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Merci Amis

My story was workshopped in class last Tuesday and it received very good comments, including from the guy who had written on the truly horrible story two weeks ago that ‘the dialogue is actually causing me physical pain’. (Heee. I like that guy.) My girl crush talked about the ‘agility of the prose’, which made me want to weep. I think it was the most positive workshop to date.

Then, during the break, someone asked our professor if he’d be willing to write her a letter of recommendation, so I chimed in and said ‘Would you be willing to write one for me as well?’ And he said ‘Oh, absolutely. For this program? No problem.’ And then I asked if he wanted more writing samples, since he’d only seen one example, and he said ‘No, no, I have seen everything I need to see.’ Which is either a good thing or a bad thing, although in the workshop, his only real complaint (other than the fact that he didn’t realize that she died at the end, despite the fact that the entire class did and then he reread the end and said ‘You know, it’s very obvious that she’s dead, but apparently I really wanted her to be just asleep’) was on overuse of gerunds making the voice passive in places. Gerunds! And then he said that when he’s reduced to grammar nitpicking, it means that the story is getting very close. So yay! How much do I love my class? How much did I need to hear that from them after the sucky suckness that was the suck of spring? So much. You have no idea.

Interesting tidbit: my professor then mentioned that he shares a ride each night after class with Dr. Let’s Be Frank, which makes me wish desperately to be a fly on the wall in that car. Of course, that’s very egotistical of me, and they probably spend the time talking about where to buy suede elbow patches for their wool suit coats or something like that. But in my head, my lovely professor is taking Dr. Frank to task for being mean to me. And also making him cry.

Ok, in my head, he kicks him too. But just a little.

I didn’t try to do the shopping thing today. I think in years past, it’s been very unfulfilling (much like the movie Elf, which I had such great hopes for, because if there was one movie where I might be able to get past the presence of Will Ferrell’s big stupid head, it would be in a Christmas movie, as I enjoy them with guiltless glee, however, even with the presence of Jingles Merryfeet, it was not to be) and I end up having residual stress for several days afterward. I suspect that I’ll be doing the majority of my holiday shopping online this year. I did some shopping online last year and I much recommend it. Usually the shipping cost is about the same as the sales tax, so it evens out and also, no lines of mouth breathers arguing about the sales price of a GameBoy. Instead I spent the day working on a very hot freelance project, and then afterward as a reward for finishing, cuddled up on the sofa in a cashmere cardigan and track pants with a hot cup of white tea. I invite you to think about that fashion statement for a minute. Where I was watching The OC. Ah yes. It all becomes clear.

I don’t know if it’s the fact that the holidays are stressful or that they bring up bad memories or if it’s merely the fact that I’m a one woman estrogen band ensemble of crazy right now, but I’m seriously considering running off to live in a cabin in the woods. A tastefully decorated cabin furnished by Restoration Hardware, but a cabin nonetheless. I would have but a dog to keep me company and perhaps also a duck for times when the dog and I aren’t speaking. And also, what can make one happier than being followed around by a fat little white duck? Nothing, I assure you. Nothing at all. Well, maybe candy.

And I shouldn’t be all cantankerous, right now. I really shouldn’t. I logically know this even when I’m thinking about the fact that Esteban has promised me five times on five successive nights that he would put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher (dishes from a rather involved meatball recipe that required three different types of ground meat and would have squicked me out to no end for all of the squishing and mixing of said meats had I not had several changes of plastic gloves to lessen the squick factor) and yet still, there they sit, stinking vaguely of basil and parmesan and germ hot sex, making my throat get tight whenever I pass through to do his laundry. And really, I think it’s unfair that I’m still doing his laundry, steaming the wrinkles out of his shirts, and he does not even consider it a fair exchange to take five minutes to fill the dishwasher and now it is driving me to consider which ultimatums I can bandy about and how much I would prefer living by myself and perhaps going on dinner dates and sex romps with him on a weekly basis.

But I digress.

So to keep myself from thinking all of these villainous thoughts that do no one any good and planning my reclusion, I should think about how lucky I am, how many people I love and who seem to love me and how in control of my life I am right now. I am truly blessed in friendships. We have complete conversations with the word ‘Dude’ and each think it’s hysterical. You fix my website for me when I haven’t got a clue. You put up with my silly picture taking and movie making. You call me to see if the class liked my story. You seem to like me when I am always rolling my eyes like a sarcastic bitch and my GOD half the time I swear I don’t even know I’m doing it, but then, there’s the other half of the time when I totally know I’m doing it and you like me anyway. You don’t take offense when I declare that your outfit must be changed, right this second, and you trust me to pick something out for you and then I mock your undergarments. You read my writing and don’t hesitate to tell me when it sucks. We get into screaming matches about who sings a song and you laugh when I call you nasty names and make jokes about how you were alive when songs came out, even though you’re only two years older than I am (but be honest, bitch, you SO did not earn Gordon Lightfoot). You tell me that my boobs are the best boobs in the entire bar. We still have a secret language, even after twenty years. You laugh at my jokes, even when they are stupid. You get excited for me when I score the perfect cashmere cardigan that fits me just right for a forty percent off. You let me be catty. You happily engage in my long distance temperature competition. You encourage me to go after other jobs, even though it would mean that we’re no longer working at the same place. You value my opinion enough to ask for advice with your relationship. And you think I’m a better person than I really am and refuse to acknowledge there is much difference between the real me and the best version of me you’re envisioning in your head. And for that, I know that I am the luckiest person in the world.

Even without a fat little white duck.

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