Lost and Found

2005.

The year is almost over. Stay tuned for a sappy yet introspective piece on the things that have happened in the last year. Be forewarned that this looming piece will most likely include Jesus, the discovery of both Sufjan Stevens and Feist, a paragraph on the nature of pride, a love song to taco bell and, most likely, a short diatribe about the thrills of driving around with expired tags for eight months.

Loving Clint.

I have decided that I love my co-worker Clint. Today's blog is going to be a list of reasons why I love him.

1. Conversations about Heaven. We spend a large amount of our time discussing what will be and what will not be in Heaven. Clint thinks that there will be heroin, frisbees, dogs that catch frisbees and Gene Hackman in Heaven.

2. Quick Turn Around. At least twice a day, I will sit in my office and yell an inconsequential question in the general direction of Clint. His answers are quick and solid, as if he knew what my question would be. Today's query was this:

Me: Clint? What's Nancy Reagan's favorite color?

Clint: (without pause) Burnt Sienna.

Me: Barbara Bush's?

Clint: Avocado.

And then the conversation will end, and he will never ask why I wanted to know, and I never offer my explanation.

3. Music Tastes. Clint likes my music. He lets me make him mix cd's, which turns out to be good for me, because then he's playing the music *I* like from his speakers, dulling out the drone of Metallica, Bob Marley and Van Halen from another co-worker's computer.

4. He Laughs. Clint laughs at my jokes. This pleases me.

5. Head Butts. Sometimes we give one another head butts, and then we discuss the origin of the head butt.

6. He Calls Me "Baby". It's kind of creepy, but it's a funny type of creepy, because he doesn't really mean it. (What does it mean to call someone "Baby"?)

This concludes the list of why I love Clint.

Merry Christmas, Baby.

I held Conner at the holiday party.

Conner is an infant. Specifically, he is the infant belonging to Rob and Erin. Conner looks just like Rob. As I stood in my kitchen, holding the two-month old boy, I could tell he was looking at with me suspicion, and if he could speak anything beyond a coo, he would have said something sarcastic. Yes, that boy has a dry sense of humor. I can tell it in his eyes.

Holy shit, it was strange, standing in my kitchen holding a baby. This wasn't a nephew or a cousin. Family members' babies aren't as shocking as friends' babies. Erin and Rob were among the first to break the marriage seal. I was there for their first kiss, on that New Year's Eve at the apartment on Summit. Back then, all I knew about campus was that dumpsters often caught on fire and there was always someone out there who would buy you alcohol. But I digress. They were friends, and then they were dating. And then they were engaged. And then they were married. And now, they have a baby. A real live baby.

"We can't come," Erin told me on Saturday afternoon, "because we can't find a sitter." It never occurred to me that when you have a real live baby that looks just like your husband and makes cooing noises all the time, your social life is dependent on the availability of a close relative or friend or a sixteen year old girl.

"Bring him," I said, "I want to meet him."

And she did.

That baby, Conner, is going to be loved. I love him already, and I just met him. He was like a real little person. A person with Rob's looks and Erin's gentleness, intellect and wit. I can't wait until he talks. We're going to be friends, Conner and I.

The Party.

Family Feud is happening. Although we’ve only collected something like 15 surveys thus far, this holiday tradition will not be broken.

I’m looking forward to the party; I’m looking forward to the arrivals of Lainie and Amanda. I’m looking forward to reuniting with Sarah. It was at this party, two years ago, that Lainie subtly announced her engagement to Bee Dave. They’re married now. It was at this party, two years ago, that Sarah and Ryan first graced one another’s presence, though they didn’t realize it until months later. It was at this party that Amanda hid playing cards throughout the house, cards that I’m still finding within my possessions, two years and two moves later.

It was at this party, last year, that I first the people who would steer me back to God.

So much has happened in a year.

Come to the party on Saturday. I have a coat closet, now. And Christmas lights in the front room. And a back yard. With my very own squirrels and cardinals.

December Reverie.

I think that it is a basic human right to hold mitten-clad hands with a boy while it quietly snows. Depending on your socio-economic status, culture and location, it may also be a right to have peppermint-flavored coffee with said boy before the hand-holding and to follow the hand-holding with a kiss and/or mix cd exchange.

My rights are being violated.

Introductions.

The house is alive. I'm slowly getting used to it. The faucet drips. The alarm periodically beeps. I look in the drawer for the code, and after a few tries, the beeping stops.

The kitchen floor is cold in the morning. My bare feet stand in front of the electric stove as I make tea.

There are many places to sit and read. The front room is formal. It has my grandmother's chair and a reading light. The wooden floors beg for a rug.

I sometimes read in the breakfast nook. The room has light from three sides. It's a quiet room.

Mainly, I read in the den. It's halfway under the ground. I don't know what I think about the wooden paneling, but I've found a recliner that's comfortable. Ryan - the girl - has a table that I call the Cambodia Table that makes a perfect resting-place for my tea.

The table is not from Cambodia, but she used to have a Cambodian throw on the piece.

I sit quietly in the morning, drinking my tea and reading the Bible (the end of John) and listening to the house breathe. I'm getting used to it, and it's getting used to me.