re still holding on for dear life thinking that speech (which, of course, he didn’t pen) was anywhere near sorting through “a drawer full of diamonds” (puuulease) … well, your cold day in hell is coming.

Bush, you do understand the term “babel?” We don’t understand you.

I actually feel kind of sorry for him – I never make fun of the mentally handicapped. But I can’t look at him. I spent most of my time watching Nancy Polosi blinking and slyly trying to work a seed out of her tooth with her tongue.

And the gallery of heroes, come on. “Zoom in on that highly decorated fella (Bush’s words, no doubt) … no, not that one … the one with the scar on his face. Make the public see his suffering and how I’ve brought him here to exploit him!”

And the subway hero: cute. Blowing kisses. Did a good thing. 15 minutes pass slowly when you can't survive poverty. Enjoy it.

I didn’t write home about Democrat Jim Webb’s rebuttal speech, either. He would have seemed more comfortable, more believable, wearing a turquoise silk smoking jacket. And I didn’t really care about his father’s picture – I have better pictures of my dad in Vietnam. That was your one chance, dumbass. Give us more!

I’m not on a bandwagon here: I’ve backed Obama for years. As I shake my head, I am hopeful.

Mazel Tov

Matt and I attended our first Bat Mitzvah over the weekend for the daughter of his boss. I have always been known as Jill, friend of the Jews, but it was my first glimpse into the rite of passage for thirteen-year-old Jewish kids.

The event was beyond extravagant, and Matt and I figured they dropped well over $50k. They made us work for our dinner, though: a 2 hour service in the morning (we didn’t understand a damn thing), tons of prayers, speeches, videos and “the chain” (that stupid dance thing they do at these types of things) before dinner. We were starving.

Thirteen-year-olds have come a long way. When I was thirteen I certainly didn’t own an evening gown. The little girls all looked high school aged, and while I was waiting in line for the bathroom, a young boy walked by and said, “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” I was absolutely stunned. Matt said, “Honey, you’ve still got it!”

I felt a mixture of flattery and fear.

Doing My Part For Victory

I’ve learned over the years that I’m a sports team jinx, especially during playoffs. It's because of my upbringing, and my fair-weathered-fanaticism. Peyton Manning’s losing streak was no accident – it was due to my watching. Matt and I went to our local pub last night and watched the first half of the AFC Championship game. Shut up, I know: 21 to 6 at the half, because of me. I told Matt that all we needed to do was high-tail it out of there, go home and lock me in a closet.

So we went home and locked me in the bedroom where I suffered through yet another bad Netflix choice – Memoirs of a Geisha. Complete rotter. I’d turn down the volume from time to time, listening for Matt’s cheers or yelling. With about 6 minutes to go I tiptoed into the living room. The game was tied. Matt said, “We’ll see how this play goes before I determine if you can stay or not.”

Massive sack; back to the Geishas.

I finally heard Matt screaming, “We won…we actually won!” I ran to the living room to watch the last 10 seconds of glory – it was fantastic!

After the win, Matt was outside smoking his victory smoke and one of the neighbors, also outside, held out a huge firework and asked Matt to light it. I said, “Um, um…that’s the kind that you’re supposed to put down on the ground.” He was a large African American guy. I continued, "Hee hee... I think..."

With my logical advice, he threw it. It began shooting extremely loud blasts of flames and sparks all over the courtyard, hitting people’s windows and doors, and undoubtedly waking the neighborhood. Matt and I stood there, our mouths agape saying Matt’s favorite phrase: Oh My God. Laughing our asses off, we went inside, turned out the lights and watched the angry neighbors peering from their windows. Classic.

I don’t know what’s happened to me, but I get football now, and I rather like it. My first thought this morning was “We’re going to the Super Bowl,” which is crazy talk coming from me. Even my sister, less of a sports fan than I, called me from Florida saying, “I really don’t care, but it is so exciting!”

Our dad watched somewhere in the neighborhood of zero football games when we were growing up. He would fill us with Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson then present a lecture on Harper Lee, Martin Luther, or maybe Constantine – any literature or history he could get his hands on.

It’s a wonder I come up with anything at the water cooler.

Stolen

I’m a sentimental little thing. Two years ago today I was sitting amidst a group of attorneys at a bar (I’m also a creature of habit), pretty much bored out of my mind. Yeeeawn. It was the going-away party for the guy I was dating, who was moving to the Big Apple. He was like a giant cupcake iced with caffeine and bourbon: yummy, but bad for me.

Matt had been invited to the party too, and walked in late (also a creature of habit). My heart jumped the first moment I laid eyes on him. He and my “boyfriend” were co-workers. Oops. For the first half hour I was too afraid to make eye contact with him, and for the last hour we couldn’t take our eyes off of each other. He slipped me his business card on his way out.

I e-mailed him the following Monday morning and he wrote back: “I’m glad you wrote!” We met for lunch soon after that (Valentine’s Day, to be exact), and within months he stole me away completely. Swwwwwipe! Through the many peaks and few valleys, and even when I've wanted to kill him, it’s been amazing.

We were out last night and a bartender recognized me from my column – always a little fun for the ego. Matt gets a kick out of this phenomenon (the whole 4 times it’s happened), and I love telling people, “This is Love Interest!” Their reaction is usually "Oh."

Immortalized between the pages of INtake – what more could a man want? Ok, a lot more, and maybe I became a bit unidimensional in my subject matter. Worth it! I’m too a romantic little thing…

When people ask how we met, we usually reply with, "Oh, at a work function..."

Bookish

My book club is divided into two groups: the girly-girls who choose clever chick lit (sugary dating stories, mostly), and those of us who enjoy a darker, biting read. Lit noir, how I love thee.

United, we all just read The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls and, collectively, loved it. It’s more of a chick book than not, a memoir whose character is so strong, calm, blithe and alarmingly unaffected that she creeps into your consciousness like a true friend. Her childhood makes Running with Scissors read like nothing more than an insipid story on a cereal box.

She begins her tale cooking hotdogs over a stove, aged three, and her dress catches fire. From there the book is difficult to put down. Her parents let her and her 3 siblings raise themselves, basically, offering only cool shrugs for guidance.

She’s now a journalist and contributor for MSNBC and, at least in book club, she’s our hero. Her childhood was nothing but struggle and strife, and she never once complains. There is no “constant sorrow,” only lessons learned and picked-up boot straps.

Currently I’m reading Herzog by Saul Bellow, a Canuck (I swear I didn’t know!) and master of winding redemption. Herzog is self-tortured, Nabokovian, deep and dark…just the way I like my read (but not the way I like my men – okay, maybe just a little).

I love book suggestions so please feel free to e-mail me yours. Keep it dark, will ya? My friend Anne (talk about a struggling life: a cool pad in Fiona Apple’s backyard, daily walks in Venice, yoga and a new boyfriend, “Dexter,” a true Showtime original; poor Anne) and I have traded books since high school, and if I had a nickel…

I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

No More Contacts!

I had Lasik surgery performed on Friday, and today I have 20/20 vision in one eye, and 20/15 in the other. Matt took off work Friday afternoon and went with me. I was a brave soul about the procedure and only grimaced once when I sensed them cutting my first cornea. Matt watched the procedure and told me later that the instrument looked like a meat slicer. The laser gas smelled like burning flesh, and I was afraid they’d laser out all the blue. Other than that it was just great.

There was a woman waiting to go after me, who completely panicked about the surgery (I actually moved up into her spot in line due to her screams and frantic shivering, the poor thing). Matt watched via a TV screen, which they provided in the lounge/waiting area. Bad idea. A few times during the surgery, he said, “Oh, God – eeeee – ooh! ouch!” When I came out of the operating room he grabbed my hand and whispered, “I don’t think that lady is going through with it because I freaked her out so much.”

The entire process took less than 10 minutes. Matt’s been religiously putting drops in my eyes, and the first night he even washed my face for me (amusing, because he didn’t trust that I wouldn’t accidentally swipe my eye).

Last night we drank a fantastic bottle of Bollinger since we stayed clear of the champagne on New Year’s Eve, and toasted my new eyes.