That's My Bix!

I know that the internet is full of linky squee right now, but honestly, I sort of hate writing these entries after these weekends. I just know that no matter how many words I pour into this page, I’ll never be able to capture the essence of what was one of the highlights of my year. I’ll never be able to explain the hugs, laughing at Pratt’s goofy one-liners, Bozoette Mary’s kind eyes, Arianne’s lovely smile lit by a green glow stick in the darkness of my hotel room, or the way that Mare’s borrowed wrap smelled a bit like her and it felt like I was snuggling in the best aromatherapy for a half hour. I’ll never be able to explain the serendipity of being able to glance at someone across the table and know that they know exactly what you’re thinking because they are thinking the same thing. How can you explain talking to someone like Kymm who still remembers a tiny offhanded remark two years ago or tells you that your eyebrows are absolutely perfect. Who takes a Janis Joplin song and knocks it out of the park so hard that Janis herself looked down from some party in infinity and nodded and smiled? There’s just no way. I’ll never quite lock down the feeling of being a part of a great community who celebrate each other, every one, and cheer loudly when you shake a clearly non-perfect ass or tell you that you look gorgeous even when you are pale from an impending cold and feel a bit like death warmed over. I can’t do it. If you weren’t there, you just won’t understand. You just can’t.

However, here goes.

I decided to fly out of Milwaukee, since I had class on Wednesday night and wanted to travel on Thursday. The flights were cheap enough to justify the cost of a hotel room overnight, and since it would save me the two-hour drive that is exhausting on Wednesday night, it seemed like a good plan. On paper. However, my pre-trip anxiety combined with all of the niggling Journalcon details that came with being on a the committee, I really didn’t have time to pack until the very moment I was supposed to be leaving for class. I had a bit of hyperventilation and Esteban monitored my packing, talking me through a complex clothing schedule and teasing me for planning two clothing changes for each day, each with a different pair of shoes. Ah boys. They are so silly. However, even with that and a 1.75 bottle of Doctor, I still fit everything into two carry-on bags. I ended up getting to Milwaukee too late for class, however, so then went to get my nails done and pound a bunch of Odwalla, since it was feeling like I was getting a cold. Or, God forbid, Death Throat 2005 V2.0. I skipped dinner, checked into the little airport hotel, put in a wake up call for the bone-chilling hour of 4:00 AM, and then went to sleep. Two minutes later, when the phone rang, I was completely entrenched in a serious pre-cold sore throat and fever. I took a shower and then continued to let the shower run on hot while I packed and got ready, trying to knock the congestion out of my head. Then I hopped into my car and found a 24-hour Walgreens where I proceeded to load up on every cold remedy that science has to offer. Zi-Cam, Airbourne tablets, Airbourne throat lozenges, Day Quil, lotioned tissues, Advil, giant bottles of Dasani for the plane, vitamin C, and some more orange juice. Then I popped a Zyrtec on top of that. I’m surprised I could walk, but I made it onto a packed to the gills plane and then zoned out reading Donna Tartt and listening to my iFetus, taking care to dab the Zi-Cam travel swabs up my nose every couple of hours. By the time I landed in San Diego and was greeted by my psychic doppelganger Minarae, I just wanted to crawl into bed and never come out. A quick stop for some Chinese food was restorative, and then we were off to the airport to retrieve Mare, whom I did not hug nearly enough. Then off to the hotel, where I jumped into the Heavenly two-headed shower at the Westin and let the steam batter its way through my sinuses, and giving Zi-cam another run at burning out my nasal passage. I would persevere. I would stay alive. I would slip in the shower and possibly break my This Little Piggy Stayed Home toe. And was that the telltale twinge of princess time cramps? Of course it was. Fuck.

Minarae and I met with our event planner to make final arrangements for the weekend. I must mention right now that if it had not been for Minarae, there would not have been a Journalcon. Period. I’ll be honest: I didn’t want to deal with the Journalcon legacy and the baggage associated with it, nor with the inevitable drama and especially the extremely shortened amount of planning time. But Minarae was optimistic and I agreed to get involved. So if you had a great time, it’s probably because of something Minarae did. If you didn’t like something, it was probably something I argued for or against.

After meeting with the event planner, the weekend’s events were already put into motion. I threw on the dress I had planned for the drag queen show, and immediately knew that I was going to freeze my fine assets off, but decided that I would just carry on and pretend as though I was not sick. This has been a good mindset for me in the past, so I would try it again. Looking at the pictures from Thursday, I had the consumptive pallor of a Cure concert goer. After dinner that held no interest for me, it became pretty clear that I needed to put on some socks and a sweatshirt and rest if I was going to be worth anything the next day, but I didn’t want to waste a chance to hang out with Petrouchka and Minarae, my girl Deb, the most adorable and scarily efficient couple in the world Science Girl and Mr. Science Girl, the hilarious Pratt who got to meet his online journal mentor Carrie, and my wonderful friend Mare whom I never get to see nearly enough. However, finally I cried No Mas and cut out at half time, taking a cab back to the hotel and marking the first time in my entire life that I’ve ever turned my back on half-naked drag queens. People, you know that it had to have been bad, right there.

Jake had landed and arrived at the hotel about the same time, so he kept me company while I shivered and drank juice (as well as vodka, purely for medicinal purposes, I assure you). I think part of my exhaustion was the intense fear that the last six months of planning and preparation would have involved some incredible lack of foresight and we were going to have missed something important or forgotten one major detail, but at that moment, realizing that no matter what happened, I was in the company of some of my favorite people in the universe and I could close my eyes and trust that we had made the right decisions. It was a good feeling, actually.

I woke up early and met Jake in the lobby. We stopped at Starbucks for him and Jamba Juice for me (still on the cold defense kick, I got Vitamin C something or other with an Immunity Booster) and the drugstore, where I picked up more drugs, tissues and water. Then we walked to Hennessey’s for an incredible breakfast with a great soundtrack of British punk songs from the 80’s and 90’s. You can’t have asked for better than that. We were the first shift at the registration desk, so we went back, changed into our corporate softball jerseys, and sat at the table, checking people in. Well, Jake checked people in. He had a complicated system and I was too scattered and med-head to understand it very well, so I just sat there and finished the The Product Junkie swag and wore really dark lipstick (a test run for a product review). Then I was joined by Kymm and Mare and Minarae and we had a great little production line going on. It’s good to know that if we ever needed to, we could set up an Online Journaling sweatshop. While we were assembling swag (I wasn’t a procrastinator’ I had the swag delivered right to the hotel because I knew that I wouldn’t have room in my bags) Jake checked in Mr. and Ms Science Girl, her hotness LA-the-Sage, Cruel Irony, AmandaPage, Kymm and Xeney Beth, who isn’t as tall as she seems on the internet, which is approximately four stories high.

We were relieved of duty by Amanda and Deb, so Jake and I went shopping. I didn’t really find very much, other than a rather embarrassing turn at the Hello Kitty store, in which I tried to be strong but Jake is a cruel-hearted man and Sanrio merchandise is apparently my kryptonite. I fought back at the Nordstrom watch counter, but thank the heavens that he didn’t see my jaw drop at the zebra-print Kate Spade leather bag with the red silk interior, or the ante would have once again been raised and our credit cards would now be melted lumps of plastic.

We crashed out in the library lounge and then chatted with Pablo (aka Sex on a Stick) and Jecca (the cutest of them all) and ThatGrrrl, whom I haven’t seen since the incident with the knee. We were both shocked to learn that the evening reception was starting in ten minutes, so we rather rudely left all of our new and old friends to change for dinner. I had been having wardrobe difficulty, mostly because the symphony dress I bought did not have sleeves. I hate my meaty grandma arms with a passion, and the cruel twist of the universe is that I know I will have them until I am exactly 126 pounds and have stopped menstruating. There’s nothing I can do about it, other than hide them with sleeves and perhaps elaborate fans. Thus, an otherwise adorable dress was sort of useless unless I was strong enough to embrace them. I am not that girl. However, I did have a black cardigan and also a black shruggy capelet thingy from Torrid that Esteban declared a showcase for my boobs. After taking a shower and throwing on the dress, I tried on the shrug and decided it worked with the Audrey Hepburn aspects of the symphony dress and my pointy Anne Klein shoes, so I threw on my grey Ass Splinter pearls and whipped my hair up into a Hepburn ponytail and tzuzhed the bangs. Not bad for only having a half hour to get ready. I didn’t have a decent purse, so threw everything into the Pelt and ran downstairs with as much grace as I could muster. Kymm accused me of having just escaped from the Fifties.

Everything from that point forward is a blur of laughter and witty comments and smiles and hugs and introductions and refraining from grabbing the asses of married women. I paid Dashby $5 for losing the bet that he wouldn’t show up and then tried to make the rounds during the reception, getting a chance to briefly say hi to the beautiful Karen D and that wily camel racer, Mr. Karen D, Carol Elaine and Nancy and meet Biensoul’s beau, Christopher, who must have been wigged out by all the squee but seemed to be taking it in stride, and give a giant hug to Lisa-Marie. And then suddenly there was dinner and game playing and then a field trip to reacquaint friends old and new with Doctor, and more alcohol spilled inappropriately in my room, and then candy. And rereading that last sentence, it’s pretty much the recipe for a good time. We socialized all evening, then wandered around the Gas Lamp to find a crowded bar, then decided to walk back with Kymm and sit in the sports bar, where we found Beth and my favorite airport buddy Shawn. Then we gossiped for a few hours (and yes, between the four of us, we know ALL the dirt, apparently) and then were joined by the rest of the crew. At one point, I remember clapping my hands over my breasts to prevent them from being accosted, and also thinking that Mrs. Pratt is a very lucky woman. And then Cinderella’s coach turned into a pumpkin and we adjourned to our respective rooms to catch up on sleep while others went out for ‘food containing cheese’. And then someone dialed my room shortly after I fell asleep. I suppose it’s a Journalcon tradition at this point.

In the morning, I woke up early because I had promised Mopie that I’d come to the Ice Breaker she had agreed to host at the last minute (Mopie is the angel of Journalcon, just so you know. She helped out with everything from making Jingo to hosting a panel to being a panelist to helping with check in, and she wasn’t even on the committee). And the icebreaker rocked, although everyone knew which one of mine was the lie right away. I share too much, I think. I think my favorite part was Dichroic’s impression of a frustrated penguin. Cruel-Irony is right: Dichroic is a real live action figure.

The panels were great, and everyone was fantastic, especially considering the last minute substitutions and switches that had taken place in the weeks preceding. I can’t thank the panelists and moderators enough. The readings were fantastic, making everyone laugh and cry and run through the gamut of human emotion in a concentrated way that is a pretty good symbol of the weekend in a whole. There are tears. There are laughs. But no matter what, there are people who pour themselves into something and care about it deeply, whether it is an event or their writing or their relationships with people they only get to see once a year or maybe have never met face to face until just then. And for those open hearts and willing spirits, I cannot tell you enough how much I adore you all.

We ran out for hot dogs on sticks, then back for naps and the afternoon panel, which was great, no thanks whatsoever to my lack of Oprah skills. After that, I went up to my room to attempt a nap, but the phones were ringing and then I gave up and did a status check with Minarae which ended up with both of us in bed, whispering in the dark. Wow, if that’s not the sentence that launched a hundred diarist slash fictions.

Clearly, the nap was not going to happen, so I jumped into the shower, dried my hair and then tried to figure out the appropriate top to wear. I had one shirt that really showcased the cleavage and another shirt that wasn’t so much a shirt rather than a Cleavage Delivery System. I wasn’t sure about the goth connotations, so I was leaning toward the other one, but surprisingly the Cleavage Delivery System won critical acclaim, especially with the rosary necklace. So my boobies go, so goes my nation, apparently.

And then there was karaoke, which was awesome. Some of us got busted for visiting a doctor without proper insurance. I seriously suspect that Mr. Science Girl is actually a government spy or maybe a double secret agent, because the man is scarily capable. If I were stranded on a desert island, I would want him with me because he would MacGuyver a boat out of palm fronds or something and we’d be home in a jiffy. I suspect that he and Cruel-Irony could possibly combine their superpowers and team up with James Bond, er, Pablo to fight crime, taking out the evil masterminds like Meth Beth and Ray, who disarms you with his modest chuckle and entrancing tattoos while he’s busy tapping into the world’s bank system or something.

Seriously, though, who would have ever thought we knew so many world-class singers from the online community? Kymm, who claims she hates karaoke, knocked some Janis Joplin out of the park. Pratt was a man on a mission and pulled out songs I haven’t heard in ages. Bozoette Mary and Carol Elaine (and her cleavage) rocked out with no question. Monty repeated the Best Karaoke Ever from Austin, doing One Night In Bangkok and his spoken word version of U2 was a crowd pleaser. He also joined Jake and I doing the Time Warp in the back, to the cheers of the adorable bartender Miguel. Arianne lost her karaoke cherry like the rock star she is. Jessie ain’t nothing but a G-Thang, yo, and every time I think of her doing karaoke, it makes me smile. And Trance Jen needs a fucking recording deal. She’s got a velvety smooth voice that sounds like sex. Not only does Pablo have a fantastic voice, he stands in such a way that I get the vapors. Myself, I never personally put one song in, but agreed to sing a few songs for other people and somehow ended up there five times, fighting with my cracky congested out-of-breath voice. Hopefully what I lacked in vocal stylings, I made up for with amount of cleavage and props (thanks again Mary for the feather boa and LA, who gave bravely of her fashion accessory, at risk of losing her pants) And also, I still haven’t found out who put my name in to sing Push It. Luckily, Jecca was willing to Pepa to my Salt, so it was all good.

The end of the evening came way too quickly but we were not ready for it to end. We walked over to Hennessey’s, the Irish pub that was featuring a reggae band (huh?), but learned they did not have pancakes. Chauffi really wanted pancakes, so we left the pack at the bar and walked several blocks looking for an elusive restaurant that no one had ever heard of, finally hailing a cab to take us to the grossest Denny’s I’ve ever visited. Suddenly, in the harsh diner light, the Cleavage Delivery System did not seem like the best of plans, as I drew stares from every drunken direction, and also, had cycled out of the fever and was freezing once again, so after a few bites, we decided we didn’t care about pancakes anymore.

In the morning, I overslept, the sleep deficit beginning to demand some attention. I missed the morning panel and reading (Bad panel coordinator! Bad!) and was roused only by the promise of Jamba Juice and hot dogs with sticks in them. After a late breakfast, we crashed in the library lounge and began to decompress from the weekend, saying goodbye to folks as they left, talking to some people for the first real time, like Fredlet and Meg and meet Mary Ann for the first time. We were already missing the people with early morning departures. As our numbers dwindled, we bid adieu to the last of the Sunday departures, hugged it out bitch with Chuck, got to meet Kymm’s mom (a delightful creature who regaled me and Pie with tales of David Niven and Marlon Brando!), was the shell of a taco with my betrothed beloved ShannonK, and then I wandered back upstairs to take my first successful nap of the weekend. Love naps. Love them.

I woke up just in time to get ready for dinner with Chauffi, Mo and her best friend Bruce, who drove down from LA to see her. Bruce suggested the Hashhouse and described it as ‘farm food on steroids’ which sounded intriguing. Mo and I decided to split butternut squash risotto because I can rarely finish anything I order (I know, counterintuitive) and Mo wasn’t that hungry, plus the portions were ginormous. Bruce and Jake each got the famous chicken and waffles, which Bruce had described the entire way there. Because as if it weren’t enough to have chicken and waffles on one plate, they put BACON inside the waffles. Oh my word. Having tasted both, Mo and I also should have gotten chicken and waffles because damn. Damn.

After dinner, Bruce drove Chauffi and I back to the hotel and Mo left for the airport. It was an interesting goodbye because Pie and I were like ‘Ok, have a safe flight. I’ll see you tomorrow!’ and it wasn’t nearly as sad as every other one of our Journalcon goodbyes have been. That was probably my favorite part of Sunday’ the soft goodbye.

Chauffi and I had tentatively talked about going out on Sunday night, but after an exhausting weekend and also chicken (and waffles!) we could think of nothing better than to put on comfy clothes and lounge around the hotel. Which is what we did, chatting about nothing at all in particular until two in the morning when we reluctantly said goodbye. Except it wasn’t a ‘see you tomorrow’ goodbye, so very sad.

As it turned out, he was my last goodbye of the weekend, as when I woke up (late) I couldn’t find LA-The-Sage or any of the Monday departees, so I hung around the lobby until it was obviously time to get in a cab and go to the airport. I decided that I didn’t want to cart my luggage around DFW, so I checked the leopard print bags and wandered around carrying my backpack purse, a jug of water and a Dwell magazine.

And then, before I knew it, I was pointed into a Monday, chasing my friends eastward, leaving others in the west, honored in the fact that I get to hang out with such incredible people, even if I forget to tell them that they are beautiful and strong and hilarious and sexy and quirky and adorable and brave and that they are rock stars and they are my heroes and above all else, they are my friends.

I miss you all very much.

Yesterday, while driving to school, my car temperature gauge said that it was 86 degrees. The clouds in the sky weren’t right, though, for 86 degrees. They were scattery thin ice crystal clouds and not big poofs of tulle water vapor clouds. Something was up, but I didn’t want to think about it because it was so gorgeous. I contemplated taking off my shirt and just wearing my hoodie because it was damned warm (the shirt was thicker than the hoodie, so it made sense in a slutty ‘Hey, I’m just a zipper-pull away from showing the world my boobies’ kind of way) but in absence of a convenient spot to do it, I refrained. Although I did consider the parking garage at school, since no one was looking, but see what the zipper logic has done to my brain? I could never have lived with myself.

Then, on the way back up the coast of Lake Michigan, I watched as my temperature gauge dropped down into the upper 70’s, then plunged in twenty minutes to 65. Predictably, there was lightening with that unstable air and temperature variation, and it was turning the fall sunset clouds into a glam rock show, flashing pink and orange with no sound. I drove through the front and made it home before the rain started. It’s 45 here now. That’s a forty-degree drop in less than 24 hours, in case anyone is paying attention. Through the beginning of this week, I was plagued by the feeling that the beautiful warm weather was just the set up for an elaborate practical joke by Mother Nature. And then today? Ha ha. I expect it to start sleeting tomorrow.

By the way, I managed to pull together some fiction for class, eleven and a half pages double-spaced. Really, I just rewrote an existing story, removing everything that made me roll my eyes. Which apparently meant that more than half of the original story was The Suck. Stories are never finished, just abandoned, said some great writer in one of my How To Be A Writer Without Drinking Yourself To Death books. I was merciless. You could practically hear the ropes pulling the words tighter. I chopped an entire character, dumped a shitload of unnecessary backstory, and combined an entire page into a short paragraph, then rearranged everything so that instead of one big flashback, it’s little fragments throughout the narration. It’s amazing how editing the work of others allows you enough distance to slice up your own stuff without too much regret. Or maybe it’s been so long since I wrote the story that I don’t remember how much I anguished over each and every plot element. I’m really blaise about the whole workshopping thing this time around too, and I think the two are connected. It was an abandoned story so maybe I’m no longer emotionally involved. Interesting psychological dynamic there.

The stupid part of this whole thing is that I didn’t actually have a story due this week. It was due next week. However, one of my classmates had the opposite issue and didn’t realize his story was due this week, thinking it due next week, so we traded and all was well. Regardless, it means I have more time to finish the story I was working on, which is a good thing because judging from the quality of my writing these days, I clearly need it.

I rely upon the cat entirely too much in the morning. My sunrise alarm goes off (gradual light, then birds chirping, then a horribly loud buzzer noise if I haven’t turned it off after fifteen minutes), then Tilly jumps up onto the bed and starts pawing at me. Or sniffs my face. Or bumps me with her head. It’s adorable. Even in my semi-conscious state, I can see that. And it’s strangely anthropomorphic because why is the cat concerned that I’m going to be late for work?

Because she wants the delicious bathroom water, that’s why.

You see, the cat and I have a symbiotic relationship. When my alarm goes off, I’m supposed to get up and go right to the bathroom, where I will turn on a very thin stream of water in the sink and she will hop up and drink from it until her little kitty gut is all distended and turgid. She’s the only one in the house that likes the taste of bathroom water. Don’t judge me. If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to start posting pictures of the cat, every damn entry. Or making entire entries that are just pictures of the cat, complete with captions that are actually my summations of what the cat is actually thinking, maybe involving a reaction to what I, the photographer, am doing.

However, this morning, after the first meow and then the first paw paw paw, Tilly just settled down against my stomach and started purring and then went to sleep. Fuck that drink shit, it’s damned dark outside, she seemed to be saying (already it begins). If I hadn’t rubbed my eyes and accidentally given myself a bloody nose, I probably would still be asleep. Man, nothing wakes you up faster than OH BY DOD BOODY DODE! SHID SHID SHID! And the fear of 400 thread count white sheets turned into metaphors. The t-shirt I was sleeping in was not so lucky, but since it was a leftover $6 shirt, I am not terribly upset about it.

Bloodshed! Drama! If it weren’t for the promise of a piping hot Starbucks mocha, the morning would have been completely ruined. Thankfully, however, unlike the cat, I can count on my baristas. It is most certainly fall because this morning, my mocha was the best cup of happy ever.

I have the urge to cook. School has started. Geese are making Vs. The air is turning breath white. Venti vanilla nonfat no whip mocha every morning for a week straight. At night in our bed, instead of being two island nations in a sea of white cotton, with clearly defined international waters, there is continental drift and instead of whining that I’m haaaaaaaahtgitaway, I’m grateful for the blast furnace of body heat. This morning, on my drive to work, I saw a low cloud settling in a valley, looking very much like the steam over a pot of simmering soup. I’m wearing my standard issue grey cashmere cardigan over jeans and also socks with my loafers and it feels just right. Fall is definitely here.

I had a few conundrums with school, first taking the same Dr. O’Henry Award that I did the last two semesters, but his class got cancelled due to low enrollment. Then I switched to a Women Writers class, which I learned on the first day of school was actually a Native American Women Writers class. Since I actually know two highly-acclaimed Native American women writers and have studied their work and the work of others extensively as an undergrad (in fact, I think that if I concentrated hard enough, I could glurt out an exact replica of Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony) I looked at the book list and just wasn’t excited about going down that road again when I had so many missing pieces of my educational experience. So, I ended up in another fiction workshop. Which means I have to write some fiction. Stupid details. Yeah, I have no idea what I’m going to write, but since something’s due next week, I guess I’d better come up with something fast. During, you know, the five minutes of spare time I have.

However, my class is very cool, and there are four people from previous classes, including three guys who are following me from class to class. Or perhaps I am following them. I was talking with another student and he asked me if I was a poet (which is sort of the graduate student version of ‘what’s your sign’ I guess) and I replied ‘I’m a shitty poet. I’d rather write mediocre prose than write shitty poetry.’ To which one of the other guys said, ‘Excuse me? Bullshit. Mediocre prose. Ha! Listen to her talk.’ Which is sort of cool, because creative writing programs tend to be like packs of wild dogs (or, actually, online diarists). Everyone is aware of the hierarchy and where he or she falls. They are sometimes loathe to compliment their peers and risk the possibility that their words will be believed by someone else, therefore demoting themselves down the rung. Which is petty and stupid, but also sort of true. Writers are all incredibly egotistical and also have inferiority complexes, which is the only way I suspect that you can exist as a writer. You must think you are good enough to believe people want to read what you’ve written and at the same time, you must think you write like shit because otherwise why try to get any better? Which probably explains why the suicides, substance abuse and addictive personality issues abound among writers and artists.

Anyway, class is cool. And I don’t have to read Ceremony again, so go me.

Also, I am swamped with freelance stuff again. I’m sort of getting used to being swamped, a boiling frog mental condition, I think. It will be better when it gets colder. That is what I’m telling myself right now. But, I’m very much looking forward to Journalcon in three weeks, so that is my beacon. Or my bacon. Mmm.

I was ranting to Esteban about how much my Monday had sucked and how I just didn’t have the mental capacity for very much this week as my brain was spread very thin, like a sparse coating of cheese on a Ritz (Mmm), and during which time, I mentioned that one of my triggers is when someone is glory hounding or, in this case, sympathy hounding and how I worry about inadvertently doing that myself, considering that I was raised by someone with a narcissistic personality who would Woe Is Me about any little thing. I have very little patience for that. And Esteban assured me that I don’t, that if anything, I tip the other way and don’t look for sympathy when perhaps it would be good to receive some. But then, it could be said that the reaction is also due to the fact that if I badly sprained my ankle as a child, my mother turned it into a story about poor her, now she would be stuck at home with a broken kid and also a hospital bill and then her friends would pat her on the shoulder and say there there. So, I don’t know. Maybe I’m biased because I solve my mental anguish with bacon rather than looking for a tilted concerned head and a pat on the shoulder. Maybe that’s why my mother is svelte and I am not. Maybe I should stick with disseminating writing programs rather than this armchair psychology.

In other news, Mopie, Ian, Esteban and I went to many rummage sales this weekend and I became imbued with hard core negotiation skills, talking people down on prices left and right. At one point, I held out someone’s paint-by-numbers pirate ship and said “Six dollars? Come on. It doesn’t even have a frame. A buck.” And people just caved because they didn’t want to argue. Now I want to wheel and deal with everything. Later, I offered someone two dollars for their Victorian house with leaded glass windows and covered porch. They didn’t say no, but explained that they didn’t have any change. Then I offered them a quarter for their dog. The woman pretended not to hear me, because she knew that she was helpless to resist! Once I learn to harness my powers, I will clearly be unstoppable.

We had a tremendous storm two nights ago, with 70 mph winds and a bunch of houses without electricity, including our own. The Clampets’ tree fell over, grazing their house and destroying another tree and a shrub. Their trailer, however, remained unscathed. I know. I was hoping too.

I was sort of screwed, though, because I had planned to spend the entire night finishing up one article and working on another one, but unfortunately, it was all on my desktop pc, so there was nothing I could do. Then I wandered through the house, thinking, ‘Oh, I’ll just watch tv’ wait. Oh, ok, I’ll watch the Tivo in the bedroom’ duh. I’ll call someone’ oh. I’ll use my cell phone! Except the battery is dead.’ And finally I ended up cursing my coin-operated life, reading a book for school by flashlight, clutching my iPod with its red battery indicatory glaring at me accusatorily. That fun lasted until 8:30, mostly because Esteban, also without anything to do, and unable to read because I had the only flashlight, came into the bedroom and started making shadow puppets against the ceiling. I suggested that we check out how many neighborhoods were knocked out. I went out in my pajamas, figuring that no one would be able to see me anyway, not really connecting that the ENTIRE CITY wasn’t without power, just certain areas. After we got to Main Street, I sank down into the car seat, realizing that I had just walked out of the house without a bra on and I might as well start wearing Faded Glory stirrup pants with a horizontal-striped tunic because if I was going to give up certain standards, why bother keeping any? Mark Twain was wrong. Anarchy comes way before three missed meals. At least anarchy from proper foundation garments. The center cannot hold.

Esteban, however, was very pleased with this situation and did not want to observe two and ten o’clock safe driving hands taught in Driver’s Ed. Clearly, he wasn’t paying attention during those Wear Your Seatbelt and Drive Defensively Or Die A Horrible Mangled Death films we had to watch. Or maybe fear of death flies out the window when in the vicinity of free-range breasts.

So really, it wasn’t so bad. We made a few looting jokes and then got ice cream cones (Dairy Queen in De Pere still had power) and then to Walmart, where I bought some Faded Glory wear (no, I made that up. Actually, Walmart seems to be the only place in town that carries the excellent windshield wiper blades that don’t streak and no, I didn’t go into the store, given my state of undress) and then we went home, sort of dazzled by the huge pockets of darkness in our normally well-lit city.

One would think that with no radios or televisions or constant buzz from our network server, I would have slept soundly, but instead, when we got home, we were treated to the sound of the city truck grinding up the neighbor’s fallen tree (big eye roll on the fact that the truck was right there for the tree, and yet hours later, still no truck fixing the transformer that was hanging by a thread twenty feet above the sidewalk) and the distant high-pitched whines of chainsaws through the neighborhood well into the early hours of the morning. And in the morning, our alarm clock was Esteban’s cell phone, and then I took a shower by candle light and then realized that I would have to go to work with wet hair. Lovely.

Just then, I noticed a big dark something or other edging up over the sink. Upon closer inspection with my Oceanus candle, I found that it was a futhamucking earwig! An earwig! What the hell? I grabbed some tissue, smooshed it, then flushed it. Naked earwig sighting! Gargh! I haven’t seen an earwig inside our house in four years and then suddenly, the power goes out and there’s one in the bathroom? The hell? Were they lying in wait, biding their time until the perfect moment to strike? Right, like earwigs plot.

The power was back by the time I got home from school last night. Oh, and by the way? Dr. Frank is no longer in charge of my program.

I am, of course, much too demure to shout ‘HA!’ out loud. But, you know, there it is.

This morning, I got up and got dressed with electricity, which was such a novel concept that I dressed nicely for work, donning corporate clothes, rather than a pair of jeans, a wrinkled white t-shirt and whichever matching pair of shoes I can stick my feet into without having to bend over and tie them. I didn’t put on socks, because I refuse to admit that the 57 degree morning was a precursor to fall, or rather, the actual cursor to fall. However, despite appearances, I’m still living like a feral child. The fucking laundry is stacked like cordwood in my bedroom (what, only bodies can be stacked like cordwood? Or is that not a clich’ and was rather something I heard once and was so traumatized that I still haven’t gotten over it?) and I haven’t been grocery shopping in a week. And thus, there was nothing in the house to eat, so I went to Starbucks, chatted with Unsurly Girl, and then bustled to work, listening to my new iFetus (a rare impulsive techno purchase but I defy any woman to hold that thing in her hand and not be overcome with maternal instinct) and sipping the mocha when it occurred to me that I should eat something. After sneering at the various fast food places and feeling vaguely queasy at the idea of suffering through an Egg McMuffin, the healthiest substantial thing you can buy in the morning, I ended up at the European bakery. I love bread and love sourdough more fervently than I really should considering that it’s yeast and flour and, um, something sour. This particular bakery makes a sourdough bread with a vein of cheddar cheese, so it’s like a pre-made cheese sandwich, all right there, ready to be enjoyed. Fervently.

However, when I made it into the bakery, the bakery lasses (who wear cloth bandanas to hold their hair back, as though it wasn’t so much utilitarian but rather a hempy fashion statement) shook their heads and said ‘Oh, it’s too early for sourdough.’ And then a choir from the back, ‘Much too early for sourdough.’ Which is just crap because I’ve enjoyed sourdough as a tasty breakfast treat in the past, and now they’re telling me that the sourdough likes to sleep in, like some aging starlet who drank too much last night and man, baby, would you close those blinds for mummy?

Since the sourdough couldn’t be mustered, I requested two rustic rolls and, since it didn’t come with a bunch of cheddar cheese, I also asked for a few pats of butter. Another reason that I love this particular bakery is that they know that you’re just going to eat the bread before you get home, so they thoughtfully sell little pats of butter for five cents each.

I got to work and checked out the rustic rolls, which were very rustic. So rustic, I think they were made from rocks and perhaps also old thatched roofs. I shrugged, glad that I had asked for butter, and opened the first packet, which revealed a dense cluster of black mold. I threw it into the garbage and opened the second packet. Pristine creamy fat. I didn’t trust it, so I tried a bit of dry roll. The thatch was interspersed with bits of what I suspect was sawdust. Very fibery. I decided that I wasn’t that picky, so I used the wee pat of butter for the rest of the roll, then opened the remaining packet with trepidation, thinking it would be like Christmas morning and hoping for a kitten, but instead find a kitten. In pieces.

Bodies and dismembered kittens. What the hell is up with me? Stupid power outage.

The other packet was fine, by the way. The rustic roll, however, has left me unable to muster any kind of appetite for the last eight hours. It’s now well past five and I’m still not interested in food. I think the roll contained shredded MDF. This might be the best diet plan I’ve ever attempted. Good bye ass fat, hello lumber aisle at the Hundred Dollar store.

There’s been a short story floating in my brain since I visited the New Orleans aquarium, about courage among sharks, rays who speak in poetry and finish each others couplets and a lonely sawfish who somehow knew exactly how many sawfish there are in the world and knew exactly when another one died. I haven’t been able to write it down yet, have only told three people about it. There’s always this weird fear when you really love an idea that your pitiful attempt to capture it will tarnish the hell out of it, like a four-year-old trying to draw a picture of their family, making arms that stick straight out of necks and giant mantis legs for the adults. Even though I know that I’m being stupid and I should just force myself to write the damn story, not expect brilliance out of a rough draft, I don’t. I know that once I trap it, it will be bound by the margins of the page, never more than what I can manage to capture in the first rough draft. If I let it go, it will become its own thing, and all I can do after that is try to clean up the rough spots. But right now, that story is magic. Right now, that story can breathe underwater. Instead I keep visiting new aquariums, trying to recapture the awe of watching those taciturn giants swim in their glass bowl of ocean that if you stood close enough, water filled the entirety of your peripheral vision and you could stare into eyes that seemed to understand.

A brave skeleton crew of zoologists and marine biologists stayed on through the worst of the winds and flooding. When the electricity went out, they had the generators running the pumps, which oxygenated the water and kept the animals alive. They were forced to leave the facility only when threatened by violence from the roving gangs.

The generators overheated. The pumps stopped.

The sharks. Those big primordial bull sharks that managed to make a deadly five hundred pounds move as though they were performing ballet. Gone now.

The jellies. The rays. The big ancient sawfish. Over 1500 animals. Gone. I’ve spent most of the day surreptitiously crying into the putty-colored walls of my cubicle.

Sometimes it’s really hard to believe in the grace of humanity.

Donations to help the Aquarium, which expects to be closed for at least a year, are being collected here. If you donate to this cause, send me a copy of the receipt as well as your mailing address and I will send you a mix CD. Donate more than $50 and I’ll include an 8×10 print of one of my photographs, either one that is on my Flickr page or that has appeared on this site, your choice. Donate $100 or more and get the above, plus I’ll call you and thank you personally.

Photo taken by Cliff Wright at the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas in New Orleans, July 2005.