At 32,143 and Starting to See the End

I'm finally back.

I haven't had the chance to blog lately because I've been at Indigo's and for some reason I can't log on to the wireless network. I'm connected by cable now, so I ca blog.

A lot has happened since I last blogged:
-Sam revealed to Olga that Tim openly cheats on her, and this upsets Olga because she is realizing that she is becoming the WAG that she never wanted to be
-An article by Rita Skeeter in the Mirror about the WAGs Boo!-bie Mansion exploits does not sit well with Fernando, and it is revealed that Olga actually doesn't trust Fernando
-Olga has started studying for the MCAT so she can go into sports medicine, and Fernando isn't very supportive

Olga explains that things between her and Fernando aren't always bad, and that sometimes they have fun:


Soon after I began studying for the MCAT. While Fernando didn’t disapprove openly, he had his passive aggressive way of doing it. Whenever I would leave my study materials around the house he would somewhat angrily ask, “Whose is this?” which was a little odd considering that it was only the two of us living in that giant house. That was generally his method of cleaning, anyway.

While Fernando and I were slowly growing further and further apart, I don’t want to imply that every second was meaningfully painful. It wasn’t all depressing and melodramatic. Some days were wonderful. For Fernando and I, the best days weren’t those overly hyped and over-planned ones like a romantic day at the spa followed by a romantic dinner. My god, we never went to the spa. For me, romance is in the randomness. Like the Sunday that Fernando’s evening practice was cancelled.

I had planned on spending the day making paper switch plates, which would add instant style to any room with an easy, inexpensive technique. Sometimes a switch plate is best when painted to blend with the wall, but that has never been my experience. Sometimes, as is my opinion, a room gets a lift when you make it stand out by adding colourful extra-wide ribbon, sheet music, wallpaper, or a map of a favourite place. I was planning on customizing all of our light switch covers with maps of Spain and Canada, some polka-dot ribbon I found at the craft store, and the sheet music of Beatles songs. Thank god that I didn’t ever get around to doing this. My life makes me very sad sometimes.

When Fernando had found out about my planned activity, he immediately demanded that under no circumstance would I spend his free day doing lame and pointless crafts. At first I protested, citing the face-lift that I felt our house needed. He wouldn’t hear any of it. He forced me to leave the house without so much as looking back at the yards of ribbon I had purchased, or those old book-smelling maps.

We watched through the curtains of the kitchen as Julio Iglesias appeared to be burying a dead body, we painted the tree house in the backyard, and we bought a fisheye camera, just because. Then things got really crazy when Fernando decided that he wanted French fries. To be honest, I don’t think that Fernando had eaten French fries in years. But on this day, he decided to take the plunge.

As we sat in the neon glow of the local McDonalds, Fernando complained at length about his outfit.

“It’s just a big mess,” he whined. “It has no sense of purpose.”

I was pleased that Fernando had invited me to check him out, and I took a moment to notice his outfit. He was wearing a light wash of jeans with a ho-hum brown belt, and a Union Jack jacket covered a white t-shirt. I wondered for a while why the hell anyone would design such a jacket, then further why anyone would sanction the creation of the jacket, and finally, why anyone had bought it at all. These thoughts led nowhere.

“Maybe the problem is that there is nothing to bring it all together. Perhaps a hat?” I offered uselessly.

“A hat?” Fernando openly scoffed. “I think that would add confusion.”

I agreed, cursing myself for having suggested such a foolish thing.

“Well I don’t know, Fernando. You can take the outfit off soon, though,” I tried to console him.

“That just isn’t soon enough.”

“Fernando, I really don’t think that getting naked in a McDonald’s is the answer,” I urged, although the more I thought about it the more appealing it was.

“No, that wasn’t what I was thinking. Maybe I should buy something on the way home,” he said as he swept the tray into the overflowing trash.

“Fernando, it’s twelve-thirty. No place is open. I’m sorry.”

He gave me a sad, dejected look as I took his arm and slowly led him to the car. Suddenly, his ears perked up, his eyes lit up, and every part of his body appeared to become excited. And yes, I am talking about every part.

“Look!” he shouted as he pointed to a store that I had never seen before.

It was like it had come out of nowhere. In fact, I think that it did. Someone up there knew exactly what we needed, right when we needed it. This was certainly that.
Across the way, lit up with shimmering and heavenly lights, was the 24-Hour Belt Emporium. There was nothing about this store that wasn’t spectacular; there were long white columns, extravagant velvet curtains, signs that sparkled like their own little Las Vegas, and a statue of a father and son holding on to the same belt, gazing in each other’s eyes lovingly. I was suddenly angry with myself for not having spent every day in this beautiful belt menagerie.

Fernando excitedly led me into the store, and squealed with glee at what he saw. There were rows and rows of belts, as far as the eye could see. All three floors of the Belt Emporium were exploding with belts: utility belts, studded belts, woven belts, chain belts, leather belts, fabric belts, pieces of string that could be tied around someone’s waist, extension cords, wide belts, thin belts, even suspenders. I pondered for a moment as to whether it was appropriate for the Emporium to sell suspenders, as some would consider them to be the anti-belt. Since one cannot wear both a belt and suspenders at the same time, they are forever battling it out for outfit supremacy. But then I decided that it was an accepting environment that only aimed to do one thing: keep people’s pants up. If it can do it, the 24-Hour Belt Emporium will sell it.

As I stared longingly at a belt buckle with a beer bottle opener on it, Fernando saw it: he referred to it from then on as mi amore. No, it wasn’t a particularly lovely lady; it was the belt. The belt to end all belts.

He moved towards it in a zombie, dream-like state. Words were useless; he would have challenged god himself to properly describe this beauty. While I’m not god, I’ll give it a shot. The belt was white with holes evenly spaced around the perimeter, approximately one and a half inches apart. The buckle was a stainless steel silver rectangle that would perfectly accent the crisp white.

As he reached for the belt, another hand shot in as fast as can be and nearly snatched it, but instead the two were in a match to the death, each holding onto the belt as if their lives depended on it. In a way, I think that they did. Shocked, Fernando gormlessly looked up to see who the perpetrator of the attempted belt snatch was. Her hair was a medium brown, long in the front, attempting to be straight but showing its weakness in the back with small curls. Her cheekbones were very prominent, but this was likely due to a generous amount of blusher. Or was it bronzer? Green eyes shot Fernando a death stare, and arms cloaked in a turquoise t-shirt with a white tie pulled for the belt with increasing desperation.

“Get out of here! This belt is mine!” she shouted, her face showing the strain of muscle exertion.

“I’m sorry, but I really need this belt,” Fernando pleaded.

“You’re right,” she said as she looked Fernando up and down, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give it to you. Who do you think you are, some flyboy who thinks he’s the applesauce? I think you’re just balled up, the bank’s closed! Beat your gums; I’ve got a beef. You’re not the big cheese, you bimbo!” she cried as she tried to kick Fernando with her black slip-on Vans.

Mistake number one: what the fuck did she just say? And mistake number two: never try to kick a football player. It will never end well.

The attempt at violence seemed to have sent Fernando in a rage, and he pulled even harder to try to make this odd woman release the belt. This caused even more of a frenzy; in her attempts to free the belt from Fernando’s grasp, it looked even more like she was doing the Charleston with an accompanying shimmy.

Finally, it appeared as though Fernando had had enough. In one swift movement, he tripped the woman and spun around, freeing the belt. She watched in a daze as Fernando slipped the belt through his belt loops. You might think that there is no way that he could put his belt through all of those loops in time, but you would be wrong. If I had to compare it to something, I would compare it to when the young King Arthur pulled out the sword from the stone; it was like that belt was destined to be around Fernando’s waist.

I was in awe; suddenly the Union Jack jacket, which had seemed so out of place before, looked perfect. He lay perfectly still in the store, his jacket open over his sculpted, incandescent chest. I wondered where his shirt had gone, and why. His glistening, pale lavender lids were shut, though of course he didn’t sleep. A perfect statue, carved in some unknown stone, smooth like marble, glittering like crystal. I think that everyone in the store stopped belt shopping and stared. Then, everyone burst into wild applause.

Embarrassed, the woman left the store quickly, mumbling about the Suns of Ipswich and King Lightning. As she left, I suddenly saw a striking resemblance to Fernando, but I let it go quickly. It was one a.m., I was in a 24-hour belt store, and I think that one of the happiest moments of my life was when Fernando put on that belt. Was I delirious?

Sadly, most days weren’t like this. There were a lot more days where we didn’t see each other because he was on the road, playing in some other wonderful and exciting European city, and work kept me behind. There were other days when we barely talked, because in a lot of ways, there was nothing to say.