This week, Coldington has become Tepidville. I’ve been watching the river every morning and it has frozen and thawed more times in the last four months than I can count, but I think this time it’s open for good. Or at least the next seven months. The bay is full of mini ice burgs, white and grey against blue murky spring melt water and there are fishermen waiting in coves for white bass. I almost got into a multi-car pile up this morning because people weren’t paying attention and taking their sweet time on the off ramp, perhaps planning pedicures for sandal season, or maybe thinking about raking the winter out of their lawns.
This morning, as I watered our hibiscus tree in the kitchen, I realized that I should probably clean out the breezeway, since it seems to be warm enough to start weaning the tree from the constant 69 degrees (heh) of the inside air. When we ripped the stinky bush out of the front walk area and replaced it with the raised bed, I had forgotten about the legacy tulips and daffodils there, but they did not forget about spring, as they have fought their way through a foot of dirt and cocoa bean shells until they found their way to the sun. I feel ashamed that I forgot them. Those bulbs have been there for at least twenty years, planted by the previous owner before she was in a wheelchair. At least they proved that they are heartier than my attention span.
Most of all, I can tell that it is spring because I am thinking about outside projects, about extending that raised bed to the other side of the front porch, about planting more clematis along the side of the house and maybe some more hostas there too. I actually looked up how to make a copper arbor on the internet. Right, because I’m so handy with a drill and joint adhesive. I may or may not have ordered nine varieties of heirloom tomato seed packets, too. Which is just silly because I should have started seeds a month ago, or maybe more. Clearly, spring makes one stupid.
This morning, we were startled awake by a gunshot. Or actually, the sound of the steel travel mug of water hitting the glass top of my bedside table. I had asked Esteban to bring me some water last night and he brought me a mug, not wanting to go out to the breezeway to get a bottle of water. I usually have bottles of water because otherwise Tilly knocks them over so that she can soak the hell out of everything in her endeavor to get a few laps of people water. I probably should mention here that I bought her a $50 cat water fountain because of her persnickety water habits, in that someone continues to give her drinks out of the bathroom water faucet to the point where she refuses to drink anything unless it is from the bathroom water faucet. Esteban is trained to turn on the bathroom water faucet and I am trained to only drink water from a bottle in the bedroom. Amazing.
So. I am reading a short story in a bookstore tomorrow.
The truth of the matter is that I am freaking out about this. Getting sort of ridiculously silly, to the point where I can’t breathe kind of freaking out. I am nervous that I’m going to read too fast, too monotone, nervous that the audience isn’t going to laugh at the right parts, or that I’m going to succumb to nervous laughter over the lines I particularly like and sit there laughing like a goon over the phrase “ass-less chaps”. I am nervous that I’m going to be the first reader and that there will be boys in the audience. I am nervous that the cutest boy of all is going to be in the audience and he’s going to hate yet another of my stories, or worse, give me his patented “It’s goooood, sweetie!” line, which means that he doesn’t get it but he’s trying to be supportive. I am nervous that I’m going to have a syncopal episode and hit the floor with dramatic thud. I am nervous that my very sweet and adorable independent study professor is going to be there and I’m going to have to say the word “penis” and she’s going to get flustered in her very Dame Maggie Smith kind of way. Or Dr. O. Henry is going to look at me with his serious respectful face and I will immediately lose all resolve, as I do not even remotely deserve Dr. O. Henry’s full and rapt attention, even though he’s my advisor. And most of all, I am nervous because I have absolutely nothing to fucking wear.
I am specifically picking a more humorous story because I have an easier time making people laugh than making them think. I don’t know why that is, but so it goes. And while I know damned well that I like my story, right now, I really don’t like my story. It’s weak. It’s insipid. It’s too much like chick lit. I have no talent nor do I have even one pair of super cute jeans. I had what I thought were super cute jeans and then I saw the GB Minicon pictures and realized that no, tragically, those were not super cute jeans. If I were writing something heart wrenching and solid, I could get away with distracting people with my bosom, but with pseudo chick lit, I can’t wear a) pink, black or white, b) too much make up or jewelry, c) something businessy, because that’s trying too hard, d) something that makes me look like a prostitute or e) basically anything in my wardrobe, because I just described everything I own.
I dragged Esteban to Appleton for some panic shopping, where I bought something red, as prescribed by Ms. Pie, and something black, because when I am under stress, I gravitate toward the familiar. I’m still uncertain though, and will probably have a panic attack tonight rather than doing my nails.
I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll just e-mail the coordinator a pod cast of me reading the story. That would actually resolve all of this. My iPod’s butt never looks big, regardless of what it wears.
Bitch.
