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angrylizardjacket · 5 years

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ask your destiny to dance [17] {Roger Taylor}

[masterpost]

It takes Roger exactly two weeks to realise he doesn’t know Ash nearly as well as he thought he did. There’s a lot to glean about a person from their room, and what they say, but not everything, not even close to everything.

“So I guess you’re working tomorrow?” Roger asks, leaning against the bar as Ash polishes a glass. It comes as a surprise when she makes a face, shaking her head. “We’re going on a pub crawl, if you wanna come along then.”

Ash takes her time before answering, hanging up the glass and pulling another from the rack before she finally speaks.

“I can’t, I’m busy, sorry.” And she sounds... uncomfortable about it. Roger’s never known her to be uncomfortable about anything that didn’t relate to her home life, and she can see the moment he jumps to that conclusion. “I’m going to Paris in the afternoon,” she says quickly, and Roger’s taken aback, “I don’t get home until late; train times, you know?”

“A day trip to Paris?” He asks, and Maureen leans over to Ash with a small smile.

“Is that where you go on those Saturdays? That’s cute, Ash, little routine trips to France.” She flicks Ash with the end of her tea towel, to which Ash smiles despite herself, blushing and flicking Maureen back.

“Oi, I’m just going to Paris, nothing cute about it. I’m allowed to have hobbies, you know.” She argued back, and Maureen snickered, smiling fondly at the ginger before she tucked her tea towel into her back pocket and went back to cutting lime wedges. “I’m going to The Louvre.” Ash explained to Roger, cheeks still faintly pink.

“The Louvre?” There was a surprise in his voice that Ash had expected, and when she looks up at him, she still seems a bit defensive.

“There’s free entry once per month; first Saturday at six.” She pauses, and when his expression brightens, hers falls and she feels like she’s said too much.

“Do you go every month?” He sounds delighted at the prospect, and Ash wants to defend herself, but then he says, “you shouldn’t be catching the train so late, it’s dark even at six, love, you must get home at like midnight; just let me drive you.”

“Rog, you don’t need to do that,” but her grin is more relieved than anything else, the tension leaving her shoulders as she goes back to her work, “you guys are going out tomorrow, and besides, it’s not like I’ve never done it before.”

“I can get on the piss with them any time; this only happens once a month.” And the way his words make Ash smile, quietly pleased, he’s already pretty sure it’s going to be worth it.

Things between them have been... weird. Good weird, sure, but that doesn’t make them less weird. They haven’t really had time for an actual date yet, they just sort of show up at each other’s homes and watch TV and make out whenever they don’t have work or rehearsals of a night. It’s been good, it’s felt safe.

When Ash sits on the curb outside of her dorm, she feels nervous more than anything else. It’s not a feeling she’s used to; she’s never been nervous around Roger before; it takes her probably too long to realise how much she wants this to go well. When he shows up, just after midday, he’s beaming from the second hand station wagon that he’d gotten since recording the album. There’s a map in the passenger seat.

“I’ve driven there before, but not for a while, you’re going to have to direct me.” He advises as she buckles her seat belt, putting her sketchbook and thermos by her feet and unfolding the map.

It’s a long drive, just over five hours, and Ash is nervous for about three of them, which is only compounded by getting lost twice, and eventually Roger pulls over.

“You’ve been tense since I showed up; what’s wrong?” He asks, and Ash sighs heavily, picking up her thermos and pouring herself a small cup of tea.

“I don’t exactly go blabbing about the fact that I make semi-frequent trips to Paris, alright?” Ash admits, and she takes a sip of her drink, looking out through the windshield. Roger’s not sure what that means, how to respond, and after a minute, she adds, “Freddie doesn’t even really know.” And she finishes the tea, putting the thermos back, and Roger’s still quiet. When she finally looks at him, his expression is fondly amused.

“You’ve made me feel all special.” It’s far too genuine to be a joke, and Ash lets herself smile back, rolling her eyes at him.

“Don’t let it go to your head.” She warned, and Roger’s smile sharpened as he pulled back onto the road.

“Too late.” But he reaches over to rest his hand on her knee as she opens the map up again, and her heart grows warm, her anxiety easing. They turn up the radio for the rest of the trip; Ash hums along to the songs she only knows the tune of without too much hassle, yet somehow can’t seem to actually sing a note to save her life. She finishes butchering Elton’s Crocodile Rock at the top of her lungs, and Roger’s sides hurt from laughing, and she’s grinning in a way that means she knows exactly how terrible she is and how much it amuses Roger.

“I have other skills.” She says dismissively, grinning with her nose in the air as the radio host announces another song, and instead of answering, Roger sings along to the radio like he’d written the melody himself. “Showoff.” Ash laughed, and Roger’s eyes crease as he grins.

“I don’t have other skills, I gotta make use of this one.” He replied, lightly, and Ash’s expression softened.

“Oh shut it, you’ve got at least two other skills, probably.” She played along with his joke, watching him as he sings along to the rock song blaring from the radio, and it’s relaxed and easy, and she finds herself wondering why she’d been so worried just a few hours before.

They hit Paris at a quarter to six, and grab some fast food before heading to the gallery. There’s people everywhere, and the line isn’t exactly short to get in, more than a few of them are uni students like them, looking to get in for free, and Ash says hi to a few; the fact that she goes here enough to know other people who do this regularly to is still something that baffles Roger a little. He’s worried she’s getting nervous again when she takes his hand - they’re not the sort of people who hold hands - but when he looks at her, her eyes are shinning and bright as she looks up at the building; she’s excited.

Ash goes quiet in the gallery, looking around with wide-eyed reverence at the works around them. They move past the entrance slowly; Ash gazes at the works with their plaques memorised, while Roger reads them, fingers laced with hers.

“Oh, hello.” Voice reverential, Ash greets a statue at the end of the hall like an old friend, and introduces Roger as such. “This is the Venus de Milo, she’s almost two thousand years old, god, look at that marble work, imagine how sharp it would have looked back then,” and then it’s like she’s opened a floodgate, and she’s tugging him along, rambling along the way about each piece they pass, little facts not on the plaques, things she can cite from the top of her head. Above everything, she’s passionate, pulling out of his grip to clutch her hands to her chest and looking up at headless sculpture of what Roger thinks is an angel, and what Ash clarifies to be The Winged Victory of Samothrace.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Ash’s moon-eyed gaze was focused on the statue’s marble garments, but Roger’s only got eyes for her. When he doesn’t answer, she looks to him, catches the way he’s smiling at her, and she feels her cheeks heat up. “What?”

“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” It’s a sincere question, and it’s as if he can see her responses flit through her mind, sarcastic, dismissive, an eye roll, flippant, she passes them all, takes a moment to really look at him, taking her time to breathe in the whole situation before responding.

“More than anything.” It’s a sincere answer, and it catches him off-guard. Ash is many things, but unapologetically enthusiastic is not one Roger’s familiar with.

Turning on her heel, Ash leads further in to the gallery, but it’s finally hits him how much this means to her, this place, these works, bringing him here. They’d been together for barely a fortnight, but they both know it’s felt so much longer than that; she’d taken a gamble, bringing him, he has no doubt she’d have left him in London if she didn’t want him to come along, and something tightens in his chest.

He doesn’t dwell on it, he takes it in stride well enough, peppering her with questions along the way that she seems thrilled to answer. Tucking her arm into his, they make their way through the building, the babbling turning to banter easily as Roger provides his own commentary on each piece as they pass, which serves to make Ash laugh.

They get to a small painting on the top floor with a border that looks bigger than the picture itself, and Ash has gotten quiet again.

“Who’s this?” Roger asks, the two of them stepping close to get a closer look.

“The Lacemaker.” Ash sounds a little awed, and when he looks down at her, Roger sees how fondly she’s smiling at the little painting. “She’s my favourite.”

“’course she is, she’s like you.” Roger answers easily, and Ash makes a face, laughing a little self consciously.

“No she’s not, shut up.” She doesn’t sound like she believes him, a bit of a laugh in her words, but she’s resting her head against Roger’s shoulder and he wraps an arm around her.

“Same focus.” Roger muses, and when Ash looks to him, surprise and confusion on her face, he just grins. “When you sew, you’ve got the same look on your face, same focus.” He explains, and there’s something in Ash’s awed expression that he can’t place, and she pulls away from him too fast for him to really identify it.

She’s pretty sure she loves him.

It’s fucking terrifying.

She can’t look at him, stepping out of his grip as she feels tears well in her eyes as her emotions overwhelm her, not that it’s an uncommon occurrence, Ash has never set foot in an art gallery and not cried, but Roger didn’t need to know that. She’d really been doing well today, too. Usually she gets lost in the scope and detail of The Wedding at Cana, or even comes to obsess over the little details of The Lacemaker, but she’s also usually alone and can get away with it.

“That’s- Rog, that’s really sweet of you to say.” And he can hear in her voice that she’s trying not to believe him, that she can’t let herself believe him. And when she turns back, she’s wiping at her eyes, and he wants to try and comfort her, but she’s already walking past him briskly, leading to the next painting.

“There’s something I’ve... well, I’ve always wanted to try here.” He hears her say, voice firm as if she’s trying to move quickly past whatever the moment she’d just had was. She leads not to the painting, but to one of the weirdly low, backless sofas that are scattered around for people to view the paintings from. This one’s empty; Ash looks around for security, and seeing none, steps up onto it.

“And what’s that?” He asks with a smirk, the sofa giving her only about two inches of height on him. He doesn’t ask why she’d almost started crying, and for that she’s thankful. Instead, his hands come to rest on her hips, and he’s smiling at her in that way that sets her heart aflutter.

“Don’t ruin this.” She warns very quietly, amused smile on her lips, and Roger quirks an eyebrow.

“Ruin what?” He asks, shooting for innocent, a million different things running through his mind that could make her smile, but would definitely ruin the moment; he bites his tongue.

Ash cups his face in her hands, and she can’t help but laugh as she leans in to kiss him. It starts sweet and tender, her lips soft against his, but he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close and deepening the kiss. There’s people moving around them, most ignoring them, some stare, but neither of them seem to care. She tastes mostly like the tea she’d sculled in the car when they’d arrived, and she’s got a hand in his hair when he presses kisses from her jaw, trailing down her neck, and she laughs, a little giddy. He pulls back, if only to see her bright eyed and blushing.

“Let’s go home.” She says softly, and Roger’s never agreed to something so quickly, his heart elated to see Ash giggling and mischievous as they backtrack through the gallery, knowing that he and the art were the things that made her smile like that.

“I didn’t ruin it.” He sounds a little smug when he says it as they walk through the streets of Paris back to his car, and Ash glances at him out of the corner of her eye, snorting.

“I could see you holding yourself back from a one-liner about pinning masterpieces to walls or something like that; I appreciate your discretion.” She tells him, deadpan, and Roger gives her a self-satisfied grin.

“It certainly wasn’t easy.” He agrees, but she still reaches out and takes his hand. When they get to his car, he goes to head around to the driver’s side, but she pulls him back for a moment, pressing a kiss to his lips. After a moment, he’s got a hand on her hips, pressing her against the side of the car, and she sighs against his lips, her arms around his neck. Her legs slide open easily as she pulls him closer, letting him slide a knee between her thighs.

“Christ,” Roger breaks away from the kiss, murmuring the word against her neck as her nails graze his scalp.

“Thank you for today.” She whispers softly, and he can hear the smile in her words. He presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“Any time, love.” He steps back from her, enough to see her fond smile, and to give one in return, before he heads around to the driver’s side and they both get in the car.

It’s well past midnight by the time they get back, and Ash follows Roger up to his flat with a yawn, flinching as the door opens and Brian, Freddie, and John all greet them with a cheer, obviously taking a pit stop in the middle of their pub crawl.

“I was starting to sober up; the walk between the last pub and the next is directly smack bang in the middle of here.” Freddie claims with a surprising amount of confidence considering his words make no sense.

“No- this place is on the way to the next pub.” John corrects, and Ash has to giggle at the sight and sound of a drunk John Deacon. It never fails to amuse her, he’s surprisingly confident and well spoken.

“Yes! Deaky is right! You two can join us!” Freddie brandishes and subsequently spills on Brian, who’s sitting beside him.

“Go if you want, I’m knackered.” Ash yawns, giving Roger’s shoulder a nudge, moving past him to his room.

“Actually, I think I’m right, I’ve been driving for a while,” Roger says, making to follow Ash, only to hear Freddie boo loudly, and John call out after them.

“Where’d you guys go?” He asks, and Roger answers over his shoulder.

“Art gallery.” He answers, and he hears Ash snort from his bedroom.

“That’s... Rog, that’s surprisingly cute, didn’t know you had it in you.” Brian smiles at him, and Roger feels a little patronised by the pride in his flatmate’s voice. He flips Brian off, along with the rest of them, since John was grinning like the cat who got the cream and Freddie looked like he was three seconds away from actually ‘awe’ing.

“Did you kids have fun?” Freddie calls, sounding nothing so much like his own mother, wearing a shiteating grin, which only got wider as Roger told him to piss off, slamming the door once he got into his room.

Ash was standing by his bed, pulling off the shorts she’d been wearing all day, already wearing one of his shirts. Roger can hear the others on the other side of the door already laughing and talking about something else, all three of them trying to convince themselves to get up and move on to the next pub. She gives him an amused smile and Roger just rolls his eyes at his friends’ whole situation.

They don’t speak, though Ash’s yawn triggers one in Roger, and when he’s stripped down to his boxers, she’s waiting for him beneath the covers. When he kisses her, it’s a thank you for the day, and she hums a soft, contented noise against his lips. They’re too tired to even fool around, and Ash wraps her arm around him as he turns to lay on his side, pressing her chest to his back, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade before they fall asleep.

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#roger taylor #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x oc #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #bo rhap #borhap imagine #bohemian rhapsody imagine #queen #freddie mercury #brian may #john deacon #ask your destiny to dance fic #the angry lizard writes

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frigfridge · 5 years

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just finished rewatching toy story 1 thru 3 over the past few days, wanted to share my thoughts:

i love these movies a whole lot. the first 2 hold a bunch of nostalgia for me because i was A Baby when 2 came out and when i was also A Baby i would just watch our VHS copy of toy story 1 over and over again. this also makes me the exact age group to be emotionally destroyed by toy story 3, which came out just as i was entering high school and hit really close to home

individual thoughts:

toy story: the first thing i noticed was it still looks really nice even watching in 2019!! which i think is kind of spectacular for the first feature-length computer-animated film. it no doubt helps that the plot is mostly focused on little plastic dolls without realistic hair or clothing to animate but the semi-”cartoon” art direction means the human characters also look pretty nice without going too far into the uncanny valley.

also, the plot is WAY darker than i remember?? not because of sid and all the body horror toys, but because for like half of the movie woodys friends think hes an actual (toy) murderer carrying around the severed arm of his victim (!!) like, its hilarious, but also wow theres a LONG way to go between there and the climax of toy story 3.

the soundtrack is probably my favorite of the bunch. part of that is probably nostalgia but i just really like the consistency of having randy newman singing every song. it sort of elevates him to part of the story, like an omniscient narrator singing woodys (and later buzzs) inner monologue. 2 (and especially 3) didnt have as many musical numbers, which i can understand with a shift to a larger-scale approach to storytelling, but i really like the feeling it gives number 1. “you got a friend in me” is an obvious classic thats been remixed and brought back in just about every piece of toy story media im aware of, but “strange things” and “i will go sailing no more” deserve just as much recognition and praise. there just isnt a weak number among them

toy story 2: heres where the story started getting bigger and more existential, which basically becomes the new direction of the series. which makes sense! this one released 4 years after the first, and while theres no real timeskip in the story (maybe 6 months?) it had been a little while since we last saw woody and the gang. everybody in the real world had gotten older, and with the turn of the millennium approaching, the theme of impermanence loomed large in the collective unconscious. well, maybe not in my unconscious, because i was 2. but its really interesting as kind of a “time capsule” to what people were thinking about as the 90s came to a close.

so toy story 2 was a little more grounded, a little more focus on the human world, but it was also more fantastical in its presentation. the opening “video game” sequence (which still looks amazing!!) and woodys nightmare (”i dont wanna play with you anymore...”) show the animators at pixar really found their groove and started getting experimental. and to great result!! the fantasy sequences are a lot of fun and help 2 really stand out.

i would be remiss not to mention jessies flashback song here. its something else they hadnt really done in the first film and i think it really works. jessie in this film unfortunately doesnt get to do much other than fight with woody about whether he should stay or go (except for when she saves him in the end) but this song makes her character work. it also helps that it destroys me every time

also i think this is the movie that gave me an appreciation for the acting of kelsey grammer. i dont really agree with his politics (i also dont know specifically what they are) but he is a damn fine actor and gives the prospector a very genuinely intimidating edge after his heel turn. the casting really makes the character here, but thats nothing new for toy story-- every voice works. if i were the casting director, i probably wouldnt have pulled erudite kelsey grammer for a character named “stinky pete,” but as it is now i couldnt imagine him voiced by anyone else.

the last thing about toy story 2 is it feels like there were a lot more pop culture references? at least as far as i noticed. there are apparently even more than i noticed but i caught on to the “also sprach zarathustra” riff in the opening, and the jurassic park rearview mirror gag. and of course the extended star wars reference with zurg vs. utility belt buzz (and i guess zurg in general.) the references are cute and mostly unobtrusive but really i could take or leave them.

oh yeah also al is hilarious. just this rude, neurotic businessman whos incredibly self-important for the owner of a minor(?) toy store chain. hes such a puffed-up jerk, every time hes on-screen is a delight

toy story 3: this one kills me to death. i always get misty-eyed during “when somebody loved me” but the ending of 3 where andy introduces his toys to bonnie and plays with them one last time made me sob the first time i watched it. and it still does! thats the long game right there, thats the payoff of over 10 years loving these characters. its an emotional ketchup bomb, everything gets all messy and soggy and sweet. hopefully 4 can follow up, but im not really worried about that-- ive heard some good things. damn, its been 9 years since this movie came out, though! it really doesnt feel all that long, but i guess i havent been doing all that much

i actually dont know if i have much else to say about 3. the opening with the re-imagining of the previous films openings (woody versus one-eyed bart, buzz and woody vs. the evil dr. porkchop) is a highlight, although theres a conspicuous lack of bo peep. ive heard she has a big part in 4, but it was kind of weird to see a lot of toys missing and their absence (mostly) glossed over after the first few minutes. i miss r.c. and lenny, but i get they wanted to narrow down the cast so all of them could get in on the plot.

speaking of which, the escape scene is great too. its kind of a crystallizing moment of how close these characters are, and how well they work together. it reminds me a lot of the escape from sids house in the first movie, but there woody was working with sids body-horror toys and seemed to strike up a rapport with them bizarrely quickly. (speaking of which, i miss those toys! their designs were super cool, but i cant imagine they got much merchandise, especially babyface with the sharp, metal spider legs.) here, though, woody and the gang cooperate the best they ever have, and it really paints a picture of how close theyve become over the years, and justifies the emotional climax in the landfill. this is what i was talking about when i said i was surprised how dark toy story 1 got! these toys all hated woodys guts back then for what they thought he did to buzz. they kicked him out of a moving truck! its just weird to think about that conflict between them when you know how long they end up sticking together. but thats, like, neat, so its ok. it feels earned, its just kind of crazy in hindsight.

toy story 3 was also obviously made long after the first two-- by comparison, the lighting is way more sophisticated, the humans are a lot more detailed. theres just a lot more detail In General. the main cast is, like, super dirty for the middle 90% of the film, and it feels like, yeah, We Have This Technology Now. we can render so many individual glitter sprinkles suck to hamms ass and they will be in every single scene. the “fur tech” on lotso and buster is also an obvious clue, especially in the flashback to lotso trudging through the rain back to his owners house. its like “look! we can make this teddy bear SO wet!” and wow! yeah! you did! so wet!

lotso himself is also an interesting villain in terms of sheer bastardness. he is just a huge jerk. he could have hit that button so easily! and he was so mean to the baby! but at the same time hes a great character in how he slowly “changes” throughout the movie. he is kind of an obvious “pixar ‘twist’ villain” but again, the amazing performance by ned beatty really saves him. also he does get a nice comeuppance at the end, which was necessary because hes really the biggest villain in the series so far. hes knowingly malicious and doesnt have any greater motive, hes just an embittered megalomaniac who (apparently) has sent other toys to be broken, thrown away, and incinerated at the landfill. he honestly deserves worse than being strapped to the front of a truck but it works for a family movie.

i have a couple more thoughts on 3 (i guess i did have a fair amount of stuff to say about it) but im getting tired of writing. the music is good as usual, but the vocal stuff being entirely back-loaded (in the credits) is a bit disappointing since ive always been a fan of the songs, but i get that they were going for something different. the jokes about ken being, uh, ‘flamboyant’ felt out of place, mostly the one at the end (”uh, buzz? barbie didnt write this”) because it comes from one of the gang and not unnamed lotso goon #3, but i guess its pretty tame in the scheme of things.

overall im really looking forward to seeing what 4 does with the series. whew!

#hopefully ill see 4 this weekend #personal essay #got pretty honkin long. click at your own risk

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clairedmaddox · 5 years

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Wasting Time

The following is an excerpt from The Lund Loop Newsletter. To learn more click here.

It was an interesting week.

Sunday was Father’s Day and I didn’t get in a fight with my wife. That’s a major accomplishment because it seems like right before every holiday – both major and minor – we get into an argument.

The blame is mostly mine for not being mindful of the stress these holidays give her, and thus treading lightly in the 24 to 48 hours before they begin.

I made the same mistake (again) this year on Mother’s Day – though I was oblivious to it at first.

Rising early, I got everything set up to celebrate the day, but by 11:00am, my wife had not come downstairs. A text inquiring if she was up yet went unanswered, so I decided to run out and do a few errands.

Being a heroic husband, I texted again around noon to see if she wanted me to pick her up something for lunch.

Ding!

“No, thanks” was the response.

Whew, I thought. I’m in the clear.

But I wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Ding!

“By the way, I’m mad at you.”

That was followed by a series of “dings”, each indicating that a new one-line text had come through, none of which were very flattering towards me.

“I’ll give her a minute to cool down,” I said to myself. But a few minutes later, the dings were still coming in hot and heavy.

It reminded me of playing slots in Vegas and hitting 7 – 7 – plum – cherry – 7. It’s a winner but not listed on the payout chart, so you don’t know how much you’ll get or when it will stop.

At five texts I thought about defending myself, but before I could think of something to say, we were at ten texts, and at that point, even I knew better.

After strategizing a bit, I decided to reply with “I hear what you’re saying.”

But before I could hit “send” my wife must have seen the three floating dots indicating I was writing because she preempted me with “don’t even start texting right now.”

Backspace, backspace, backspace…

At fifteen I thought it’d be safe to use the emoji version of “I hear you,” and begin giving every fifth text the thumbs up symbol.

Suffice to say, there was a lot of venting going on, and though I was fully prepared to let it run its course, she could have at least taken some etiquette from Twitter and let me know how long the textstorm was going to last.

“1/432 You’re an asshole.”

But on this Father’s Day, I (finally) learned my lesson. Though it is my day – in theory – I tiptoed around the days leading up to it and made sure I didn’t do, say, or even think anything that would get me in trouble.

Tuesday found me wrapping up another year of my kid’s scholastic career. It’s always a painful day for me.

My father liked to work with his hands and always had a project going on. When he died, he was in the middle of building an old-fashioned children’s sled -which was rather odd as we lived in Southern California and there were no children in the house.

His process was meticulous.

The garage workbench was the nexus of the project. It was there where he kept the plans, tools, and materials needed to build the sled, as well as the custom-made hardware, decals, and ornamentation, each stored and labeled in their own specific pullout drawer.

Each piece had significance. Each piece had import. And losing just one of them – even a single stainless-steel screw – could stop the project in its tracks.

But the moment he died, the project – and the pieces that made it up – lost their meaning.

The hand-carved runners. The polished blades. The rose and thistle stenciling. Every part of the sled suffered a terminal loss of what made it important.

A small death brought on by a larger one.

Fully aware of the dramatics the statement carries, the end of the school year is a small death of sorts for me.

The backpacks and lunch boxes so deliberated over just nine months prior are cast aside, tattered and torn.

The required folders for each subject, decorated with doodles of boredom and superheroes of inspiration, have no more part to play.

The science project we stayed up until midnight to finish, the lines for the school play we memorized, and the 36 grammar and spelling packets we stressed about weekly no longer mean a thing.

And my kids could care less, so it’s up to me to sift through the ephemera from their final day to determine what things – if any – I should save.

Lecture notes, quizzes, and homework assignments are easy – trash, trash, and trash.

It’s a toss-up with the art projects, term papers, and report cards, things they might look back on with fondness – or at least curiosity – 20 years from now, but then again, may not give a damn about.

I used my best judgment and saved about 2/3rds, while the rest went into the trash.

But the backpacks and lunch boxes aren’t as clear cut.

In my mind, I envision mounting them chronologically – trophy hunter style – along a highly lacquered piece of oak, with appropriate grade level and teacher’s names on brass plaques under each.

I will then present these totems – with great pride and tears in my eyes – to my children at their respective wedding receptions.

To which they will, if I’m lucky, respond with a gentle hug and “there, there” pat on the back, while winking at the crowd behind me. But more likely, will just stare in shocked embarrassment, then give the DJ a frantic head nod, meaning, “quick, play some Bruno Mars so we can get out on the dance floor.”

So, I put them in the “we’ll see” pile.

Finally, I come to the gut punch pieces. The “Why I Love My Mom/Dad” type pieces. The easy pieces.

When I turned 20 my mother kicked me out of the house – rightly so as I was an insufferable A-hole. But when I left, boxes of my belongings – packed by her – came as well.

In those boxes were years of art projects, term papers, and report cards, but also “Why I Love My Mom” projects. To this day I can’t figure out why? Why didn’t she want to keep those for herself?

I made them for her.

When it comes to my kids there’s no question about those types of items – I want them all. And so, I hoard every single one of them.

Friday found me lying in a dimly lit room as a technician moved warm gel around my abdomen with an ultrasound wand.

No, I’m not pregnant.

Two weeks ago, I went in for my annual physical. For the most part, everything checked out okay.

But when the labs came back, there were some minor issues.

My cholesterol was slightly above normal. This is a semi-regular occurrence since turning 40 and means I’ve been too sedentary. I start riding my bike, running on the treadmill, and limit my Double-Double intake to once every other week, and like clockwork it goes back down into the normal range.

I also had slightly elevated liver enzymes. And when I say “slightly,” I mean “slightly.”

Google “normal liver enzyme range” and you’ll universally get a range of between 10 and 40. However, for some reason, my doctor/labs say 10 to 35 is the normal range – and I came back at 38. Last year I was at 37.

To me, this was not very worrisome. Lot’s of things can raise your enzyme count. Alcohol. Check. Prescription medication. Check. Tylenol. Check. Let’s just say, it was no mystery to me as to why my levels might be slightly elevated. But my doctor suggested an abdominal ultrasound.

I’ve got great insurance, so why not?

Lying on the table, I tried my best to avoid playing “game the technician,” but it was unavoidable.

The rules of the game state that the technician will know exactly what they are looking at on the screen. Kidney stone, swallowed car keys, stage IV cancer, they can discern them at a glance.

And so, I watch the technician for telltale signs.

A furl of the brow. A twitch of the eye. The almost imperceivably quick frown which says, “WHOA! THIS MUTHER FUCKER HAS CANCER.”

But my tech had a poker face and wasn’t giving away any clues.

No problem. I have a fallback plan.

She was taking a lot of time on my right side. And one spot – just under my ribs – seemed to have a particular interest for her.

Back she went to that same spot, over, and over again.

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT…SHE’S FOUND SOMETHING,” I screamed to myself.

Okay, calm down, I thought. You don’t know how this is done. Maybe this is part of the standard procedure?

Desperation breeds genius, and in a stroke of revelation I came up with a plan. If she spends the same amount of time scanning my left side as my right side, then everything is normal.

The right side had taken about 5 minutes, so when she started on the left side I began counting.

“Okay, we’re done,” she said.

It had only been two minutes.

“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, I’M DYING. I’M A DEAD MAN!”

The report came back fine. Everything is fine.

But laying on that table it occurred to me that everything could change in a moment. You go along in your life thinking everything is great, then you get hit by a car, your child gets ill, or they find a tumor on your liver.

And it also occurred to me that if that happened, I’d be so mad at myself for having wasted time arguing with my wife, or stressing out about keeping worn out backpacks, or worrying about getting sick while I was healthy.

As I said, it was an interesting week.

Wasting Time published first on your-t1-blog-url

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