My boobs don’t want to behave today. I hate that. I’m apparently having a bad pair day.
(Also, I apologize right now for my constant overuse of the word ‘apparently’. I was rereading my archives and apparently I use it all the time. Apparently I never believe anything, and am always viewing the world with suspicion, or, more appropriately, mild shock and dismay. Thank you for your patience as I battle my verbal demons.)
I’m in this crossroads of losing the same thirty pounds I’m always either gaining or losing. It’s a weird bridge, this thirty pounds, between three sizes of pants and two cup sizes, the difference between a t-shirt that fits just so and a baggy loose neckline. The thirty pounds drunk dials me, wanting to get back together, whispering that no one has ever been as good in bed as I was. The thirty pounds can’t stop listening to Dashboard Confessional and it sends me flowers and like a chump, I fall for it every time, because the flowers are chocolate flowers, with peanut butter stems and the vase is made of fried chicken. Thirty pounds, it’s not you, it’s me.
I know that I have cyclic depressed times of the month and cleaning times and cooking times, and right now I’m in one serious shopping mood. Maybe it’s the new winter styles or the change in the weather, but I want it all. My closet is somewhat straining from the pressure. One might think that in a house with eight closets, I would be rich with closet space, except that no, I am not. I share one 6’Wx6’Hx 2’D closet with Esteban, whose only closet requirement is that his half is filled with flannel shirts on hangers so their collars don’t get all curled and fey, thereby defeating the purpose of the manly tartan prints that make one wonder if they didn’t just catch a whiff of pine or maybe fresh sawdust or possible the entrails of freshly sported game. Or something. And also, part of the problem is that some of those closets are woefully under closeted. Our house was built in the late forties, when people were feeling sparse, afraid of Nazis and rationing. I believe entire families only had two shirts and had to take turns with the shirts and that’s why everyone was so happy to see Johnny come marching home, because he would undoubtedly bring with him more shirts. Ok, this whole paragraph has taken a distressing turn, so let’s just stop right this minute.
Anyway, yeah, lots of closets, hardly any room. I have to switch out my summer clothes and pull out my winter stuff from hiding places beneath the bed and behind the bedroom door and on two shelves in the linen closet. The whole ordeal is always distressing because I can fit ten t-shirts in the space that two sweaters require. Also, I think I pitched a lot of fleece items last spring because really, I live in Old Navy crap at work all winter and why would I keep wearing the same crabby pullover from five years ago if I can buy a new one that is all soft and warm and feels like Christmas for twelve dollars? Except now, I’m sort of sad that my favorite red one was probably sacrificed to the will of good, because it was my favorite and really, it was only a little matty and scratchy and faded and man, sometimes I need to be slapped.
I have a fantasy in which I turn one entire wall of my very long bedroom into a twelve-foot wide closet. Floor to ceiling storage. It makes me giddy. Except, as with many of my fantasies involving home improvement, it will be a small end to justify an enormous means. It wouldn’t really make sense to do it until we’ve given the bedroom the same treatment as my office, ripping down the paneling and ceiling tiles, ripping out the carpeting, putting in drywall and outlets and new vents and spending thousands of dollars and causing a ton of dust and headaches and arguments. And right now, I don’t know that I can justify it for the sake of a closet and a really nice hardwood floor instead of charcoal grey carpet from the Seventies. But again, all that closet space’ I have to admit, I get a bit fluttery thinking about it. A shelf just for purses! I think I need a moment.
In other news, I finished pulling the story out of my ass. I sort of hate it and alternately love the fact that I made it have a beginning and an end. I’m alternately good or very bad at endings, so I’m not quite sure where it falls, but that’s the part I like best about the story, aside from the title which I’m very happy with. I sort of wish I could have just handed in the title. I’m going to pass out waiting for class on Wednesday, this I can tell already. Last week, I really wanted to suggest that everyone just READ THE DAMN THING RIGHT NOW and tell me whether it sucks or not so that I can just stop fretting over it and either fix the broken spots or maybe rip it into a million pieces. However, I’m sure I will be fine and Wednesday will come when it is good and ready. Also, I have an advisor now: my adorable professor from last year, which fills my heart with gladness. He’s the same person who championed my spelling of ‘grey’, stating that it was more grey than gray. He is perfect. Also, if I’m lucky, I may be able to completely avoid Dr. Frank forever. Although everyone tells me that he is a sweetheart once you get to know him. Yeah, whatever. Hitler liked dogs.
My sister (who probably needs a different pseudonym with the arrival of Ms. Pie, who is a Mo by nature rather than by diary) got home late last night, so we are no longer temporary parents. It wasn’t as stressful as I thought it would be (except for Tuesday night when she was insanely hyper but then also told Pie that she saw London, she saw France) and I think we did pretty well. Or at least the child doesn’t seem to have been scarred by seeing Esteban tromp through the house to the bathroom in his boxer shorts. She didn’t once say ‘Man, lady, I am so done with your crazy house that it’s not even funny. Also, way to scare the crap out of me with that Legend movie.’ Rather, there was a lot of snuggling together on the chaise under a blanket and then, on Friday, she was sick so I called into work as a Mommy day, and spent the afternoon being a housewife and teaching her how to make a friendship bracelet as well as introducing her to The Munsters and The Addams Family (the fact that she’s watching the crap on Nick rather than the brilliance of Uncle Fester and Thing is just shocking). And then I made a cassoulet that no one liked but me. Luckily, I had instinctively made quesadillas as a prophylactic for picky eaters. Then the next day, when I asked her what she wanted for dinner, she said ‘Whatever. I’m not picky. I like everything except tomatoes and mushrooms and whatever it was you made last night.’ Burned by the seven-year-old. Also, she told Uncle Esteban that he knew too much. She is wise beyond her years, so my cassoulet must have really been crap. Ah well. I liked it. Suffice to say, Esteban and I are a bit dampened by the space that Abby left behind. As she walked down the front walk, escorted by her very tan mother, she looked and gave me a tight-lipped tragic little smile that was very bittersweet. I pretty sure that the reason I’m not a parent is that my heart couldn’t stand all the breaking.
