the rustling of hands under desks

It is so beautiful right now.
This week it finally started to feel like Spring, what with the temperature in the seventies during the day and in the sixties at night. Sleeping with windows open, putting together furniture and realizing we needed the air on, Bean actually working up a a pant on his thrice daily walks, and diving head first into lilacs, violets, dandelions.
Driving to work I keep catching whiffs of Springs past, the one where Sara and I picked flowers for our Moms on I-40 for Mother's Day, the one before eighth grade graduation, in the first moony days of lust and love with Justin Williams, the one when I called in sick to work at Blue Ridge to drink forties and smoke cigars with Melanie and Sasha, the one when Jenny was pregnant and she came over to watch ER with my mom and I. What I have been deeply reminded of this week, however, is that restlessness that inevitably comes over a grade school classroom this time of year, that itchy all over, yearning for the outdoors, blacktop basketball courts and endless bike rides up the main thoroughfare of Shelbyville, catching the ends of branches just budding over sidewalks already littered with seed pods, the first grass clippings of the year, hop scotch diagrams and the detritus of that adolescent equinox.
As much as I wish I could be outside watching Bean somersault into neighbors' wildflowers I know I don't want to be outside one tenth as much as I did when I was ten and looking at Springtime blossom outside my elementary school windows, oddly conscious of the sound of hands rustling under desks, the way Brady Kugn's legs looked in yellow basketball shorts, the restive sigh of pages as they turned and we waited, oh waited, for that final bell to ring.
I hope when I have kids some of that unabashed longing to run outside at the first opportunity comes back. I'm thinking a lot about kids lately, what with preparing for my wedding and Sara and her gorgeous pictures and talking with Jenny about Jos, and now also I can finally tell everyone that my sister-in-law, Angelita, is preggers. She and Chris are on a "babymoon" right now, sunning in glorious Mexico, actually enjoying the outdoors instead of writing about it.
When I saw my OBGYN she sort of blew off my concerns about fertility despite the fact that she's the one who told me it would be a problem for me years ago. As soon as she heard that we weren't actively trying she made me feel like my concerns weren't valid, that if I hadn't been trying for a year then she wasn't even going to talk about my fertility, or lack there of, or what I should do to get ready to have a baby. Needless to say I am in the market for a new OBGYN.
When we were in DC we stayed at our friend Paul's Mom's place, a gorgeous house in Mt. Vernon, literally blocks from GW's famous house. His mom and her partner Lisa were out of town but for the last few months friends of theirs have been staying with them while their house gets remodeled and I met and hung out with them and got some good advice. They said that first of all doctors, even good ones, often don't understand how emotionally taxing being afraid you can't have kids can be and that at the very least I should find one who understands my situation and won't make me feel badly about having (valid) concerns. Secondly they said that in their experience, you go through life thinking you'll have kids one day and then your twenties go by in a haze, your thirties are dedicated to furthering your career and then one day you wake up, your forty and you want a baby and it might be too late. They are undergoing IVF right now and I wish them the best as they seem like they'll be great parents. They did make me feel better about going that route if I need to as I am younger and will have a better chance of conceiving.
OK, anyway, next time a much lighter post about farting or something.

Our Nation's Capital

We keep asking Bean, when he licks his crotch or does other unsightly acts, if this is the behavior he will display in Our Nation's Capital this weekend. We are taking Bean and going with friends, Paul and Jen, to D.C. for a nice little mini vacation. Bean got a haircut and we are ready to go. We will definitely post pictures upon our return, probably something like Bean pissing on the bushes in front of the White House. If only that sentence could read "...pissing on the Bushes in front of the White House."


By the way, I am getting kind of wedding burned out. Too many emails regarding vest color or the ongoing debate about ties vs/ kerchiefs or whatever. I hope to return with new found enthusiasm. Mostly it's because the store I manage moved the weekend after we got engaged and things have been really hectic since. Jeff and I have barely been able to see each other, let alone figure out invitations and registries. Also, Becca asked me if I wanted a bridal shower and a Batchelorette party and I said both but then felt weird and greedy.
Ugh.
What else? I'm giving Dennis Lehane another chance after watching the excellent Gone, Baby, Gone with the always tasty Casey Afleck. I am still not convinced he can write worth a damn. But the book is different enough from the movie to keep me interested and he writes half-way decent dialog. I finished Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets which is a book written by David Simon, one of the guys who created and wrote The Wire. It was the best true crime book I've ever read and really, it's more like crime literature than crime fiction. There are lots of stories out of that book that later went on to inform the characters and the dialog of The Wire. One of my favorites is about a guy named Snot Boogie and how one night he got shot and killed for running off with a big pot from the corner craps games. One of the guys who had money in that pot talked to the primary investigative detective and told him that yeah, Snot Boogie always did that, came around, played a few rolls and waited for the pot to get big then ran off with the loot. It was just a matter of time before someone took out Snot Boogie. The detective asked this cat why they let Snot Boogie play, if he always ran off with the pot. The guy looked at the detective incredulously, saying, "We had to let him play, this is America."
Speaking of The Wire I hooked another person on it, and as my newest victim to the addiction that is the greatest television show ever written I welcome Daniel.
I haven't seen Jenny in two weeks or more and that makes me very sad. She should call me.