February 14, 2006

Somebody Left the Pizza Out in the Snow

Have I forever sullied the memory of a fabulous night out with a fabulous bunch of dandies? The blarg crawl of the blizzard of 2006 ended for me (and my smoochy) in a boozed-up argument that stemmed completely, utterly, from the theft of Bryce’s coat. No other reason really.

That’s how anger works. Especially when paired (impaired?) with beer, Makers, Jack Daniels and a shot of something very nasty that I drank from a test tube given to me by a tiny man wearing only underwear. It feeds on itself. (The anger not the underwear clad runt.) Makes itself bigger. Lashes out at the wrong targets.

Why did we let our anger at a nameless thief erupt onto each other? I don’t know why. But it kept going. Accusations of I can’t handle my liquor. Accusations of him drinking too much.

I threw our standard after-hours pepperoni pizzas into the snow for crying out loud! Pepperoni Pizza! Wasted!

I guess it’s easy to jest now. It seemed a fairly dramatic and necessary statement at the time. Regardless of the blizzard-like conditions, the night was such a nice snowfall. But no matter how pure the snow, once you toss your pizza into it, there’s no going back to that pure, tomato free, snow.

I’m still a bit dumbfounded. Bryce had his warm feather coat stolen on the worst snowy night of the year! Totally sucks. The coat was a bargain when he found it at a moving sale up on Park Avenue. Geox was the brand. They have those athletic shoes that “breath”. The coat was on sale for nearly 200%.

But what is a coat compared to the memory of a night? We agreed we can always have another coat. We’ll never have that moment again. We’ll never have that very night of drunken silliness with all those fun, interesting people.

And I asked Bryce to consider the person so desperate to steal his Geox coat. Consider that he (or she) may not even own a coat, whereas we have more at home. Consider the lost coat an act of charity on his part. An act of benevolence. A sacrifice to the blizzard of 2006.

Regardless we’re never going to Chi-Chiz again. Shady, sketchy-ass bar. Ahh… there’s that accusatory anger again. It was the bar’s fault his coat got stolen! Feels good. But it’s a futile emotion.

No anger. No vengeance. And not a loss in the grand scheme of things really. I can buy him another coat.

I’ve been in a fairly dismal mood the past few days.

No matter the cold, windy weather, anger will try to flare up over and over. The crowded train ride home we sat in sullen moods. We glared occasionally. We pouted. I punched the wall at the West 4th street station. Why?

I don’t know. Seemed like the thing to do. But doing so made Bryce more mad at me.
Thus the initial anger latched onto a different provoking cause. I also yelled “Just go away!” or something horribly asinine at a fellow blogger who stopped on the street to check in on us. Probably to find out why we were so upset. Maybe even to tell us our coat was found.

I’ve already traded apologetic emails with him and all is well that can be. But that encounter has colored his impression of me now, lingering should we meet face-to-face again...

And those insecurities roll in. Did other bloggers see us fighting in public? Did we make a drunken spectacle of ourselves? Do people think we’re an unstable couple? I know Foxy does. Hah. We heart Foxy. (P.S. his b’day party is Friday night at GYM bar. Let’s meet up again to welcome our littlest plushy to thirty!)

Speaking of face-to-face’s, I met some highly entertaining people Saturday night. Can’t right now, but soon will dish up impressions and links for all my newest dandies (and one dandiette). And I look forward to another night with them all.

The anger was justifiable. The targets and subsequent revival of the anger wasn’t. Calming mantra for the next blarg hop: “Less squabble. More pizza.”

How could a couple this cute (tipsy) possibly fight? Happy Valentine's Day everyone.

2 comments:

bryce said...

Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart.

XO

B

Foxy said...

Don't age me! This year I turn ALMOST thirty. I still have a whole year left to quit smoking.