Of Supernovas and Falling Stars

Once upon a time, long before pro(zach)nation was a blog that billions (well, hundreds) read (and long, long, waaaaay long before I got too damned busy to remember to update this blog more than once or twice every, oh, six months), I was a writer.

And…not just a writer, mind you, but a pretty decent one. Back in the day – when the Great American Novel™ wasn’t only a pet project I was procrastinating from writing by maintaining a blog and working on several silly memoirs – I was a Writer. Capital W. I wrote stuff that was huge, tragic, epic, and beautifully, achingly, heartwrenchingly good. Every evening, a tall glass (or ten) of cheap, really crappy wine (Carlo Rossi by the jug, thank you very much) accompanied me on the patio while I spun pure magic from my keyboard. The words came hard as supernovas and fast as stars spinning and falling from the sky and where they crashed down, there was the brilliance of ten thousand suns. The sheerepicawesomeness of my words gave me a great big literary hard-on. And I was hardly almost never full of hyperbole.


Fast forward.

These days, it’s hard to remember to write. Pro(zach)nation came about in the waning days of my writing ‘career’ as an exercise in keeping a struggling writer’s flame burning and as a distraction from those aforementioned creative nonfiction projects, which were in themselves a diversion from a novel that was quickly becoming too heavy to contemplate – much less add meaningful words to – on a daily basis. And now, with a career and a busy home life (heavy emphasis on the home with husband, light on life as it once was)…even this humble little blog is lucky to get much action. In the list of life’s priorities, writing – which used to be so essential to my identity – just seems to…slip. Sad, but whatcha gonna do?

Well, in this case, I’m gonna slam and lock the door. Then I’m gonna spend some quality time finding that lost identity.

Tonight – for the first time in I don’t know how long – I am writing. Yes, I actually am (see?! writing!!!). No, there’s nothing ominous or cataclysmic about this: Boyfriend (scratch that…’Husband,’ though after a month that term is still a hard one to etch into my vocabulary) and I are still giddily attached, and I haven’t found myself underemployed and scratching at my navel lately. There’s no existential quacking. But it’s September, and that means that Boyfriend is back in school. And – since travel season at work doesn’t yet have me schlepping hither and yon (stay tuned on that front…I’ve got a doozy coming) – it means that one night a week, I find myself left entirely to my own devices.

And know what? This is a good thing. A very reallyveryfuckinggood thing.

Don’t get me wrong: I love the time I spend with Boyfriend. More than I ever imagined I could enjoy spending time with any one single person, in fact. I love the person I’ve grown to be while with him, even if that’s someone a little different than who I was before. (and come on, let’s face it: I just love me, period). But that doesn’t mean that I don’t equally appreciate the infrequent times I find myself on my own. It’s MY time. I can jam out to MY tunes (not that I mind Britney Cyrus or Jason de Bieber), wander around in my underwear (well, not that I don’t anyway), and drink milk directly from the carton (and eat oreos on the couch, even!). I can drink myself under the table, if I’m so inclined. And yes, I can write.

It’s pure unadulterated bliss.

But also, when Boyfriend is done with class, I will gladly serve dinner (yes, to those longtime readers, the kitchen and I have somewhat declared an uneasy truce), banish the acoustic rock (or what Boyfriend calls my ‘weepy suicide music’) or thrashy screamo (my ‘noise’), and play nauseatingly-doting husband.

See, that’s the key to a happy and healthy relationship, I think. Now that I’m all settled into matrimonial harmony, I seem to more often than not find myself in the weird position of dispensing relationship advice to people. I’m no Dan Savage, mind you, but I can hold my own.

As a coworker and I were discussing today, sometimes you just need your own fucking time. That’s not to say you aren’t completely, blissfully happy with your relationship. It doesn’t mean that you are so adverse to spending time connecting with your significant other that you start developing a rash after spending twenty-four hours together (though if that happens, Urgent Care does offer STD testing). It isn’t a diminishment of your relationship. It doesn’t mean you’re an asshole (even if you are). It just means you’re a healthy, well-adjusted human being.

Know what else? It probably means your relationship will be stronger.

Finding yourself in the company of nobody? Embrace the motherfucker.

Thus ends this week’s little bon-mots in domesticity. If you’ll excuse me, there’s a bottle of wine calling my name and two beautiful hours before Boyfriend gets back, and it’s time to go be myself and try to write something a little bit fucking sublime.

Now, thanks for coming. Go away.

Postscript: in case you haven’t noticed, the look of pro(zach)nation has changed a bit. It will probably keep doing so for a little while until I’m completely happy with the look. Love something? Hate something? Let me know…I might listen.


Nice Guys Finish Last: In a shocking development, Zach plays nicely. The cosmos shows its disapproval.

Green Day really got it right, folks: nice guys finish last.

If you recall the ongoing saga of Zach vs. Evil Archnemesis From Hades, I have had a long-running feud with an individual who is near and dear to my boyfriend. Well, it’s not so much a feud as the commonplace slightly hostile dynamic between a fag hag and her fag’s boyfriend, I suppose. She doesn’t especially like me in the picture, and I don’t particularly care for her presence, either.

To be fair, I’m sure both of us imagine offenses much worse than they actually are, and neither of us really truly hates the rotting fetid guts of the other, in much the way my ex-wife and mother didn’t so much dislike each other as think the other disliked her. At the same time, I’m sure neither of us honestly is free of any guilt in the escalation of our little conflict. I think she’s a pouty, immature, moody PMS machine when I’m around, but that might be because I’m an abusive little prick around her. Or maybe I’m a prick because she’s a pouty bitch. Chicken, meet egg.

At any rate, you know what? To quote Shirley Q. Liquor (seriously, YouTube her if you aren’t familiar – you’ll laugh your fucking face off), it hurts ma heart. See, I’m an asshat, but I don’t like to be an asshat to boyfriend. I don’t particularly like to see him conflicted or upset, and I know that our squabbling over this one particular subject does just that. That’s why every really nasty blog post on the subject has been hastily removed once common sense kicks back in.

Really, I don’t want to spend the next year or so constantly squabbling over this issue. It’s damaging to everyone involved. Besides, my inability to play nicely with a select number of his friends is the one glaring flaw boyfriend can find with me, and I’m loathe to having any detectable flaws, period.

That’s why, in a startling burst of maturity and benevolence (it shocked the fucking hell out of me, too), I spent all day long with Evil Archnemesis this past weekend. Was I planning on it? No. Was I happy about it? No. Did I give even the slightest passive-aggressive indication of my less-than-thrilledness? Strangely, no. It was a challenge at first, but I did it – I was a model un-psychotic boyfriend.

I smiled, laughed, joked around, and generally was the happy, really cool Dr. Jekyll boyfriend that Lee usually sees and loves, rather than the Mr. Hyde boyfriend the world witnesses and boyfriend does not love when I’m not pleased with things.

We all cooked a big ol’ dinner together, played ridiculous little games on her Wii all afternoon, and settled down to play board games later that night…even though I’d gone over with the understanding that boyfriend and I would be cooking dinner together, eating, and snuggling in his bedroom watching an Alias marathon.

And wonder of wonders…after the first little bit, I didn’t have to pretend to be enjoying myself. Once the surprise of our day being completely uprooted wore off (if you haven’t noticed, like Janet – Miss Jackson if ya nasty – I’m a bit of a control freak and don’t like changes of plans unless I’m the one to make the changes), I actually had fun.

It felt friggin’ great to honestly get along with the Evil Archnemesis, too. I’m pretty sure boyfriend was shocked beyond speechless, and knowing that he was pleased we got along warmed the frigid little cockles of my heart. All told, it was a red letter day and quite possibly marked a new level of maturity, class, and grace pour moi.

So what’s the problem with all this? Well, since we’re all friends now, I was informed tonight she’s decided to reschedule her Thanksgiving holiday. Now, instead of boyfriend and I having a nice holiday dinner with our mutual good friends, we’re having Thanksgiving dinner with our mutual good friends and her. I got along with her for six hours, folks. Now I have to get along with her for a whole friggin’ day. That’s big. That’s jumping into the deep end of the pool. That’s learning to drive stick on a mid-eighties Lamborghini. When it comes to this new-found human decency and playing-nicely thing, it’s a little beyond the baby-steps progress I’m comfortable with.

Obviously, this is the universe’s way of tormenting me and reminding me that I’m not meant to be a nice guy.

Dear Fruitfly…

First off, let me apologize for the things I said about you in this weekend’s post. You’ll notice that I’ve deleted that blog entry, as common sense prevailed (imagine that!) and I realized I really didn’t need, after all, to start World War Three. And really, my point here isn’t to attack you. It’s to make you think about things a bit.

That said, on with the show.

Thank you for going away this weekend. I hope you enjoy your trip, really. I know I will, because it means I actually get to spend the weekend with my boyfriend, alone.

I’m going to put all this as diplomatically as possible. It’s not that I think you’re a bad person (really). It’s not that I dislike you (really). You’re probably a nice girl, and I’m sure if we’d met under different circumstances, things might be different (maybe). I admit I probably haven’t given you a fair chance, and maybe that’s not very nice of me.

The fact is, though, you’re clinging to my boyfriend’s ass the way turds cling to my roommate’s cats’ ass.

Let me be blunt: he’s my boyfriend. Mine. Not yours. He is your friend and roommate, not your life partner. And that ass? Is mine to cling to. Continue reading

All About the Boy, Part One: I Heart My Boyfriend…

Earlier this week, one of my favorite readers and a good online buddy and I were chatting and the subject of relationships came up. Specifically, we were discussing our mutual aversion to commitment and relationships, and the crush he had on my boyfriend simply because Lee had been able to sneak past my anti-boyfriend and anti-bullshit filters and wormed his way into my shriveled little heart. Continue reading