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A Not Picture Entry. No shit.

Last weekend, I entertained M. Giant and his absolutely delightful wife Trash. They graciously allowed me to invite myself to dinner and then we went to the Bad Bar, which was strangely not very crowded, yet was playing the music at 8 million decibels. At one point, I sent a text message to the owner, asking him to turn the shit down, but apparently since he was on Letterman the week before, he’s now too good for my shit.

It’s rummage sale season here in Wisconsin, everyone clearing out the shit in their houses to make room for new shit. I’m trying so desperately to divest myself of clutter and yet– oh the allure of old tymey crap. There was recently a church tag sale, my favorite one, the one where I scored the antique enamelware-topped table that lives in my kitchen (for the princely sum of $40). This time, it wasn’t quite as good, but I did find a 50’s tiered serving tray in chrome with the atomic zig flare thing on the top, clearly unused and was probably found sitting inside someone’s dead aunt’s china cabinet and then thrown in the pile for the church. I also snagged 3 very old Nancy Drew mysteries (apparently I have started a collection, as I always buy them whenever I spot them) and a church cookbook from 1940. All of this for the princely sum of $2 total.

I know that I hate Wisconsin but I also love it when I can take advantage of the cluelessness. And I am all about the princely sum.

The Farmer’s Market season is waning, only a few weekends left, and they just started with the Golden Supreme apples that I’ve been waiting patiently to become available. They are totally my favorite apple and I only discovered them last season. I have been eating two a day, every day. I slurp them and dribble juice onto my shirt and desk, and in general, am the epitome of a very professional person.

Oh! Speaking of that! With my new position, comes a change in location, to be closer to the three other Whosits Whatsits in my company. So I will be eschewing my semi-public cubicle for a quad office in the back and also? I shall be getting a window. A WINDOW! When it starts to snow, it will no longer be a rumor, I will be able to simply turn my head and look into…well, into the chain link fence that surrounds the car lot next door to my office building. But still, windows! I won’t have to stand up and then walk twenty three steps to see the sky, it will be right there for the looking! I am stoked. Sadly, I’ll be closer to the sound of Annoying Coworker’s voice. She’s given up on me, I think. I hope.

More non sequitur: Last Saturday, we checked out a little cafe I read about on Chowhound, and that’s the only reason I knew it existed. Mario, the owner and chef of Caffe Mario (natch), came out and talked to us several times, as we were his first diners of the evening. Esteban got the night’s special, lamb and sauteed artichoke hearts that were incredible while my gemelli with four cheeses was perfection. Plus, he makes his own bread and we got there early enough that it was almost too hot to cut. Fantastic stuff. When we were leaving, he came rushing out of the kitchen to again clasp our hands and thank us for dining with him. Anyway, total local gem and as such, it will probably be out of business in five months and I will cry. Damn, I wonder if I can convince Esteban to go there tomorrow, even though it’s his birthday and he’s supposed to pick? Probably not, as Italian isn’t his favorite cuisine.

In remodeling news, the dining room now is painted red and has new cream colored berber carpeting. The crown molding and base trim is painted glossy white and on sawhorses in the garage, waiting for someone to put it all up. And expectedly, Tilly has now claimed the room as her very own room. She sleeps in a square of sunlight on the floor, and as the sun moves, so does she, so that by the mid-afternoon, she is almost in my office. And when she is bored, she goes into the empty room and crafts feline songs of love and heroism to the red walls. I believe she finds them inspiring to her burgeoning indie rock star status.

Clearly, I need to figure out what kind of furniture to put in there, to muffle some of the echoing, but my pickiness and OCD is again coming out. I shouldn’t complain because I really love how my office turned out. It feels entirely like me, on all levels, and I want the same feeling (only mixed with Esteban) in the den nee dining room. Plus, once we have seating in there, we can set it up with the electronics. It’s such a cozy and dark room that I predict we will watch a lot of movies in there. The requirements for the furniture, however, are that it be smallish enough to fit in the corners where we want seating but large enough that it doesn’t feel small. I’m thinking love seat and a chair, but we’re having a hard time finding anything we both like. But this has become a requirement, as the yodeling right outside our bedroom door at 5:30 AM? Not funny, Tilly. And also, fuck you.

School started last month and this semester I am taking a writing workshop. I just couldn’t handle the idea of taking another lit class (I only need one more lit requirement and then I have completed the credit requirements for my Masters) after the disaster of last semester’s Scifi class and also, my creative thesis needs some plumping. I just don’t feel as though I have a strong enough 100 pages of fiction, thus the workshop. Already, it’s been extremely productive, as I’ve workshopped one story so far and I think it might be the best one I’ve ever written. Also, my professor is ever so dreamy. And quite honestly, the picture doesn’t do him justice. Given my propensity to develop slight crushes on my professors every semester, when he walked into the first class, I just thought to myself “Oh COME ON you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” The deck is stacked! It’s like John Irving and a Pretty In Pink era Andrew McCarthy had a child and gave him beautiful piercing blue eyes and a propensity to Hugh Laurie-esque sarcasm. What can I do other than give in? Especially when he says nice things about my story. Yes, flattery does get you everywhere with me. Also, I feel like maybe I’m a little part of the program now, which is very cool, but weird, considering that I’m almost finished with my Masters.

Although I do always find it funny, the social dynamics among writers. Writers are people, first and foremost, in that they judge you on your looks first, and I tend to be a little shy in groups and withdraw because I’m so freaking nervous. So I assume that they just put me into the slot with other non-traditional fat women who want to become romance novelists. And then my story gets workshopped and there’s a palpable social shift. Suddenly, people listen to and laugh at my jokes. Suddenly, there is chatting before and after class. Suddenly, I’m in the In Crowd. I’m not saying that it’s because I’m good (although let’s face it, I have an ego the size of Mount Rushmore sometimes) but rather that it’s so freaking bizarre. Writers really are a pack of dogs sometimes. I wonder if it’s that way in other professions or arts? It must be.

In other vague writing news, I officially have the best freelancing gig in all the land. Every week, I have new beauty products arriving at my house and I open the box and giggle. My office has turned into a Sephora. BEST GIG EVER.

Did I mention that I get to gaze at an adorable professor once a week, too? Yeah. Sometimes I have a pretty awesome life.

The best things on the internet this week involve a bird and a Viking dancing. Not with each other. A shame.

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