An Email From Allan

Oh Jane, Sweet, sweet, Jane...

Love is not found in bars, and if it is, it usually comes in a foil wrapper with a shelf life of six to eight months. You deserve so much more than that...

If you're not willing to play "Mrs. Robinson" to a potato farming neophyte from Boise then I must say that an establishment named after a flaming terrorist weapon used in the Bolshevik revolution is probably not your best choice of venues.

As for the men making unsolicited and ill-mannered advances toward you, they should thank whatever deity they think covers their respective asses that I was not there to defend your honor. Sure I might be a smidgen further away than most of my fellow six-footers, but I am trained in the arts of both Jew Dough, (the art of pummeling unleavened bread with weapons purchased at wholesale prices) as well as in full contact origami, (I can inflict a paper-cut that would make Mike Tyson cry like a baby). And, while my hands aren't officially registered with the police as weapons, they are registered at both Macy's and Crate & Barrel under the category of "cutlery" and/or "lawn furniture".

Now back to the May-December romance you almost found yourself in with Sun Valley Steve...the key word you use to describe Steve and others like him is "boy". That is the foremost indicator of where you are going wrong Ms. Winkel. That is the fly in the ointment, the hitch in your get-along and the issue at hand. "Boys" are here to earn merit badges, catch frogs and partake in the essential "alone time" in their bedrooms. All these are rites of passage, invaluable to the transition into manhood, however, as we all know, if you pick a piece of fruit from a tree that is not yet ripe then you will only taste the bitterness of impatience (and most likely will have a ruined dress on your hands...).

A man is what you need. Preferably a shorter man, an athletic, rough yet gentle man, a man that is as broad as he is tall. A man that wears his heart on his sleeve and yet always wears long-sleeve shirts. A man that can laugh with the sinners and cry with the saints, drink with the drunks and stay sober with weanies that drink Perrie. A man than can make a mean bouillabaisse, (a delicious French/Cajun Stew for those left unaware), and still be there to cut off the crusts of your grill cheese sandwich while drinking tequila from a dirty glass.

There you have it, Sweet, sweet, Jane...

You going to Molotov tonight?

Calm Before the Storm

Golden

Today was the day!

I got the email last week and marked my calendar so fast I almost fell out of my chair. This would call for me to be awake and on campus earlier that I'm used to, but if needed I would have been here at 5:30 this morning. Today PTS handed out summer parking permits...the golden ticket. When I say "handed out," I actually mean "let us pay $30 for," but it's still exciting! Don't tell anyone, but I would have paid more.

Instead of spending between 7-10 minutes every morning walking from my parking garage, I have upgraded to a surface permit. I am now right across the street, cutting my walk time down to less than 5 minutes. It put a smile on my face and a little skip in my step and I suspect that it will be this way all summer long!

To those of you who do not try to park on campus, who have a spot right outside your office, it is likely you think that it is stupid for me to get so excited about a parking pass. For those of you who know the perils of campus parking...angry attendants, special events, a hundred permits sold for each single space just so you can walk for 10-20 minutes across campus from the best spot you can find...those of you who know can probably feel the butterflies in your stomach. You are jumping up and down right now for me and giving PTS the middle finger!

For the next three months, I'm golden!

Not-So Meaningless Moments

Last night, it was 9pm by the time I made the initial phone call. I was tired and very comfortable on the couch at this point. I probably should have just gone to bed, but I decided to see what was going on...

I ended up getting an invite to a book club meeting.
Actually, it was a failed book club meeting.
Apparently, only two people showed up.
One of them owned the house...

In typical fashion, I decided to throw on some clothes, walk out my front door, and meet up with my friends Tony and Phil. When I arrived, I was offered a beer and the three of us sat around Tony’s house and talked until close to midnight. My evening was not earth-shattering. It was nothing special, not really. But maybe it was something...

I feel like I know both of these guys a little bit better than I would if I had stayed home on my couch. They know a little more of me as well. I know that when I run into them again, which will probably be tonight, that we will be able to say to each other, “do you remember last night when we drank a couple of cold beers and laughed about ‘this’ or ‘that’?”

Other people won’t be able to share that same experience, that same connection...

I have countless friendships that have started over a drink or two just like this. Friendships are formed, I think, in the small seemingly meaningless moments. This is why I make it a point, as often as I can, to say “yes” when I am invited to share in one of these moments. I know that it could be one more experience, one more memory, one more story to add to an already existing friendship, or it could be the opportunity to make a new friend, to connect to someone I have never met before.

I know that people are different, that they are driven by different motivations and desires, but even still I have a hard time understanding why everyone doesn’t take those opportunities.

My closest friends seem to be the ones who do...who at the drop of a hat can meet me anywhere, just to hang out. For me, life is lived on the other side of the front door. That is where I meet the world and share my life (and often a drink) with the people living in it.

Cheers.

The Tradition Continues

Texas/OU weekend will stay in Dallas through 2010!!

Celebrating the 2005 Texas victory over OU at the Cotton Bowl...
Go Horns!

Snooze

I have made it a habit of pressing the snooze button – for at least an hour every morning! I don’t know if I am going to bed too late, setting the alarm too early or just being lazy. I suspect that it is some combination of all three.

Every night on my way to bed, I honestly say to myself, “Tomorrow I’m going to be to work by 7:45am. If I get out of bed by 6:15am, I can make it in plenty of time. That's easy.” Then, every morning at 6:15am, I start the dance.

What is that noise and how do I get it to stop?!...

I’ll just snooze one more time...

I don’t think I need to iron my clothes today...

Just three more minutes...

Okay, this is the last time...

And before you know it, it’s been an hour. By this time, it’s 7:15am and now I’m going to be late if I don't start moving. I know that I can wake up early. I do it for all of my races on the weekend. I just can’t figure out how to make a habit of it during the week.

It might just be that I have problems, although this is not news to me.

Good night, wish me luck in the morning!