Distance Does Not Make the Heart Fonder

I said I wanted to spoon, not I wanted A spoon.

He’s so cute. I said I wanted to spoon, not I wanted A spoon.

Love is the strangest force in the universe. It makes us do things we never thought of. It makes us think in ways we never imagined. It makes our dreams strange realities of emotions we didn’t think we had.

It never gets easier.

As a young adult, it seemed so easy. I love you. You love me. Easy, right?

Nope.

As an older adult, I know it’s not easy but it doesn’t cushion the effect. It’s more complex because I know what I want and don’t want so I can weed people out faster. Which kinda makes it easier… But harder to find. The extra additive is since I’ve been in many relationships, I have my own quaint little wall that goes up even when I do find a good one.

I’m working on that one not hindering me.

So what is this LOVE thing people talk about?

Really…from all that I’ve learned thus far it’s the craziest addiction ever. No one can escape it. It makes me want to throw pint glasses at windows and scream at the top of my lungs. It makes me stay in bed for hours admiring my love’s body. It makes me cry when it’s lost and cry when it’s found. It makes me want to smash beer cans on foreheads when it’s not working right and smash cars when it’s working perfectly.

It seems as though there is no reason or rhyme to this creature, that it consumes like a black hole and is just as merciless and unyielding. Yet, black holes shine light back out.

Is it about living in the dicotomy of love’s bipolar behavior and finding the eye of the storm? Always living in the quiet of the whirl of disaster?

It seems cruel to always be forced to live on the edge of disaster in order to feel the ecstasy of love. Or is it actually quite simple and our human minds have a hard time comprehending the complexity of this simplicity?

I know….it’s almost 11:30pm in Denver and I’m 3 beers and 2 sakis in pondering fucking love. This sounds like a recipe for disaster and a bad night of sleep.

Of course, the kimchi stuck in my nasal passage isn’t going to help my sleep pattern at all. Inhaled at exactly the wrong moment.

People find love at all different ages. Is it really love? Is it lust? Maybe loneliness? A mix of everything? Do some people settle because its the closest thing? And is that worse than holding out for the real thing or the same?

Is it possible that love is multi-tiered and for 5 years one person is awesome and someone else is awesome for a different 5 years? And then where does that leave my grand parents?

I guess what I’m getting at is this:

Love is a mysterious force that nobody understands but we all feel and when you know it’s right, it’s right and you just have to ride the wave no matter where it takes you.

Give Us All Your Chickens…

In the worst Mexican accent ever, we’re cruising the inside of Vitamin Cottage with 13 whole chickens in the cart saying, “Give us all your chickens!!”

How did this start? Well…I’m a sucker for a bargain. One of my cohorts and I are throwing a smash party and BBQ on Memorial Day weekend. We need food for the party. And beer can chicken sounded like an awesome idea. As it turns out, the whole chickens were on sale so we cleaned out the whole case at Vitamin Cottage.

Now, you may be asking yourself, what the hell is a smash party?!?!

It’s a party where you get to smash something. For ours, we will be smashing an old mercedes benz with sledge hammers, potato guns, and any other weapon of mass destruction you want to bring. It’s a great way to work out frustration. It’s also just a shit ton of fun! Add beer and bbq and we have the best non-white trash party in the history of the world.

But here’s your moment of zen for the day:

We've been trafficking chickens across neighborhood borders

We’ve been trafficking chickens across neighborhood borders

Ali Baba and the Lack of a Stunt Double

When last we left our dashing beer gypsy, she was headed to Ali Baba to cure her hangry.

Now…you have to appreciate the short distance of which this event occurred. According to Google Maps, if you took the road it’s about .2 miles and 29 seconds by car to get from Cannonball Creek to Ali Baba. On bikes, it’s a little longer than 29 seconds but we also cut across the Starbucks and office building parking lots.

Here's a map of disaster waiting to happen.

Here’s a map of disaster waiting to happen.

All of this is down hill, in so many ways. One friend was way up front and the other 3 were behind me by a little bit. As we round the office building, I see there are no cars on Rubey Drive. After a day of screeching my tires for shits and giggles, I figure this one would be epic since I have:

  1. Downhill inertia in my favor.
  2. A corner I have to take to get to Ali Baba.
  3. Enough beer in me to make me indestructible, especially on a bike.

As destiny comes quickly to greet me, I peddle a bit to get my footing, pop up on my peddles a wee bit because I know I’m going to have to crank on them pretty hard(it has coaster brakes, like when we were kids), and I strengthen my resolve to be a bad ass. I take the corner really fast and SLAM on the breaks with about 90% of the force I was expecting to use.

Slow motion took over…

The back wheel wiggled a bit more…I turned the handle bars to compensate slightly for taking the turn…I felt the baskets shake behind me. Then next thing I know I’m dumping the bike and tumbling over the handle bars…to land neatly on my feet.

After 2 summers in a row of damaging myself, I know when I’m hurt. Laughter poured out of me after the 4 seconds of shock wore off. Small scratch on my right foot and scapula. Nice sized rubber grip burn from my sternum across my right breast, about 2.5 inches long. That was it on the damage list. Not even a tear in my summer dress. Yes, folks. I do dumb ass shit on bicycles in summer dresses. Gotta keep it classy, kids.

About 200 feet later, we’re in front of Ali Baba, fine Lebanese and Persian food. Fine is not the word I or any of my cohorts would have used.

It was so amazing that if you had punched me while I was eating, I wound not have noticed.

We started with humus, grape leaves, and falafel. Which was a perfect teaser for 6 people. I had ordered the Bamya: okra cooked with beef, lemon juice, and Ali Baba spices and came with rice. It was divine. The meat was perfect and soft, not  sinuous or fatty at all. The spices seemed the perfect blend to not over power the okra but to enhance it. To top it all, a nice bit of Turkish coffee. If this was the pay off for having endured such a vexing ride out to Golden(oh yeah, besides it being super hot without any clouds, the wind was against us the whole way), it was totally worth every hill I swore at.

Note: There is no booze what-so-ever in this joint. It’s a good thing. You really don’t need to be drinking in this place because it’s a total ¬†trip. It looks like the inside of a REAL genie bottle. No I Dream Of Jeannie pink and purple deco that makes you want to puke. These people spared no expense to make sure you questioned your sanity when you walked back out into reality. AND there’s 3…count that, 3 locations around Denver in which this magical amazingness happens.

The rest of the night was, well…I guess one could describe it as pleasant. We hopped the W-line back to Union Station without a hitch but know that if you’re on bicycle, it’s all up hill to the Jeffco government center. We met up with friends at a favorite neighborhood bar, then met up with more friends at a dive bar. Laughter all around.

Live fiercely. Love fiercely.

Post script: The whole time I’ve been writing this, I’ve been listening to my downstairs neighbors having sex. I think their bed is right under my couch. Not that I’m complaining. Just saying they might want to think about getting some of that bamya for after sex. Or during. They might be kinky like that. Dammit. I can’t stop thinking about eating that stuff.