J.P.

Starting late last week I’ve fallen into the habit of having to take my shoes off during my lunch break. For some reason I just can not relax unless I am barefoot and feeling the freedom of prancing around the house as nature intended. I’ve always loved to be barefoot, but felt that the lunch hour is too short to enjoy the luxury. Last week I decided the heck with it and threw my shoes aside while I typed in my blog and enjoyed my lunch hour.

My blog friend Thom seems to have a concern for clean, presentable feet and I can confidently say that my feet are winners in that department. As long as you don’t look on the bottom. Running around barefoot all the time can result in some dirty feet. However, as I discovered when I was still in my single digits, that’s why Mother Nature gave us dew on the grass; so that we could run around and clean our feet.

I’m such a kid at heart.

Except for commuting to work I tend to drive barefoot. I’ve been told by people that I’m going to be stopped for driving barefoot but I don’t really see how that can happen since my feet are inside the car and the cops tend to be outside the car. It’s not like I have a neon light over the Acura yelling “bare feet!”.

There is also something very relaxing about having your feet rubbed. Even if it’s just your loved one rubbing your feet gently, I find it very soothing. Little lotions and whatnot are a wonderful thing too, but I’m content with just getting the knots in the bottom of my feet rubbed out.

When I was a kid, I paid the price one time for running around barefoot. We were at the baby sitter’s one summer afternoon running around in the yard. I was seven or so years old, running around chasing someone somewhere when all of a sudden it felt like my feet were on fire. I looked at the bottom of my feet and they were all gray and puffy. Turns out the sitter had dumped the coals out of her barbecue grill the night before and didn’t bother to pour water on them to cool them off, and they were still hot. I had burned the bottoms of both my feet. My mother is probably tearing up as she reads this. But nevertheless it didn’t slow my desire to be barefoot down, once my feet healed I was off running through the cow pastures and corn fields, meadow muffins and all, barefoot and loving every minute of it.

If you want to see a picture of my feet, look no further than the introduction page to our web site. Earl and I had our portraits taken a couple of years ago. Barefoot, of course.

In the past I have sort of secretly enjoyed Earl’s business trips because it meant that I had the whole bed to myself and could get a good night’s sleep. There was no tossing and turning nor triple-digit decibel snoring coming from the other side of the bed, just myself curled up enjoying the quiet of the night as I slept peacefully.

After over 9 years of living together, I’m finding I miss the big lug when he’s out of town. I can’t get a good night’s sleep when he’s gone. My dreams, which I usually remember quite vividly, are just a hazy bunch of mismatched images. The room is exceedingly quiet, to the extent that I leave the radio on with NPR whispering BBC news and commentary into my slumber.

When Earl is home, he can be restless and have difficulty sleeping, so he usually retires to another part of the house; checking out what’s on television, messing around on his computer, whatever. I sleep through all of this activity because I subconsciously know that he’s nearby.

I don’t know who had the idea that married/partnered/shacked up/whatever couples need to sleep in the same bed all night long. In the past I’ve believed that you go to bed, get all wild by doing everything short of swinging from the chandeliers (though that could be fun too) and then roll over to your extreme sides of the bed so that you could get a good night’s sleep. As I get older, I’m finding that I’d rather follow up the wild part with just snuggling and settling in for the night, like two bears getting ready for their long winter’s nap.

Earl is in Asheville, North Carolina as I type. He’s taking a flight late this afternoon to Charlotte and then hopping a plane to home. I’m hoping that Hurricane Ophelia holds off long enough so that his flights will bring him home safely.

I don’t think I can sleep again tonight in an empty cave.

It’s amazing what a change of pace can do for one’s psyche. There are those that have to have everything a certain way; they follow a set daily schedule, they eat certain foods and they do specific things. Try as I might, I just can’t subscribe to that philosophy when it comes to living my life.

For example, today I had the opportunity to go to our Syracuse office for work. I had never been there before and though I interact with just about everyone in that office on a regular basis, there were many that I hadn’t met face to face. After getting my little project done, I wandered through the cubicles introducing myself to put a face to a voice. It was a nice diversion and it gave my workday the little kick that it needed. When I returned to my cubicle at my home office, I found myself more focused and ready to take on the rest of the day. Here it is 3/4 of the way through the day and I’m finding the positive feelings lingering. It’s all good.

It’s amazing what a change in the routine can do.

For example, I think I worry about sleep too much. “Oh my God I need to get to bed at 10 so I can get up at 6 in the morning.” Maybe I should just go to bed when I’m tired and then deal with it the next day. Perhaps forcing myself to sleep when I’m really not tired is making me more tired the next day.

I tried to set a weekly cleaning schedule so that the house remained inhabitable. It never works out the way I want it to. Sometimes I feel like a Domestic God and run around cleaning and washing and polishing and shining. Sometimes I feel like a lazy slob. If I notice Earl putting a saddle on a dust bunny or Tom using the plants as a litter box, then of course I need to do something, but if I’m not in the mood, I’m not in the mood.

Perhaps I need to drop the anal retentive routine and engage in more of a controlled chaos.

Big Screen Television. Check.
DirecTV. Check.
Pizza and Wings. Check.
Constant Flow of Pop or Beer. Check.
Lover making himself busy elsewhere in the house. Check.

Football season has officially begun in our merry little household with the Eagles at Atlanta on Monday Night Football. Earl has installed himself in front of the television, I’ve heard few profanities and a couple of rousing cheers.

It’s good to see him so happy.

With Earl out of town on business, I’ve had quite a bit of time to myself for the past couple of nights. I’ve been keeping busy getting ready for my first club DJ gig in about 3 1/2 years downloading music and whatnot, but before diving into the project for the night I’ve gone to the mall to pick up a few things and grab a bite to eat.

Now I like malls. I find them fascinating in a very geek way. For example, there are three malls within 150 miles of us that are identical to one another. Same floor tiles. Same layout. Same anchor stores. Same style food court. I find this very intriguing though I’m sure the mall developer found it more economical than interesting.

That all being say, I must say that I hate the mall.

It’s actually not as bad as it used to be as far as being overrun by teenagers. The movie theatres moved out about a year ago so that whole crowd has moved to one of the big box plazas that have cropped up. In addition, after a huge brawl between warring schools, the mall company wiped out the food court, taking away all the trees, ledges, steps and anything else that contributed to the ambiance and replaced it with lighting brighter than a baseball stadium. You need sunglasses to sit down and grab a bite to eat. It’s quite revolting to see what the food court eateries are actually serving, it’s better to be left in the dark on some things.

Nevertheless, I found a couple of things tonight that piqued my interest. First of all, I noticed this younger guy walking through the food court with fierce sideburns, pointed shoes and a very high PING on the gaydar. He was totally out of my range of interest but I instantly recognized him and immediately felt old. He won a contest on one of the radio stations I worked at back in 1993 to be a “guest DJ” on my night show. He was 13 at the time. I found him quite frightening in that his parents just dropped him off at the radio station and took off. As I recall he was a nervous wreck, smashed a piece of equipment and stomped on several CDs. He was odd and the whole experience about sent me over the edge. He just walked on never noticing my stare. That was good.

As I was enjoying my Chinese food, two younger ladies sat down to my left and starting yammering in a fast-paced, hyper-extended version of American English that I had never heard before. There were words that were beyond my comprehension, though I tried my hardest to eavesdrop with accuracy. I sensed that they were dishing a third girl (that wasn’t present of course), something about her shorts were bitchin’. Maybe rippin’. Maybe shittin’. It was hard to tell between the gum snaps.

One of the things that I did notice is that it’s wardrobe transition time here in Upstate N.Y. Men were in shorts and sandals, women were in long slacks and sweaters. One woman had a parka and bright pink sweat pants on with flip flops, but I think she was from the local “Psychiatric Facility” as its so noted on the sign outside. Oddly enough, she blended fairly well.

I did have one mid-20s-ish man make a comment to me while I was waiting for my Chinese food to be dished up. He smiled, rubbed his chin and said “nice beard”. Since he didn’t have one, I assume that he was referring to mine. I smiled and said thanks. He glanced away nervously and I went back to living in my own little world oblivious to any sort of pass that was being attempted at the moment. I must have had “bachelor mode” written on my forehead. Earl says my name should have been “John Nyuland from St. Olaf”.

Earl will be glad to know that I made it out of there with nary a skid mark on the credit cards, having only picked up a CD cleaner and a pack of blank CDs. Good thing there isn’t an Apple store here.