I had a weird moment with The Boy last weekend while visiting Binkles at BGSU. And it wasn’t feeling like a couple of codgers at the college party he invited us to – but that was actually pretty awkward, even if it was genuinely-intended.

My brother is currently finishing his art degree, and taking glassblowing and ceramics (I think his concentration and passion is glassblowing). I started out at AU as an art major, but burned out midway through my junior year. AU had drawing, painting, ceramics, sculpture, computer art (sort of), printmaking, and photography (sort of). There weren’t textiles, glassblowing, jewelry-making, animation, imaging, or interactive multimedia courses.

Bitter? Why yes, why do you ask?

At any rate, things turned out for the best, and I have a Business Administration degree and am currently working on my MBA. I’m very supportive of the arts, still, and very much hope that part of my life’s work is devoted to the arts in some way.

Walking through the massive halls of the art building at BG, I casually mentioned to The Boy, “I’m really glad that things worked out the way they did. If I thought I’d floundered at AU, I would have epically failed at BG.”

After a few moments, The Boy took a breath and said, “Yeah, you do kind of benefit when you have metaphorical ‘horse blinders’ on.”

At the time, I thought it was an odd comparison to make, but I think that ultimately he’s right – he saw me through all of those agonizing years in art classes, and is able to make that statement with authority. I cannot take the overwhelming distraction of frenetic creative activity: I get sensory overload and I shut down. I cannot function with too many options, and BG just offered way too many options in a field of study I wasn’t meant to master.

I, myself, am still turning this idea over in my head, musing all of the underlying implications of this statement, and how to asses and apply it for the future. Time, I’m sure, will reveal a lot of what it means to operate best with “horse blinders” on – and how to use this skill (if it is a skill) to my advantage.

Looking at apartments, I came across this hilariously yuppie description:

Imagine coming home to a resort setting with everything you need at your fingertips. Your sport utility vehicle fits with ease in your 2 car private garage. As you enter your home, you are welcomed by soaring ceilings and lovely wooded views. Walk-in closets ensures a clutter-free existence and spacious rooms aid easy positioning of your overstuffed furniture. Deluxe appliances and in-suite washer and dryer make your active lifestyle easier to manage.

In the summer, enjoy a refreshing swim in our pool. During cooler months join us in the luxuriously appointed clubhouse to watch the latest movie on our big-screen TV. Open 24-hours a day, our resort style fitness facility boasts equipment that rivals even the best private clubs.”

I wish I could say I was kidding. I am not kidding. I wonder if I have to buy the requisite “overstuffed furniture” to even get a tour of the place?

And really, there is no way The Boy and I could afford these apartments, so I suppose it’s all for naught.

I wrote about getting in shape, and how I was going to some leg work to starting the process.  Oy, did that ever not happen, but Rich gave me a reference for a friend of his in Cleveland who does some personal training work, so I have to follow up on that.  Until them, I’m going to try and get all of my measurements in this weekend, and maybe set up an at-home program and a plan.

Project 365 is going well, but it’s only been three days, and it’s really hard to fall off the wagon when you’re three days into a goal (unless we’re talking about physical fitness, and then I can’t even get one day into it).  I’m also discovering that I need to either buy or make a light tent.  I made one light tent already – but my mother, who told me to put it where I did to protect it, ended up busting through it like a football team through a banner at the homecoming game.  Buying a pre-made light tent, however, seems ridiculous because a lot of the prices are completely obscene.

I finally got the tuition thing squared away, so I won’t have to put a semester of graduate school on my credit card, and I might even be able to get my company to pay for some of the cost in the future.

The birthday went splendidly.  I got all kinds of things that I wanted, spent time with my family, and The Boy is taking me to Steak on a Stone tomorrow for birthday dinner.  At one point in my life, there was a somewhat ill-fated Melting Pot incident in which I swore I would never go to another restaurant where I had to cook my own food.  But, I love me some steak, and it’s a lot harder to mess up cooking steak than poaching raw meat.  At Steak on a Stone, the waiters bring out a rocket-hot stone, a slab of meat, and you cook your steak on that stone until it’s done to your liking.  In the famous words of one of my favorite co-workers, "What could possibly go wrong?"

I hope there’s no birthday trip to the burn unit this year.

The Boy and I pretty much use any holiday as an excuse to get each other gifts, but over the years, it’s become more about getting something that the other wants, as opposed to the vestiges of a commercialized or faux holiday (I’m looking right at you, Sweetest Day: you know what you are).  I know I really like to get him something fun, unique, and in some cases, useful.

I want to say that I was the fine, upstanding, green individual who placed a moratorium on Valentine’s day flowers.  This is not true, though – The Boy has not purchased flowers for me in years, so really, he’s partially to blame for my lack of flowers.

But really, when I got down to it, I realize that his laziness is my blessing.  Instead of having flowers that die in a week, I could have the same amount of money spent on me and get to keep it for a lot longer.  I guess I have my priorities in the right place.  In addition to putting the kibosh on flowers, no candy, either: I end up throwing a lot of them away.  I’m just not that into chocolate.  (Zebra Cakes, however, and I think that would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  It’s the simple things, really.)

I just don’t know what to do with a stuffed puppy holding a heart that says “I Wuff You.”  I’ve always had this problem personifying inanimate objects.  My heart just rips out of my chest when I look into those soulful, lifeless, button eyes, when I even think of throwing it away because I have no room for it.  I just die.

So, the Valentine’s Day gift has been bought for The Boy, and he bought his gift for me.  I was good, though, and haven’t ruined this surprise, like I’ve ruined a thousand surprises before.  Neither one of us knows what the other bought, but both of us got something the other has wanted for a while, and we know will go to good use.

Around here at StyckyWycket, I’m very lucky that I can get any/all of my graphic work done in-kind through The Boy.

In addition to his education degree, he has a degree in art with a concentration in Computer Art.  Part of how I got into art school was that my portfolio had some graphic images that I had done in my spare time in college.  But, I always felt that my “artistic vision” was slightly compromised as far as implementation was concerned.  I’m lucky because I can spell out roughly what my “vision” is for my design, and The Boy makes it happen.

The earlier masthead that you saw was also designed by The Boy.

All I told him as guidance was, “I want something red, and I want something grungish.”  Which, when you’re an artist in the field, having a client tell you that is saying, “I have nothing for you, can’t you just pull something out of your ass?  By the way, I’ll hate everything you create, because I have no idea what I want – why aren’t you reading my mind?”

These are the clients that force you to leave the art profession and become baristas.

Anyway, for this masthead, I wanted a ticket, and I wanted something circusesque, I wanted vintage-y style colors.  As you can see, there’s no accounting for the creative process, because this is what I got, and I love it!  The Boy had an old ticket from the Ashland County Fair in a drawer from a few years ago.  He went off of that, blended “This is StyckyWycket” over it, moved in “This blog goes to 11″, changed the color of the ticket, dropped them on a dirt layer, created a shadow…you get the idea.

This was done in one try.  And I can’t speak to whether it is that he and I have been together for this long (and therefore, can read each other’s minds), or that he’s just that good.  But, for whatever reason, it just clicked this time, and neither one of us could be happier for this outcome.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I was having trouble getting into the Christmas spirit.  I don’t know that it has gotten any better: my mother’s effort at a Christmas tree is a lit topiary in the foyer.  But I don’t blame her – since my grandmother’s and uncle’s deaths, this has been her most dreaded time of year;  and with my brother away in Japan, it’s hard to be festive when you’re sad.

I talked to The Boy, and he really tries to help me get into the holiday spirit.  He tells me that sometimes, if you fake festive, you feel festive. In an effort for me to fake festive, instead of wrecking another 101 in 1001 goal, I am actually going to do Christmas cards this year.  I picked them up while I was wandering through Sam’s.

I’ll sing Christmas carols while I fill out my cards.  Maybe that will get me out of my Grinchy mood.  That, and the big bottle of Bombay Sapphire that The Boy picked up for me to mix with my favorite drink ever that comes out only at Christmas – Diet Canada Dry Cranberry Ginger Ale.

Actually, the thought of a Cranberry Gin and Ginger does warm the cockles of my heart.  Maybe I can turn my poor Christmas attitude around.

Sometimes, I like to indulge in something I have dubbed The “I Love Jesus” Effect, in which, I – a normally non-retaliating person – has no choice but to react in the exact manner requested.

The “I Love Jesus” Effect is so named because of a bumper sticker, “Honk if You Love Jesus”.  One day, when I was still working long hours at the department store, I was about five cars deep at a light at a busy intersection at the busiest time of day.  At that point, I’d been cut off about four times, had three customers give me shit that day and was generally cranky.  Sitting idly at the stop light, I read the bumper sticker ahead of me: “Honk if You Love Jesus.”  I read that bumper sticker, and a wicked Grinch-like grin crossed my lips, and I though, “Hmm, I love Jesus. . . .”

Five-deep in line at a stoplight, I mashed the horn for a few seconds, and wickedly giggled at the thought that the bumper-sticker-lover was going to have to have his car detailed.

I very rarely use the I “Love Jesus” Effect, simply because it’s a douche-y thing to do, but there are just some times where it is completely appropriate.  The Boy used it yesterday on me.

We stopped at Circle K so that he could buy cigarettes and I asked if he would buy me a “Polar Pop”, which is Circle K’s gimmicky drink that you can buy a soft drink up to 32oz for only 59 cents – and stays colder longer because the cups are made out of the most Earth-unfriendly Styrofoam.  The Boy, both humored and annoyed that I’d called it buy it’s stupid name, stood in front of the soda fountain, though to himself, “Well, it is cost effective to buy the biggest one. . . .”

He came out with the biggest friggin’ soda I’ve ever seen.  The base was as big around as a small salad plate.  It wouldn’t even fit in my cup holder, I had to squeeze it in there, and hope that I didn’t produce a stress fracture and explode all over the center console of my car.

The worst part is he grinned like an ass every time I had to wrestle it out of the cup holder to take a sip.

The Boy, in preparation for his annual Christmas party, spend the majority of the week decorating the apartment, including setting up the tree.  My last year in Ashland, I bought him and I little snowmen ornaments with our names on them, and every year, they get hung in the tree.  While he was unpacking the ornaments, he called me.

“Oh dammit, now I’m going to have to open an entire box of ornament hooks.”

“Why?”

“Because, I took our snowmen out, and only yours still has its hook.  …My snowman was irresponsible.”

The Boy came over, and as promised, I made three dozen pumpkin whoopee pies.  Two dozen went home with him for the long trek to Cincinnati for Thanksgiving with the Brothers, the remainder are going with us to my mother’s cousin’s house, where we will spend after-Thanksgiving.

Also, this will be the first holiday that my brother will be in Japan, and my mother is taking it kind of rough.  This time of year sucks for her because my grandmother’s birthday was on Christmas and my uncle died in early December.  So, since both sides have Skype, Binkles is going to get up at six in the morning and have “dinner” with us with the laptop set up in his seat.

We’re going to have a scaled-down dinner with just the intimate family and small portions of the classics.  Which to me, is the perfect low-key way of spending the holidays.

The Boy’s and my anniversary is on the first of December.  Both presents arrived in my mailbox today: the one from The Boy, and the one I bought for The Boy.  At long last, I am the possessor of a brand new mp3 player.  And, it’s pink.  And made of win.

I really have to fight the urge to not ruin every single gift-giving event.  I can’t bear to keep gift secrets a secret, and I am too impatient to wait for the holiday for stuff.  I ruined my engagement surprise because I couldn’t wait, and I really had to sit on my hands to not buy myself this Zune.

I’m very excited for The Boy’s anniversary gift.  He’s wanted it for a long time, and I’m going to stop there, or I totally will spill the beans.