I had some pre-cut melon for breakfast this morning. Pre-cut produce from the grocery store offends my midwestern sensibilities, actually the whole idea of paying more for fruit just because someone wearing a store smock has cut it up for you and put it into a leaky bubble pack. And then I realized that if I buy a pineapple or a melon, it turns into modern art in my refrigerator, whereas if I buy pre-cut pineapple or melon, I will eat it within two days. And really, I can get a pretty big bowl of fruit for five bucks, which seems like a lot, but not when you consider that I’d drop five dollars at Taco Bell buying a bean burrito and fake shiny nacho cheese (god help me, as much as I loathe fake food, I heartily embrace the fake shiny nacho cheese) and a gallon of Diet Coke (er, Pepsi, actually, as I think they own Taco Bell).
I can tell, however, that Summer Slacker Girl is starting to wake up. This is the first morning where I’ve remembered that I needed to eat something before I walked out the door. Every other day, I’ve been exiting the freeway, turning towards my cube farm and my stomach turns from the allergy pill and vitamin I had taken after I brushed my teeth. I get urpy if I take them on an empty stomach, but it doesn’t kick in for about half an hour and normally I eat something. Also, further evidence is that I went without socks at least three days this week. And also, boys. Winter Weetabix is pretty singularly-minded but Summer Slacker Girl likes boys. Hi boys!
While I was in Chicago, Chiara and I were talking about what I might be like if I weren’t married, which is sort of a curious thing to think about. I’ve been pretty much exclusive to Esteban since I was twenty, so I don’t know really know what it’s like to not be a part of a couple. Even so, I know some married couples who act as though they are two halves of a whole, and without one, the other is lost and unable to function. This is not how it is with Esteban and me. While it is certainly nice to be told that you are the most beautiful girl in the world on a regular basis, I don’t tend to think of myself as Mrs. Esteban and he doesn’t think of himself as Mr. Weetabix (although isn’t it funny that no one ever assumes that a man would feel that way?) and actually it feels vaguely off-putting when someone refers to me as Mrs. Ban, because man, that’s his MOM or something. And finally, I told Chiara that I think I would be pretty much the same if I weren’t married, but I’d probably get myself into trouble, because I’d be kissing a lot of boys.
So boys. Check. Flutter brain. Check. Skitzy sense of fashion. Check. And what is more, the ability to be blown clear away by the beauty in the world. Check. Well, that’s kind of always happening, but most of the time, I don’t really take notice. But last night, I was lounging on the chaise, halfway reading the new Vogue and half watching a Six Feet Under DVD when it started to rain a little bit. I looked up at the open front door to make sure that the rain wasn’t coming in the screen and was just struck by the quality of light filtering in. Later, after it stopped raining, I reopened the door and it was even more incredible. The sherbet colored filtered sunset and bruised sky turning everything into a lomograph while the beads of rain on the red front door caught the light just so, a pair of red rubber boots after a long afternoon spent jumping in puddles. I wished for a better camera because I knew my little Elph, as wonderful as it is, could never capture the depth of color and shadow here, and the door would be just a door, and the antique mint enamelware bowl filled with violets on the steps, turning their faces toward the west would be just a blur of purple and green. So I could only sit there and take it in, until Esteban looked up from his laptop and said ‘What’s wrong, baby?’ I knew that if I tried to explain what I was seeing right then, if I even pointed it out to him, there was a chance that he would just look up and see the wet door and nothing more and then his attempt at being supportive to my queer sensitive moods would destroy everything that was magical in that space six feet away and I would lose it completely. So I shook my head and said, ‘Nothing, Bucky, it’s nothing.’ Because sometimes if you try to explain such things, there’s no way to ever do them justice. I should know better than to even try. Which is why this is the end of this paragraph.
This was sort of a crazy week. It was hell week, and my annoying coworker is becoming almost unbearable, bordering upon being offensive and obnoxious. I’ve had a few moments where I fantasize about just giving my two week notice and then spending the summer writing and catching whatever freelance assignments come my way, but my crazy work ethic does not allow for such leaps of faith. As nice as it would be. Hopefully, it will get better soon. This is what I’ve been saying to myself for two years, but maybe it really will. Maybe.
Speaking of which, I should clear up some loose ends on the various threads in this supposed storyline of my life.
I will be attending the school in Milwaukee to get my MA, because I only need 9 credits, and then moving toward a PhD. Because for whatever reason, I’ve always felt as though this is my school. If I can’t go to Iowa (and let’s face it, there’s 800 people every year who don’t get to go and only 24 who do), then this is where I need to be. Despite all that crap with Dr. Frank. I have registered for 9 credits, but I’ll be dropping at least one, if not two, or changing to a completely different class all together. Plus, I don’t think I can afford the tuition for 6 credits, and if I’m going to take 6, I might as well take 9 because the tuition is the same after you hit full time status (6 credits). I always played that trick as an undergrad, taking at least one or two classes for free each semester, but it’s going to be different now that I have to factor in an extra three hours of commuting time. This is where the ‘Quit My Job’ fantasy kicks into high gear, by the way.
Paula’s entry about our dinner is here.
My knee is much better after they stuck the cortisone in there. I might need another shot, but all in all, it’s much better. I’m still a little nervous about kneeling on it, but if I have to trade kneeling for not hurting while sitting there doing nothing, I’ll make that deal.
My story was very well-received in class. There were a few oddball suggestions, but this whole thing of writing a story and then having a bunch of critiques on it a week later was very unnerving and also rewarding. They made some great suggestions and I feel much better about the story as a whole now (as I had predicted, I did decide that it sucked after I went to class and handed it in) and will be making some revisions and then adding it to my pile of stories to be submitted. I think I was iffy about it because some of the story was taken from the words on this page and for whatever reason, I don’t tend to think of this site as ‘real writing’ mostly because I just open up a Word document and sort of type everything out in a big glurt until I get tired of typing and then post it onto the internet like furtive public masturbation, whereas when I’m ‘really’ writing, there are rose petals and champagne and perhaps a pair of handcuffs and a ball gag. And maybe farm animals. Depends if I’ve been reading Pahliniuk recently. If it’s Atwood or Hempel, there’ll be a strap on.
Editor’s Note: Do not be fooled by the fart jokes. Dumber Than a Box of Rocks is intended for mature audiences. Viewer Discretion is advised. Kids, stay in school and don’t do drugs. Not even NyQuil. And especially not you’ve got the ACT the next day and you’re too wired to go to sleep so you drink a big green glug right out of the bottle. Because that math section is going to be hating on you. I’m just saying.
Oh, and I got an A in my class. Man, sometimes I SO want to take my Four Point Oh post-graduate GPA and smush it into the face of one Mrs. Mangoe. Yes, I know. Grudges are bad. But sometimes. Sometimes I just enjoy entertaining the notion. Yes I do.
My office now has a floor. It just needs electricity and internet connectivity and then I can move in there (with some mythical desk that I haven’t yet found), with a light fixture, moldings, a closet door and a door knob still on the To Do list. Here’s a picture of the floor! I love it!
If I’ve missed any loose ends, feel free to remind me in the comments section and I’ll answer there.
