Sometime this afternoon Brian pinged me on the Nextel to ask if they’d gotten a car for me yet, as he had duty crew tonight at 6, so he wouldn’t be able to bring me if it was after that.
I called over and they said they’d have one for me by 5:30, so I let Brian know.
A bit before 6 he pinged me again to let me know that he would be turning into my place shortly. I responded with, “Steve.”
Before he could question that, I added, “I’m going with Steve; fuck Roger.”
The loaner car is actually nicer than my car. That’s not saying a lot, but usually I get stuck with something crappier than my car whenever I have to have a loaner, which is saying a lot.
I’m really not looking forward to the all-day meeting tomorrow.
For one thing, it’s for the group umbrella under which several departments fall, so it’ll mostly consist of people I’ve never seen or even heard of talking about a bunch of crap that doesn’t actually apply to me directly.
For another, Scott and Brian won’t be there so I’ll likely have no one to talk to.
On the other hand, it is a big chunk of OT, so I guess it’s worth it. Kind of.
Well, not really, but oh well.
Because I’m not as disdainful of saving pennies as some people are, periodically the people who are disdainful of them will pass theirs along to me.
The other day Scott did so with a few and said something like, “You’d better invite me when you buy that island paradise.”
This was a reference to something I’ve said a few times in the past, namely that the only way I’m ever likely to know any measure of happiness is to own a private island.
Of course, I don’t see that happening any time…ever, but hey, this sort of thing isn’t about reality.
In any case, why am I so certain that owning a private island would make me happy?
Well, there are lots of reasons, the most obvious of which would be that there wouldn’t be any dogs suffering from separation anxiety living above me.
For another, well, if I had enough money to own a private island I would most likely have enough money that I wouldn’t have to work anywhere, which would mean no traffic.
Can you imagine how sweet it would be to not have to be stuck behind people who are terrified of a light misting of rain, or be cut off by people who wait until the last possible second to merge even though there have been signs for miles telling them that they have to merge? I can imagine it, and I do, pretty much every day.
Of course, my “island paradise” wouldn’t actually be of the tropical variety. After all, in the time I’ve spent living in Virginia after spending almost two years in Tucson I’ve come to enjoy having actual seasons again (Tucson’s “seasons” basically consisted of hot and dry and not-so hot and not-so dry; I want to see leaves changing color and even a little bit of snow every now and again).
So I’m thinking an island somewhere in North America, possibly on a lake rather than on the ocean. It would need to be near a reasonably large city to allow me to go out and do the things that, on occasion, I need to do in the world (basically, get food from a restaurant and go to a Best Buy).
The whole point would be that I would be isolated from the rest of humanity, but not totally cut off. Essentially I would cut incidental contact with other people down to the absolute bare minimum.
(Ultimately I suppose that it doesn’t even need to be an island. Maybe just someplace deep in the woods and well-hidden from the world around it, but I would like to have some kind of body of water nearby, and the extra layer of isolation that being surrounded by water would provide would be a definite plus.)
Basically it would be the way my life is now, only moreso, and in more scenic and peaceful surroundings.
The island wouldn’t need to be especially big, just roomy enough for a big house (just because I want a big house) and for me to get a fair amount of exercise by walking around.
It doesn’t really seem like too much to ask, though it’s way, way, WAY too much for me to ever afford.
Still, the island only exists in the province of my dreams anyway, so what does it matter that I can’t afford to buy it (even with the gift of a few pennies from Scott) in the real world?
I suppose it’s worth noting that when I imagine myself living on this island, I imagine myself. Even though I picture this as being at some undefined point in the future, I’m not picturing any kind of significant other being there to share it with me.
For one thing, I can’t honestly imagine a woman who’d be able to live in that kind of solitude and isolation, and for another, well, I can’t imagine a woman who could live with me.
After all, though this may all be a fantasy, there is some basis in reality. There are, for example, such things as islands in the real world, but a woman who could (or would) live with Jon? Not so much.
I suppose it’s kind of sad that I imagine myself still alone in the future – even in a hypothetical happy future – but if the past is prologue, then there’s really no reason not to imagine myself alone for the foreseeable future.
And I imagine that’s rather the point of it all. I mean, if I’m going to be alone anyway, why not take it to another level and isolate myself even further?
None of this is to say that I don’t ever spend time imagining myself with someone, it’s just that in this particular bit of imagining I don’t, and really, the less you know about the details of when I do imagine myself with someone the happier you’ll be.
On that topic – minus the details – I was thinking about my fascination with Sasha Cohen earlier today and realized, as I mentioned to Brian, why there could never be anything between us.
(Okay, we’re not fully back into reality here, so there’s no point in mentioning the obvious reasons why, such as the fact that she’s a cute, successful, famous 21 year old and I’m a not-so cute, not especially successful, 33 year old nobody, though I guess I just did mention them. Well, at least you don’t have to mention them.)
Why – assuming you don’t immediately go to the reasons listed above – is that, you ask?
Because she’s Jewish.
No, this isn’t an anti-Semitic thing. It’s not even a religious thing, given that from my perspective one religion is pretty much the same as any other.
So given that it’s not a religious problem, there’s really only one impediment to my being involved with a Jewish girl: bacon.
I don’t care how cute or flexible you are: nothing gets between me and bacon.
Sadly, this also interferes with my chances with Scarlett Johansson and even my mild crush (based mostly on her sense of humor) on Michelle over at You Can’t Make It Up.
My love of bacon would also tend to rule out vegetarians/vegans, Muslims, Hindus, and Rastafarians. Then, of course, there are the women who don’t have any particular sort of religious or idealistic objections to bacon but are merely concerned about their health.
Wow. Factor in lesbians and the mentally ill and I’ve really winnowed down the portion of the female population that I have any shot at compatibility with. I’m basically left with the bacon-loving morbidly obese
Of course, this is operating on the assumption that these women would not be at least tolerant of my pork product-related needs. Even if they were, though, the various other factors that keep women from having any interest in me would step up and quickly blow my chances.
After all, my overwhelming love of bacon is just one relatively minor issue. With so many other neuroses and deeply-ingrained habits it’s no wonder I’m on that island alone.
But at least I have the scent of bacon hanging heavy in the fresh, clean air, and in the silence all I can hear is its sizzle...
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