Training the new gal is going well. I'm thrilled to be giving her more and more of my tasks, teaching her how to do them, and reviewing her work. There's something deeply satisfying to my teacher's soul (I may have decided against the red tape of an actual secondary education career, but I do plan on a professorship someday -- I love to teach) in passing on a torch of knowledge.
Today, reviewing a Will she had transcribed from Boss-Man's dictation, I was correcting general format-type thingummies when I noticed that fatal error which always rams a bit of a knife into my grammatical gut even though very few other people even care about it:
"...I give x to the Best Church of Ever for it's religious and charitable purposes..."
No. No. The insidious, the omnipresent, the never-ending battle of it's vs. its.
Immediately I called her back to my office, and, apologizing profusely for sounding patronizing, and explaining my English Ed background, I briefly sketched out the differences.
His car
Her car
Their car
I wrote these on a piece of paper, and said, "Okay, and now we'll say there's a car that belongs to a company, so..."
Its car
" 'Its' is possessive. It means something belongs to something else. When you use the possessive his, her and their, you don't use an apostrophe anywhere. So when you're using a possessive its, there's no apostrophe."
She nodded.
I went on. "'It's' is a contraction, an abbreviation of 'it is.' So, for example, you want to say, 'It is raining,' and you shorten it to, 'It's raining.' With an apostrophe."
She nodded again. I picked up the Will.
"Okay, now, right here, you're not saying you're giving anything to this church for 'it is religious and charitable purposes'; you're saying you're giving something to this church for the religious and charitable purposes belonging to it. Possessive. So, no apostrophe."
She smiled, nodded, and I apologized again. When she had left the office, I stared at the Will and seriously considered writing up a brief lesson for the Employee Handbook. I've left a legacy of two years' perfect grammar at the office, and I know that when I leave and my crown passes on, and on, and on, that kingdom will collapse. (That sounds SO arrogant, but my loyal readers will know what I mean.) Everything else will go on in more or less the same fashion as always, the copies, the letters, the faxes, the client calls, the appointments, the filing; but the grammar at that office will never be the same.
But that's the way it goes, and I'll take my legacy somewhere else. I looked at the clock right after she left, as it was nearing the end of the work day, and saw that my lesson had lasted about exactly three minutes. I have no idea if I went too quickly or not, but she seemed to comprehend. I hope so; otherwise I just sounded like a total and complete jerk. (But that particular mistake hurts me.)
I wonder if there's something to be made in three-minute lessons in English grammar.
I'm hopeless. (But I love it that way.)
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
randomness
Rrrgh -- the only place I can blog anymore is the local library, and I can only visit it either during my lunch hour or after work; and by the time I arrive after work, the four computers are occupied by teenagers playing video games, and the wait period is long; so my best option (because I have been feeling like I will DIE if I do not get to blog) is to write during my lunch break, when I'm hungry. So if this post sounds spacey or my thoughts run disjointedly together, it's the low blood sugar talking.
I move in approximately ten days. This weekend the most unpleasant aspect of the process took place, which was informing Meg and Phillip; and then I spent most of the rest of the weekend at their house. (Josie is SO CUTE, by the way. Oh. My. Gosh.)
Sunday night I accompanied them for dinner at Phillip's mom's house -- Sandy lives with her sister Chris (Phillip's aunt) and Chris's two sons, aged 15 and 11. The older son, T., is probably destined for a life on the lam; the younger son, L., has more hope, and is kind of adorable in his chubby pre-adolescent attention-seeking way.
When I sat down to eat, T. had already skulked off to destinations unknown (although I saw him lurking hopefully in the yard before I went inside, while I was on the phone); and Sandy and Chris told me how much they'd miss me and how sad it was that I'm leaving, although they understood all my reasons; Sandy said, "You'll have to come back to visit lots!" and Chris chimed in, "Yeah, T. will miss you. He spent the first half hour of the visit asking, 'Is Sarah here? Is Sarah here?'"
I laughed. And then L. spent the evening throwing toys at me and grinning and blushing.
Boys...
And then today as I walked down the street to fetch the office mail, the guys at the sharpening shop across the street hailed me and asked about my moving timetable. Randy (so appropriately named) asked me when I'm going to go out with them and party.
"The last Friday night?" he said.
"Nope. My parents will be here."
"Thursday night?"
"Nope. I'm not packing hungover."
"Wednesday night?"
"Nope."
"This Friday night?"
"Well, you get points for trying," I said, "but no thank you."
Jeremy laughed.
Randy looked a little stunned. He in particular has made outrageously suggestive comments consistently throughout the past two years I've worked here. But some traditions -- such as my slapping him down -- really shouldn't change just because I'm leaving.
There are instances, of course, when joking rivalries and enmities should be put aside at the conclusion of a time spent in the same place -- a hug between college nemeses at graduation, for example. But there are other times, like this one, where I see no reason in giving this manner of interrelating -- however lighthearted and fun (notice I'm not saying "innocent") -- any opportunity for one last try before the good small town girl goes back home. They're good guys; they've bailed me out of snowbound driveways and overgrown yards and blown headlights; but I've taken care that everything except the one replaced headlight received a monetary compensation, and I've turned them down for a lot of the help they've offered. I don't like to "owe" people -- especially not significantly older, shameless men who like to stand two feet into my personal space just to see if I'll back up.
I'll miss their jocularity, of course; going to the Post Office has been anything but boring, these last two years. But part of the fun of our interactions has been my aloofness. I know it drives them crazy. They always try. I always turn them down. It's part of the course of nature, like gravity or nuclear radiation or photosynthesis. Who am I to disrupt the order of things?
In the meantime, there is more packing than a gal knows what to do with. And the more I get done, the more I can't wait to get out of The State of Denmark. The past month has been wet and rainy beyond belief, and that house has never been dry; now everything is starting to reek of mildew and it's profoundly irritating.
The hilariously horrible thing about packing, though, is that I keep thinking, "I'll put in that movie tonight while I work," or, "I'll listen to that CD," inevitably followed by, "...oh. I packed it."
It would be one thing if this only happened once. But it happens over and over, like the time every power grid went out in the Tri-State area (PA, New York and Ohio) a few years ago and my sister and I spent the hot summer afternoon saying to each other, "I'm bored. Wanna watch a movie?" "Yeah! Oh. We can't. Power's out." "Hm. Well, wanna play a video game?" "Yeah! Oh. We can't. Power's out." All afternoon.
I move in approximately ten days. This weekend the most unpleasant aspect of the process took place, which was informing Meg and Phillip; and then I spent most of the rest of the weekend at their house. (Josie is SO CUTE, by the way. Oh. My. Gosh.)
Sunday night I accompanied them for dinner at Phillip's mom's house -- Sandy lives with her sister Chris (Phillip's aunt) and Chris's two sons, aged 15 and 11. The older son, T., is probably destined for a life on the lam; the younger son, L., has more hope, and is kind of adorable in his chubby pre-adolescent attention-seeking way.
When I sat down to eat, T. had already skulked off to destinations unknown (although I saw him lurking hopefully in the yard before I went inside, while I was on the phone); and Sandy and Chris told me how much they'd miss me and how sad it was that I'm leaving, although they understood all my reasons; Sandy said, "You'll have to come back to visit lots!" and Chris chimed in, "Yeah, T. will miss you. He spent the first half hour of the visit asking, 'Is Sarah here? Is Sarah here?'"
I laughed. And then L. spent the evening throwing toys at me and grinning and blushing.
Boys...
And then today as I walked down the street to fetch the office mail, the guys at the sharpening shop across the street hailed me and asked about my moving timetable. Randy (so appropriately named) asked me when I'm going to go out with them and party.
"The last Friday night?" he said.
"Nope. My parents will be here."
"Thursday night?"
"Nope. I'm not packing hungover."
"Wednesday night?"
"Nope."
"This Friday night?"
"Well, you get points for trying," I said, "but no thank you."
Jeremy laughed.
Randy looked a little stunned. He in particular has made outrageously suggestive comments consistently throughout the past two years I've worked here. But some traditions -- such as my slapping him down -- really shouldn't change just because I'm leaving.
There are instances, of course, when joking rivalries and enmities should be put aside at the conclusion of a time spent in the same place -- a hug between college nemeses at graduation, for example. But there are other times, like this one, where I see no reason in giving this manner of interrelating -- however lighthearted and fun (notice I'm not saying "innocent") -- any opportunity for one last try before the good small town girl goes back home. They're good guys; they've bailed me out of snowbound driveways and overgrown yards and blown headlights; but I've taken care that everything except the one replaced headlight received a monetary compensation, and I've turned them down for a lot of the help they've offered. I don't like to "owe" people -- especially not significantly older, shameless men who like to stand two feet into my personal space just to see if I'll back up.
I'll miss their jocularity, of course; going to the Post Office has been anything but boring, these last two years. But part of the fun of our interactions has been my aloofness. I know it drives them crazy. They always try. I always turn them down. It's part of the course of nature, like gravity or nuclear radiation or photosynthesis. Who am I to disrupt the order of things?
In the meantime, there is more packing than a gal knows what to do with. And the more I get done, the more I can't wait to get out of The State of Denmark. The past month has been wet and rainy beyond belief, and that house has never been dry; now everything is starting to reek of mildew and it's profoundly irritating.
The hilariously horrible thing about packing, though, is that I keep thinking, "I'll put in that movie tonight while I work," or, "I'll listen to that CD," inevitably followed by, "...oh. I packed it."
It would be one thing if this only happened once. But it happens over and over, like the time every power grid went out in the Tri-State area (PA, New York and Ohio) a few years ago and my sister and I spent the hot summer afternoon saying to each other, "I'm bored. Wanna watch a movie?" "Yeah! Oh. We can't. Power's out." "Hm. Well, wanna play a video game?" "Yeah! Oh. We can't. Power's out." All afternoon.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
who knew?
Sundays at Meg and Phillip's are always great. In addition to yummy waffles and relaxed, lazy-Sunday company, there's the benefit of PBS specials. And today's was totally fascinating.
Stress: Portrait of a Killer confirmed a lot of the things I've been saying about the reasons I've been generally miserable over the past year. The thing I really didn't know, although I knew it was one of the reasons I was unhappy, had to do with stratification and hierarchy in the workplace/society in general. Subordinates suffer greater amounts of stress, and correspondingly greater health risks and problems.
I don't think it's an accident that my depression kicked back into full gear when I took up my development position at the Center, where competition for hierarchical privilege was vicious. Nor was it an accident that my migraines developed, for the first time, in my job as a secretary -- second lowest on the office totem pole. For a long time the work itself was interesting, and that kept me fairly happy; but after two years with no ladders to climb and plenty of ambition, the stress spiked astronomically and my health -- physical and psychological -- deteriorated.
Crazy. One of the conclusions reached by the main researcher consulted in the special -- who has done work on hormones, DNA and cellular changes in the stress levels of baboons for the past thirty years -- is that social connection alleviates and offsets stress, and prolongs life. One of my biggest complaints over the past year -- I know I've said it over and over and over -- is isolation. It's been offset a little by Meg and Phillip, and the dear people with whom I speak long distance over the phone, but the physical isolation was the real killer. The happy, connected, unstressed baboons weren't calling to each other from treetop to treetop; they were sitting side by side, grooming each other.
These are reasons why I'm glad to be going back home, and glad for something new. Also glad, finally, to have decided on a course of action for my future, one that will, I believe, be reasonably fulfilling, until I can totally support myself by writing. (This is, always and ever, the dream. A life spent doing whatever I want, paid amply by my favorite pastime. Adventure! Excitement! New places! Exploration! Or just days spent lounging around at home, or walking in the woods, or concocting a feast, or reading, or whatever, with nothing but the Real calling any shots on my life and the spending of my time.)
I'm tired, so this isn't as in-depth or intelligent as I'd like, but the special was deeply interesting. I'd love to purchase the DVD (but not, of course, until my financial situation is settled -- i.e. I have a job back in Erie).
Stress: Portrait of a Killer confirmed a lot of the things I've been saying about the reasons I've been generally miserable over the past year. The thing I really didn't know, although I knew it was one of the reasons I was unhappy, had to do with stratification and hierarchy in the workplace/society in general. Subordinates suffer greater amounts of stress, and correspondingly greater health risks and problems.
I don't think it's an accident that my depression kicked back into full gear when I took up my development position at the Center, where competition for hierarchical privilege was vicious. Nor was it an accident that my migraines developed, for the first time, in my job as a secretary -- second lowest on the office totem pole. For a long time the work itself was interesting, and that kept me fairly happy; but after two years with no ladders to climb and plenty of ambition, the stress spiked astronomically and my health -- physical and psychological -- deteriorated.
Crazy. One of the conclusions reached by the main researcher consulted in the special -- who has done work on hormones, DNA and cellular changes in the stress levels of baboons for the past thirty years -- is that social connection alleviates and offsets stress, and prolongs life. One of my biggest complaints over the past year -- I know I've said it over and over and over -- is isolation. It's been offset a little by Meg and Phillip, and the dear people with whom I speak long distance over the phone, but the physical isolation was the real killer. The happy, connected, unstressed baboons weren't calling to each other from treetop to treetop; they were sitting side by side, grooming each other.
These are reasons why I'm glad to be going back home, and glad for something new. Also glad, finally, to have decided on a course of action for my future, one that will, I believe, be reasonably fulfilling, until I can totally support myself by writing. (This is, always and ever, the dream. A life spent doing whatever I want, paid amply by my favorite pastime. Adventure! Excitement! New places! Exploration! Or just days spent lounging around at home, or walking in the woods, or concocting a feast, or reading, or whatever, with nothing but the Real calling any shots on my life and the spending of my time.)
I'm tired, so this isn't as in-depth or intelligent as I'd like, but the special was deeply interesting. I'd love to purchase the DVD (but not, of course, until my financial situation is settled -- i.e. I have a job back in Erie).
Saturday, September 27, 2008
there's nothing that the road cannot heal
Well, kids, this is the big news: I'm moving back to Pennsylvania.
I decided this past Monday, turned in my two-weeks' at work on Tuesday, and am now packing up and preparing for the trek home.
I can't wait. This will, according to my own plans (subject to change at God's divine plan, which appears to us transitory mortals as whim), be a temporary relocation, a familiar place with familiar people and my wonderful family, and something simultaneously old and new (great kind of change) while I get my feet back under me, recover from this past year of withering isolation, and map out plans for my future (which will, and must, include submissions of writing pieces for publication. Gotta happen).
Mom told me that the music leader at my parents' church lit up when she told him I was coming back. "Don't be surprised if he asks you to sing a few times at church," she said.
"Sweet!!" I said.
Now, whenever I hear this verse from "Moab," on Conor Oberst's latest album, I smile in delightful self-irony:
They say the sun won't burn forever
but that's a science too exact
I can prove it, watch we're crossing the state line
See those headlights coming toward us
that's someone going back
to a town they said they'd never --
yeah, they swore it on their life
But you can't break out of a circle
that you never knew you were in
There's nothing that the road cannot heal
There's nothing that the road cannot heal
Washed under the blacktop
Gone beneath my wheels
There's nothing that the road cannot heal
Bring on that open highway.
I decided this past Monday, turned in my two-weeks' at work on Tuesday, and am now packing up and preparing for the trek home.
I can't wait. This will, according to my own plans (subject to change at God's divine plan, which appears to us transitory mortals as whim), be a temporary relocation, a familiar place with familiar people and my wonderful family, and something simultaneously old and new (great kind of change) while I get my feet back under me, recover from this past year of withering isolation, and map out plans for my future (which will, and must, include submissions of writing pieces for publication. Gotta happen).
Mom told me that the music leader at my parents' church lit up when she told him I was coming back. "Don't be surprised if he asks you to sing a few times at church," she said.
"Sweet!!" I said.
Now, whenever I hear this verse from "Moab," on Conor Oberst's latest album, I smile in delightful self-irony:
They say the sun won't burn forever
but that's a science too exact
I can prove it, watch we're crossing the state line
See those headlights coming toward us
that's someone going back
to a town they said they'd never --
yeah, they swore it on their life
But you can't break out of a circle
that you never knew you were in
There's nothing that the road cannot heal
There's nothing that the road cannot heal
Washed under the blacktop
Gone beneath my wheels
There's nothing that the road cannot heal
Bring on that open highway.
Friday, September 26, 2008
rushed
Rrrrrgh. Sorry for the long silence, folks; my only internet access is at a library with plenty of computer users and only four computers, which are indubitably occupied when I most want to write something; and when I do get on one of the computers, it's generally one of the two whose internet access is so slow I could probably cultivate a tree to full adulthood and die of old age myself before it reaches its webstination.
There's a LOT to tell, but I can't blog about it for a couple more days yet.
In the meantime, the weather has reached its Indian summer (are we still allowed to call it that?), and things are looking beautifully "up." I keep daydreaming about Pennsylvania in the fall.
Simon has been absurdly cute the last few days, and engaging in one of my favorite of his affectionate habits -- standing next to me while I wash my face, or prepare a meal, or wash dishes, with his tail curled absently around my calf while he stares off into feline space. Big deal; cats' tails twitch all the time, you might say. But this curling of the tail is twitchless for the few minutes at a time in which he does it. It's like standing or sitting next to a beloved family member, or friend, or significant other, while both of you are doing or thinking about something separate, and one absently puts an arm around the other's shoulders or waist, or lays a hand on the other's arm, and just quietly leaves it there for awhile.
It makes up for the other increasing moments lately where he walks up to me and sharply nips my ankle. Not sure what's up with that.
Other than that, life continues apace -- finishing things up at work, keeping up with friends, breathing freely (yay for no cigarettes!), drinking lots of herbal tea of an evening from my darling little teapot and fun little cups and saucers (which don't match the teapot in anything but size). Starting to pack, and cursing the teeniness of the house all over again -- there' s nowhere to put the boxes. Ah well; I always figure something out.
I made a really yummy Italian pasta sauce last night. Here's what you need:
1/2 huge red onion, finely chopped
5+ garlic cloves, finely chopped
4+ dried red chillis, finely chopped
1/3 c. olive oil
4-6 salt-cured anchovy fillets
2+ Tb dried porcini mushrooms, soaked 15 min. in warm water and finely chopped
6 strips bacon, fried until crispy and crumbled
3 lg. fresh tomatoes, peeled and finely chopped
4 fresh sage leaves
dry white wine, to taste
1 c. black olives
1-2 Tb capers, finely chopped
salt, to taste
fresh parsely, finely chopped
spaghetti, al dente
1. In a large frying pan, saute the onion, garlic, & dried chillis in the olive oil on medium heat until softened
2. Turn the heat to low, make a well in the center of the pan, and add the anchovy fillets. Mash them with a fork until they dissolve in the oil. Stir.
3. Add the tomatoes, mushrooms, bacon, sage leaves & wine; simmer, uncovered, until reduced, about 15 min.
4. Add the olives & capers. Simmer another 5-10 min., covered. Season to taste.
5. Serve on pasta, topped with sprinkles of the parsley.
It's YUM. I borrowed and combined a couple of recipes from one of my Italian cookbooks (Italianissimo - I don't remember the editor), and added a flair or two of my own. I didn't have many leftovers.
There's a LOT to tell, but I can't blog about it for a couple more days yet.
In the meantime, the weather has reached its Indian summer (are we still allowed to call it that?), and things are looking beautifully "up." I keep daydreaming about Pennsylvania in the fall.
Simon has been absurdly cute the last few days, and engaging in one of my favorite of his affectionate habits -- standing next to me while I wash my face, or prepare a meal, or wash dishes, with his tail curled absently around my calf while he stares off into feline space. Big deal; cats' tails twitch all the time, you might say. But this curling of the tail is twitchless for the few minutes at a time in which he does it. It's like standing or sitting next to a beloved family member, or friend, or significant other, while both of you are doing or thinking about something separate, and one absently puts an arm around the other's shoulders or waist, or lays a hand on the other's arm, and just quietly leaves it there for awhile.
It makes up for the other increasing moments lately where he walks up to me and sharply nips my ankle. Not sure what's up with that.
Other than that, life continues apace -- finishing things up at work, keeping up with friends, breathing freely (yay for no cigarettes!), drinking lots of herbal tea of an evening from my darling little teapot and fun little cups and saucers (which don't match the teapot in anything but size). Starting to pack, and cursing the teeniness of the house all over again -- there' s nowhere to put the boxes. Ah well; I always figure something out.
I made a really yummy Italian pasta sauce last night. Here's what you need:
1/2 huge red onion, finely chopped
5+ garlic cloves, finely chopped
4+ dried red chillis, finely chopped
1/3 c. olive oil
4-6 salt-cured anchovy fillets
2+ Tb dried porcini mushrooms, soaked 15 min. in warm water and finely chopped
6 strips bacon, fried until crispy and crumbled
3 lg. fresh tomatoes, peeled and finely chopped
4 fresh sage leaves
dry white wine, to taste
1 c. black olives
1-2 Tb capers, finely chopped
salt, to taste
fresh parsely, finely chopped
spaghetti, al dente
1. In a large frying pan, saute the onion, garlic, & dried chillis in the olive oil on medium heat until softened
2. Turn the heat to low, make a well in the center of the pan, and add the anchovy fillets. Mash them with a fork until they dissolve in the oil. Stir.
3. Add the tomatoes, mushrooms, bacon, sage leaves & wine; simmer, uncovered, until reduced, about 15 min.
4. Add the olives & capers. Simmer another 5-10 min., covered. Season to taste.
5. Serve on pasta, topped with sprinkles of the parsley.
It's YUM. I borrowed and combined a couple of recipes from one of my Italian cookbooks (Italianissimo - I don't remember the editor), and added a flair or two of my own. I didn't have many leftovers.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
This is my 700th post.
1. The Panicked Paradox of Day-to-Day
I just realized today that out of the 128 hours in each week not spent at work, I spend an average of 120 hours alone, unless I'm talking on the phone to people who all live at least 500 miles away.
How did this happen? Two years ago I had a large social group, and I did so much with other people that the weekend mornings I spent by myself came as a light-hearted sigh of relief.
It was a gradual process from general satisfaction to complete isolation. When I was forced from my job at the Center, I was also forced to realize that a number of people I had thought of as friends were, in fact, not friends at all, which diminished some of my social time. Moving to Michigan was the other significant matador of my life spent in the company of others. My church here is populated predominantly by senior citizens, and in the year that I've lived in the small town where I work, I have made a large circle of people who smile at me, but none with whom I can hang out.
Rrrrrrgh. Okay. In three weeks I will have a new home and (hopefully) internet access, where I can start looking for social groups, activist groups, whatever -- something to get me out of my own skin and into others' lives. This is ridiculous.
From there? I have no idea. But something's gotta give, and fast. This hermitage is stupid and I'm sick of it.
2. What's up with Sunday?
I like to do my grocery shopping on Sunday, cook myself up a big traditional Sunday dinner, clean house while it simmers/bakes/slow cooks, listen to fun music.
The problem with being out and about on Sunday is the fact that on this one day of the week, everyone abandons all reason, intelligence, courtesy, decency and human kindness and goes about his or her business in stupid jerkhood.
I have never in my life witnessed anything like it. In the grocery store today, people pushed their carts like maniacs, cutting across others' paths and almost running down other shoppers; others left their carts standing in the middle of the crowded aisle to linger next to something that caught their eye, forcing traffic around them like water parting around a rock; still others ambled along so slowly you expected to see drool dampening their clothing when you finally got an opportunity to pass them. I saw far more glares than smiles; the only other expression was a blank focused zombie-ism that tuned out everything but that person's rush and self-importance.
That's just in the store. On the road you have people refusing to let others in, deliberately cutting others off, driving 15 mph below any given speed limit, roaring up and riding bumpers, coming to sudden and complete stops before turning right without a signal, or coming to a sudden and complete stop, starting to turn right, then changing their minds and shambling back into traffic almost causing accidents.
I had decided to walk from my house to the office to get some exercise and work out my agitation before I settled down to put some words out into the ether so as not to feel as desolately trapped in a hideous little house with only a cat for company and only my mom to talk to, but I got only a hundred yards down the road that leads the two miles into town before I realized it was far too dangerous and had to turn back -- the shoulder was narrow, and absolutely NONE of the oncoming traffic, driving 50-60 mph, eased over even a little bit toward the center so as to avoid hitting me. One van whizzing past threw a rock at me that fortunately only hit my arm, which still bears the welt. I'm just glad it wasn't, say, my face.
And none of this covers the rudeness and stinginess I have often witnessed from customers in restaurants.
The great thing about all this? It starts at around noon, with the after-church crowd.
I've made it my mission on Sundays to be pleasant to everyone I run into, and polite where others are rude (I don't always succeed at this, and unfortunately spending so much time by myself has gotten me into the habit of talking out loud, so sometimes people hear what I'm actually thinking, which is never good), so as to remind people, Hello, LORD'S DAY, where's the brotherly love here? I try to drive patiently, and not use my horn unless someone's Sunday Idiocy leads him or her to do something dangerous. When I see a shopper coming in a rush along a collision course with me, I slow down, smile, and let him or her go.
I've managed to make a few people crack smiles back, and I can see the sudden realization in their faces that they aren't alone. It's like we walk out the church doors and people aren't really people until we get home. What gives? When we zip around blindly we deny others' humanity, we're horrible representatives of Christ, and we piss people off.
Yup, the Sunday Mission. To be pleasant and thoughtful and considerate. It's hard.
I just realized today that out of the 128 hours in each week not spent at work, I spend an average of 120 hours alone, unless I'm talking on the phone to people who all live at least 500 miles away.
How did this happen? Two years ago I had a large social group, and I did so much with other people that the weekend mornings I spent by myself came as a light-hearted sigh of relief.
It was a gradual process from general satisfaction to complete isolation. When I was forced from my job at the Center, I was also forced to realize that a number of people I had thought of as friends were, in fact, not friends at all, which diminished some of my social time. Moving to Michigan was the other significant matador of my life spent in the company of others. My church here is populated predominantly by senior citizens, and in the year that I've lived in the small town where I work, I have made a large circle of people who smile at me, but none with whom I can hang out.
Rrrrrrgh. Okay. In three weeks I will have a new home and (hopefully) internet access, where I can start looking for social groups, activist groups, whatever -- something to get me out of my own skin and into others' lives. This is ridiculous.
From there? I have no idea. But something's gotta give, and fast. This hermitage is stupid and I'm sick of it.
2. What's up with Sunday?
I like to do my grocery shopping on Sunday, cook myself up a big traditional Sunday dinner, clean house while it simmers/bakes/slow cooks, listen to fun music.
The problem with being out and about on Sunday is the fact that on this one day of the week, everyone abandons all reason, intelligence, courtesy, decency and human kindness and goes about his or her business in stupid jerkhood.
I have never in my life witnessed anything like it. In the grocery store today, people pushed their carts like maniacs, cutting across others' paths and almost running down other shoppers; others left their carts standing in the middle of the crowded aisle to linger next to something that caught their eye, forcing traffic around them like water parting around a rock; still others ambled along so slowly you expected to see drool dampening their clothing when you finally got an opportunity to pass them. I saw far more glares than smiles; the only other expression was a blank focused zombie-ism that tuned out everything but that person's rush and self-importance.
That's just in the store. On the road you have people refusing to let others in, deliberately cutting others off, driving 15 mph below any given speed limit, roaring up and riding bumpers, coming to sudden and complete stops before turning right without a signal, or coming to a sudden and complete stop, starting to turn right, then changing their minds and shambling back into traffic almost causing accidents.
I had decided to walk from my house to the office to get some exercise and work out my agitation before I settled down to put some words out into the ether so as not to feel as desolately trapped in a hideous little house with only a cat for company and only my mom to talk to, but I got only a hundred yards down the road that leads the two miles into town before I realized it was far too dangerous and had to turn back -- the shoulder was narrow, and absolutely NONE of the oncoming traffic, driving 50-60 mph, eased over even a little bit toward the center so as to avoid hitting me. One van whizzing past threw a rock at me that fortunately only hit my arm, which still bears the welt. I'm just glad it wasn't, say, my face.
And none of this covers the rudeness and stinginess I have often witnessed from customers in restaurants.
The great thing about all this? It starts at around noon, with the after-church crowd.
I've made it my mission on Sundays to be pleasant to everyone I run into, and polite where others are rude (I don't always succeed at this, and unfortunately spending so much time by myself has gotten me into the habit of talking out loud, so sometimes people hear what I'm actually thinking, which is never good), so as to remind people, Hello, LORD'S DAY, where's the brotherly love here? I try to drive patiently, and not use my horn unless someone's Sunday Idiocy leads him or her to do something dangerous. When I see a shopper coming in a rush along a collision course with me, I slow down, smile, and let him or her go.
I've managed to make a few people crack smiles back, and I can see the sudden realization in their faces that they aren't alone. It's like we walk out the church doors and people aren't really people until we get home. What gives? When we zip around blindly we deny others' humanity, we're horrible representatives of Christ, and we piss people off.
Yup, the Sunday Mission. To be pleasant and thoughtful and considerate. It's hard.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
early thanksgiving
My Southwest Michigan life keeps getting weirder.
Thank God for quiet lakeside neighborhoods late at night, Eigh Anns who get out of bed to listen to your voicemails and call you back, and moons blurred spookily by clouds leaving trails of filmy light on black water.
And kitties who wake you up walking carefully up your back and nuzzling your ear.
And hot strong coffee, and boxes waiting to be packed, and new and wonderful books by Robin McKinley, and soft deep pillows, and dreamless sleep, and unexpected spiritual sustenance, and dreamy Indian summer afternoons wrapping one in peace like the shimmer of heat on the grass. And good songs twining their strains through your head like the touch of a friend. And homemade chai and calm fathers and encouraging mothers and solid sisters and Yankee candles and MacIntosh apples and hints of fall.
Good normal things, little susurrations of joy.
Thank God for quiet lakeside neighborhoods late at night, Eigh Anns who get out of bed to listen to your voicemails and call you back, and moons blurred spookily by clouds leaving trails of filmy light on black water.
And kitties who wake you up walking carefully up your back and nuzzling your ear.
And hot strong coffee, and boxes waiting to be packed, and new and wonderful books by Robin McKinley, and soft deep pillows, and dreamless sleep, and unexpected spiritual sustenance, and dreamy Indian summer afternoons wrapping one in peace like the shimmer of heat on the grass. And good songs twining their strains through your head like the touch of a friend. And homemade chai and calm fathers and encouraging mothers and solid sisters and Yankee candles and MacIntosh apples and hints of fall.
Good normal things, little susurrations of joy.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
list day
Right, quick update before I jump back into the fray:
1. Robin McKinley's newest book is released today. I can't. Freaking. Wait. The last three of her novels have been released in the close vicinity of my birthday, and I look on this as the cosmos' present to me.
2. I never sleep anymore, and when I do, my dreams are so realistic (which is really sad, considering the utter dailiness of my daily grind -- I mean, come on, imagination, where are the pink elephants and yellow penguins and mongooses playing harmonicas? instead it's all phone messages and dictated documents and dreaming about not being able to sleep. God.) that I spend most of the day wondering if what I think happened actually happened, and usually I'm too tired to distinguish, so I hardly ever say anything to anyone for fear of bringing up a conversation that only happened in my id.
3. This pill loves my mind and hates my body. I've been bleeding for two weeks and really, Aunt Flo, it's time for you to take your moustache and your sour moods and GO. Like, now.
4. No cigarettes since September 8th. It hasn't been nearly as hard as I was expecting, so now I'm suspicious that all of a sudden the temptations will be incredible. I keep repeating to myself, "I'm not a smoker," and, "It won't make me feel any better." They're negative expressions, but whatever. So far they work. And I'm already feeling like a million times better physically. I wonder when the gunk is going to start coming out of my lungs. That should be interesting. I'd take pictures, but my camera phone wouldn't do it justice.
5. My VCR has developed a creepily cannibalistic taste for video tapes, so I have no records of this week's episodes of Sarah Connor or Bones. Boo. They were good eps too.
6. I will have finished all four seasons of The Office in time for the premiere of Season Five next Thursday -- hooray!!! (Once I'm no longer buried in ignorance I will start posting about this wonderful, wonderful show. Eigh Ann pointed out to me that Rainn Wilson was in an ep of Dark Angel, long ago, leading to us reiterate our ancient motto, "Dark Angel is life.")
7. I will totally have to adopt a goal of Bridget Jones' and learn to "program the video" (once I get one which likes to savor the tapes, not eat them) so that I can spend more evenings out -- like at Fiddler's, where I would attempt to work up the courage to find an accompanist to sing open mic nights. (This is a goal that falls a little below writing and getting into grad school; I kind of die a little bit when I can't sing, and I've quit singing at church for the time being, for a number of reasons, so I'm dying a little bit and I have to fix this.) Risky, but less work (and less money) than learning the guitar.
8. My tired eyes are not registering reality quite as well as they ought, and are out of sync with my inner ear, so on the whole I'm really funny to watch. Poor Simon (also a huge klutz -- they do say pets and owners tend to resemble each other in personality if not looks) jumped up on the bed last night just as I was turning around and I wound up punching him in the ribs. Fortunately my recovery was superb: With the reflexes of a dancer I bent down over him and kept him from jumping down and hiding, and loved him up until he started purring and forgot all about what had happened. Until an hour later when I knocked a table knife off the kitchen counter, and, in an effort to move him out of the way (he was standing at its projected Ground Zero), kicked him in the eye with my big toe. I swooped him up and cuddled him and he immediately purred his assurance of forgiveness. (This from the cat who gets Puffy Tail if the wind blows. And I can't do anything to scare him. Such a darling little soul.)
9. The local grocery store has agreed to give me boxes. Yay! I have decided that, once I'm moved in to the new place, I'm breaking down the same boxes and storing them for the next move. Finding them is such a royal freaking pain.
10. I slept through my alarm, which I had set early to keep an appointment this morning in South Bend. I was up and dressed and out the door in seven minutes, which included the time it took for me to remember that I had an appointment, remember where I was, remember who I was, remember where my clothes were, remember how to put them on, and form a complicated strategy for the obtaining of coffee-on-the-run at McDonald's.
11. I like Conor's new album. A lot.
1. Robin McKinley's newest book is released today. I can't. Freaking. Wait. The last three of her novels have been released in the close vicinity of my birthday, and I look on this as the cosmos' present to me.
2. I never sleep anymore, and when I do, my dreams are so realistic (which is really sad, considering the utter dailiness of my daily grind -- I mean, come on, imagination, where are the pink elephants and yellow penguins and mongooses playing harmonicas? instead it's all phone messages and dictated documents and dreaming about not being able to sleep. God.) that I spend most of the day wondering if what I think happened actually happened, and usually I'm too tired to distinguish, so I hardly ever say anything to anyone for fear of bringing up a conversation that only happened in my id.
3. This pill loves my mind and hates my body. I've been bleeding for two weeks and really, Aunt Flo, it's time for you to take your moustache and your sour moods and GO. Like, now.
4. No cigarettes since September 8th. It hasn't been nearly as hard as I was expecting, so now I'm suspicious that all of a sudden the temptations will be incredible. I keep repeating to myself, "I'm not a smoker," and, "It won't make me feel any better." They're negative expressions, but whatever. So far they work. And I'm already feeling like a million times better physically. I wonder when the gunk is going to start coming out of my lungs. That should be interesting. I'd take pictures, but my camera phone wouldn't do it justice.
5. My VCR has developed a creepily cannibalistic taste for video tapes, so I have no records of this week's episodes of Sarah Connor or Bones. Boo. They were good eps too.
6. I will have finished all four seasons of The Office in time for the premiere of Season Five next Thursday -- hooray!!! (Once I'm no longer buried in ignorance I will start posting about this wonderful, wonderful show. Eigh Ann pointed out to me that Rainn Wilson was in an ep of Dark Angel, long ago, leading to us reiterate our ancient motto, "Dark Angel is life.")
7. I will totally have to adopt a goal of Bridget Jones' and learn to "program the video" (once I get one which likes to savor the tapes, not eat them) so that I can spend more evenings out -- like at Fiddler's, where I would attempt to work up the courage to find an accompanist to sing open mic nights. (This is a goal that falls a little below writing and getting into grad school; I kind of die a little bit when I can't sing, and I've quit singing at church for the time being, for a number of reasons, so I'm dying a little bit and I have to fix this.) Risky, but less work (and less money) than learning the guitar.
8. My tired eyes are not registering reality quite as well as they ought, and are out of sync with my inner ear, so on the whole I'm really funny to watch. Poor Simon (also a huge klutz -- they do say pets and owners tend to resemble each other in personality if not looks) jumped up on the bed last night just as I was turning around and I wound up punching him in the ribs. Fortunately my recovery was superb: With the reflexes of a dancer I bent down over him and kept him from jumping down and hiding, and loved him up until he started purring and forgot all about what had happened. Until an hour later when I knocked a table knife off the kitchen counter, and, in an effort to move him out of the way (he was standing at its projected Ground Zero), kicked him in the eye with my big toe. I swooped him up and cuddled him and he immediately purred his assurance of forgiveness. (This from the cat who gets Puffy Tail if the wind blows. And I can't do anything to scare him. Such a darling little soul.)
9. The local grocery store has agreed to give me boxes. Yay! I have decided that, once I'm moved in to the new place, I'm breaking down the same boxes and storing them for the next move. Finding them is such a royal freaking pain.
10. I slept through my alarm, which I had set early to keep an appointment this morning in South Bend. I was up and dressed and out the door in seven minutes, which included the time it took for me to remember that I had an appointment, remember where I was, remember who I was, remember where my clothes were, remember how to put them on, and form a complicated strategy for the obtaining of coffee-on-the-run at McDonald's.
11. I like Conor's new album. A lot.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
found poem
I was digging through some old papers last night (one of my monotonous, methodical means of dealing with occasional sleeplessness) and found this. I wrote it during Lent. I have a rather unhealthy addiction to sonnets; when I can think of nothing else to write, I write sonnets. Lots and lots and lots of ugly, awful, clunky, choppy sonnets. (Well, you're supposed to trade a bad habit for a good one...I never heard of sonnets causing cancer, though they might assault the mind of the poor reader. Secondhand fumes and whatnot.)
Ah well. Here it is.
The Trying
The sin of Adam troubles us each spring
when liturgy commands that we recall
desire to "be like gods," which caused the Fall:
an innocence turned to a twisted thing,
a tending toward disaster. Human nature.
A funny nature, spawning murderers
whose progeny forged cities, arts and spears --
creators with the boundaries of creatures.
In towers, stories, wheatfields' broken sod
we make more than what we ourselves now are
stretching our limitations to the breaking --
the tendency of our first parents' making
which now in imperfection wages war
on imperfection: strives to be like God.
Ah well. Here it is.
The Trying
The sin of Adam troubles us each spring
when liturgy commands that we recall
desire to "be like gods," which caused the Fall:
an innocence turned to a twisted thing,
a tending toward disaster. Human nature.
A funny nature, spawning murderers
whose progeny forged cities, arts and spears --
creators with the boundaries of creatures.
In towers, stories, wheatfields' broken sod
we make more than what we ourselves now are
stretching our limitations to the breaking --
the tendency of our first parents' making
which now in imperfection wages war
on imperfection: strives to be like God.
Monday, September 15, 2008
even deep in the cheap seats
Fourth day straight of rain.
Today it has eased off a little, though you could still term the precipitate a steady drizzle. Yesterday I woke late, dragged myself out of bed, yanked on some clothes and headed out into the amazing downpour (if you stood at the top of the stairwell leading down into the basement you could hear water pouring in through the window wells like a someone was running a bath) for some gratuitous self-celebratory post-birthday consumerism.
There's something in the foolhardiness of venturing out into inclement weather purely for the sake of one's own gratification that renders the whole trip deliciously adventurous. True, I needed to venture out regardless, as my supplies of toothpaste and food had run out; but I made sure the food I planned to purchase went toward a dish that never originated in the United States, which allowed it a degree of self-indulgence. I planned my list according to what I like to do best on cold and rainy autumn days: Burn candles, drink tea, listen to music, cook, and eat dinner in front of a TV show on DVD. Since I was lacking the candles and food, and hadn't listened to or watched anything new in months, I drove into the wastes of Indiana's neon-colored suburbia to stock up.
The parking lots were incredible. I congratulated my pragmatic eschewance of shoes in favor of flip-flops; had I elected to dress according to the temperature, I would have sloshed through the trip in water-logged socks (ew); instead I freely strode through the rivers rushing over the asphalt, and before I returned home my jeans were soaked to the knees. My umbrella might as well have been made of paper, and my water resistant jacket gave up all resistance. I laughed as my faithful Corolla whooshed her way with blind determination through the choking streets.
When I returned home, armed with, of note, three new Yankee Candles (all fall scents, mmmm), the third season of The Office, Conor Oberst's latest solo album, toothpaste, and a whole chicken, I set to work making the rainy day as perfect as I knew how. I listened to the music, danced while I washed dishes, burned the MacIntosh candle, love-talked the Simon, drank jasmine tea from the teapot given to me by my sophomore roommate, and turned the chicken into a Moroccan masterpiece of succulent flavors.
The cooking was especially fun because I finally got to break out and play with the preserved lemons I had set to pickling in July. (Basically you cut a bunch of lemons crosswise into "flowers," stuff them with sea salt, cram them into a jar, pour lemon juice over, and refrigerate for six to eight weeks.) The taste is pretty distinctive -- far more potent than anything lemon juice can achieve on its own. Add a couple of these, with a cup or two of green olives, to a whole chicken stuffed with cilantro, garlic and lemon juice; rubbed down with and marinated in garlic, ground ginger, black pepper, saffron, grated onion and olive oil; and simmered in the marinade, with water and a cinnamon stick added, for about an hour; and bake the whole thing, preserved lemons, olives and all, for about twenty minutes, and you have a phenomenal dish to eat with a helping of couscous. The chicken fell right off the bone, the gravy was exquisite, and the cat glared at me jealously while I settled down in my big comfy chair to enjoy the fruits of my favorite hobby.
So, though all was dark and flooded outside, inside The State of Denmark all was, for once, not rotten, but warm, glowing, full of peace and light. I painted my toenails, sipped tea, and savored a piece of Meg's cake.
And tonight...tonight there are leftovers. Ahh.
I have no spare change. I'm not rich. I'm still young, powerless, anonymous and poor, still with big dreams of castles and clouds while going on nothing but a handful of beans. But I can live alone, asking no one for help; I can eat well; I have a lovely purring life-companion; a nicely decorated living space; all the heat and light I need; good friends in books, movies and music; and better friends, and family both natural and of the heart, circumnavigating the globe. I have a good mind, growing plans and a clearer heart, and like Mary Lennox, I have begun to dig away the dead leaves from the sprouts in the Secret Garden to let them breathe, and through the tapping of the rain I can hear the robin singing.
Today it has eased off a little, though you could still term the precipitate a steady drizzle. Yesterday I woke late, dragged myself out of bed, yanked on some clothes and headed out into the amazing downpour (if you stood at the top of the stairwell leading down into the basement you could hear water pouring in through the window wells like a someone was running a bath) for some gratuitous self-celebratory post-birthday consumerism.
There's something in the foolhardiness of venturing out into inclement weather purely for the sake of one's own gratification that renders the whole trip deliciously adventurous. True, I needed to venture out regardless, as my supplies of toothpaste and food had run out; but I made sure the food I planned to purchase went toward a dish that never originated in the United States, which allowed it a degree of self-indulgence. I planned my list according to what I like to do best on cold and rainy autumn days: Burn candles, drink tea, listen to music, cook, and eat dinner in front of a TV show on DVD. Since I was lacking the candles and food, and hadn't listened to or watched anything new in months, I drove into the wastes of Indiana's neon-colored suburbia to stock up.
The parking lots were incredible. I congratulated my pragmatic eschewance of shoes in favor of flip-flops; had I elected to dress according to the temperature, I would have sloshed through the trip in water-logged socks (ew); instead I freely strode through the rivers rushing over the asphalt, and before I returned home my jeans were soaked to the knees. My umbrella might as well have been made of paper, and my water resistant jacket gave up all resistance. I laughed as my faithful Corolla whooshed her way with blind determination through the choking streets.
When I returned home, armed with, of note, three new Yankee Candles (all fall scents, mmmm), the third season of The Office, Conor Oberst's latest solo album, toothpaste, and a whole chicken, I set to work making the rainy day as perfect as I knew how. I listened to the music, danced while I washed dishes, burned the MacIntosh candle, love-talked the Simon, drank jasmine tea from the teapot given to me by my sophomore roommate, and turned the chicken into a Moroccan masterpiece of succulent flavors.
The cooking was especially fun because I finally got to break out and play with the preserved lemons I had set to pickling in July. (Basically you cut a bunch of lemons crosswise into "flowers," stuff them with sea salt, cram them into a jar, pour lemon juice over, and refrigerate for six to eight weeks.) The taste is pretty distinctive -- far more potent than anything lemon juice can achieve on its own. Add a couple of these, with a cup or two of green olives, to a whole chicken stuffed with cilantro, garlic and lemon juice; rubbed down with and marinated in garlic, ground ginger, black pepper, saffron, grated onion and olive oil; and simmered in the marinade, with water and a cinnamon stick added, for about an hour; and bake the whole thing, preserved lemons, olives and all, for about twenty minutes, and you have a phenomenal dish to eat with a helping of couscous. The chicken fell right off the bone, the gravy was exquisite, and the cat glared at me jealously while I settled down in my big comfy chair to enjoy the fruits of my favorite hobby.
So, though all was dark and flooded outside, inside The State of Denmark all was, for once, not rotten, but warm, glowing, full of peace and light. I painted my toenails, sipped tea, and savored a piece of Meg's cake.
And tonight...tonight there are leftovers. Ahh.
I have no spare change. I'm not rich. I'm still young, powerless, anonymous and poor, still with big dreams of castles and clouds while going on nothing but a handful of beans. But I can live alone, asking no one for help; I can eat well; I have a lovely purring life-companion; a nicely decorated living space; all the heat and light I need; good friends in books, movies and music; and better friends, and family both natural and of the heart, circumnavigating the globe. I have a good mind, growing plans and a clearer heart, and like Mary Lennox, I have begun to dig away the dead leaves from the sprouts in the Secret Garden to let them breathe, and through the tapping of the rain I can hear the robin singing.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
happy returns
I love how the time is always redeemed.
God is celebrating my birthday with a flood. As I tend to view rain in a positive light, I think this is wonderful. (Plus almost hydroplaning on the roads with completely blind windshields is fun.)
Yes, folks, on this day, an increasing number of years ago, I came squalling into the world.
Yay!
God is celebrating my birthday with a flood. As I tend to view rain in a positive light, I think this is wonderful. (Plus almost hydroplaning on the roads with completely blind windshields is fun.)
Yes, folks, on this day, an increasing number of years ago, I came squalling into the world.
Yay!
Friday, September 12, 2008
you're kidding me, right?
So naturally after I composed my nice blog post about how well everything is going, everything got worse.
After catching a few screw-ups at work, when I've been trying so hard to do well and be cheerfully present, I was already feeling a bit discouraged; and then I had aspersions cast on my writing abilities and was told that my scholarly ambitions would end in homelessness. That's all a crock of crap, of course, but I was having a hard time holding my head up by the time I got home.
One of my favorite remedies for a rotten day is to talk to my sister, so she and I were chatting about everything under the sun when my phone beeped.
"Hang on," I said, "I'm getting a call from a number I don't recognize."
When I answered, a vaguely familiar male voice warmly inquired as to my wellbeing.
"Fine..." I said.
"Do you know who this is?"
(Why do people do this? Isn't it setting yourself up to feel wretched and insignificant?)
"No idea," I said.
"Does Dave Marcus ring a bell?"
"Nope."
"I came into the office once last year..."
"Oh, Dave," I said. "Yes, of course!"
Yes, of course. The creepy middle-aged man in the process of his fourth or fifth divorce who was too cheap to hire a lawyer but came back to tell me about his great job and his kids, the oldest of whom is my sister's age, and to ask me to dinner. Getting rid of him was easy; I told him I don't date married men, knowing his divorce would be in process awhile.
He had just learned that I'd moved into The State of Denmark, and enthusiastically informed me that we're neighbors. With his characteristic creepiness, he phrased it by saying, "If you look out your back window you can see my house."
He told me he had planned just to stop by, but that it was getting dark and he didn't want to freak me out.
"Good idea," I said. "I have a shotgun. And anyway, I'm moving in a couple of weeks."
Undeterred, he went on to inform me that all of his papers have been filed, though the divorce won't be finalized until January.
"My old strictures still stand," I said.
"No, no, I respect that," he said. "But we could be friends. You could come over sometime and hang out."
I was too tired, suddenly, to be frank.
"Yeah, maybe," I said. "Hey, I have to go, my sister's on the other line."
He apologized profusely. I got back to my sister.
"Oh-ho-ho myyyy Gawwwwd," I said.
"You're having a nervous breakdown," she said.
"No. But you won't believe this."
I sketched the conversation. She sounded murderous. We laughed, and joked around about my strange predicaments while I paced the porch and watched the early bats curl and dip through the grainy evening light. I grinned at her sarcasm, we said good night, I took a deep breath.
Then for some reason I went inside and burst into tears.
After catching a few screw-ups at work, when I've been trying so hard to do well and be cheerfully present, I was already feeling a bit discouraged; and then I had aspersions cast on my writing abilities and was told that my scholarly ambitions would end in homelessness. That's all a crock of crap, of course, but I was having a hard time holding my head up by the time I got home.
One of my favorite remedies for a rotten day is to talk to my sister, so she and I were chatting about everything under the sun when my phone beeped.
"Hang on," I said, "I'm getting a call from a number I don't recognize."
When I answered, a vaguely familiar male voice warmly inquired as to my wellbeing.
"Fine..." I said.
"Do you know who this is?"
(Why do people do this? Isn't it setting yourself up to feel wretched and insignificant?)
"No idea," I said.
"Does Dave Marcus ring a bell?"
"Nope."
"I came into the office once last year..."
"Oh, Dave," I said. "Yes, of course!"
Yes, of course. The creepy middle-aged man in the process of his fourth or fifth divorce who was too cheap to hire a lawyer but came back to tell me about his great job and his kids, the oldest of whom is my sister's age, and to ask me to dinner. Getting rid of him was easy; I told him I don't date married men, knowing his divorce would be in process awhile.
He had just learned that I'd moved into The State of Denmark, and enthusiastically informed me that we're neighbors. With his characteristic creepiness, he phrased it by saying, "If you look out your back window you can see my house."
He told me he had planned just to stop by, but that it was getting dark and he didn't want to freak me out.
"Good idea," I said. "I have a shotgun. And anyway, I'm moving in a couple of weeks."
Undeterred, he went on to inform me that all of his papers have been filed, though the divorce won't be finalized until January.
"My old strictures still stand," I said.
"No, no, I respect that," he said. "But we could be friends. You could come over sometime and hang out."
I was too tired, suddenly, to be frank.
"Yeah, maybe," I said. "Hey, I have to go, my sister's on the other line."
He apologized profusely. I got back to my sister.
"Oh-ho-ho myyyy Gawwwwd," I said.
"You're having a nervous breakdown," she said.
"No. But you won't believe this."
I sketched the conversation. She sounded murderous. We laughed, and joked around about my strange predicaments while I paced the porch and watched the early bats curl and dip through the grainy evening light. I grinned at her sarcasm, we said good night, I took a deep breath.
Then for some reason I went inside and burst into tears.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
quick update
This week has been totally rushed, but in a quite good way -- the nights are cool again, almost cold, which means no fan blowing across the foot of the bed, which means warm lump of kitty on my feet when I wake up; and the sharpness of the night lasts well into the morning, stirring a greater alertness and sense of purpose in the blood.
Life has meaning again; I'm moving into my new house in a month; I will be busy with packing. Budget management is going well, and squeezing a filling yet cheap living out of a dry stone is fun. Solitude is no longer burdensome; I will see all my old haunts at Grove City in October, and John; the leaves are starting to turn, and Michigan is beautiful, and I long for open windows and open highways, a transitory passenger through a transitory season. It's almost time for apples. I spend my work days with the new receptionist mocking our particularly horrible clientele and streamlining office efficiency. I can get my work done again.
The poetic spirit is restless, but the mind is blank. I'm happy but sleepless. I quit smoking on Sunday cold turkey. The shakes and what my grandfather terms "the scoots" are abating, as are the headaches. Gum is handy. My memory is shot. I can taste things again, which is great except for envelope glue. The cough has disappeared. I keep my hands busy and talk on the phone a lot. The Scotch-Irish stubbornness and the grace of God are pulling me through.
My living room is a mess, overwhelmed by the bulk of the chest I bought for cheap and refinished for not-so-cheap. My birthday is on Saturday. My sister's present is beautiful. The Sarah Connor Chronicles is back and I love it. Bones is back and I love that, too -- I still keep holding my breath, unable to believe it's on its fourth season...so wonderful. Robin McKinley's next book comes out in a week, and I wish it were sooner. Bones Season Three won't be released until November. I feel a mini-music spree coming on (Conor Oberst released a solo album in August!).
It feels like Friday. I'm mostly content, and I'm tired. Soon I will celebrate another year of life, and look forward to the good things to come, mysteries ripening on a nebulous vine, piercing the air and the salivary glands like the grapes ripening now on the shores of Lake Erie.
Someday I'll smell them again.
Life has meaning again; I'm moving into my new house in a month; I will be busy with packing. Budget management is going well, and squeezing a filling yet cheap living out of a dry stone is fun. Solitude is no longer burdensome; I will see all my old haunts at Grove City in October, and John; the leaves are starting to turn, and Michigan is beautiful, and I long for open windows and open highways, a transitory passenger through a transitory season. It's almost time for apples. I spend my work days with the new receptionist mocking our particularly horrible clientele and streamlining office efficiency. I can get my work done again.
The poetic spirit is restless, but the mind is blank. I'm happy but sleepless. I quit smoking on Sunday cold turkey. The shakes and what my grandfather terms "the scoots" are abating, as are the headaches. Gum is handy. My memory is shot. I can taste things again, which is great except for envelope glue. The cough has disappeared. I keep my hands busy and talk on the phone a lot. The Scotch-Irish stubbornness and the grace of God are pulling me through.
My living room is a mess, overwhelmed by the bulk of the chest I bought for cheap and refinished for not-so-cheap. My birthday is on Saturday. My sister's present is beautiful. The Sarah Connor Chronicles is back and I love it. Bones is back and I love that, too -- I still keep holding my breath, unable to believe it's on its fourth season...so wonderful. Robin McKinley's next book comes out in a week, and I wish it were sooner. Bones Season Three won't be released until November. I feel a mini-music spree coming on (Conor Oberst released a solo album in August!).
It feels like Friday. I'm mostly content, and I'm tired. Soon I will celebrate another year of life, and look forward to the good things to come, mysteries ripening on a nebulous vine, piercing the air and the salivary glands like the grapes ripening now on the shores of Lake Erie.
Someday I'll smell them again.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
now I lay me down to sleep...
This may be silly, but one of my long-time dreams has consisted of the ownership of at least several beds -- one of those goals that falls slightly behind dog ownership and house ownership: one of those goals the achievement of which will prove me that much closer to being a "real grown-up."
The one thing I have historically disliked the most about Christmas as I came into my adulthood has been the Bridget Jones Syndrome -- going home every Christmas to sleep in a single bed in my parents' house. (In point of fact, the bed I sleep in at my parents' house is a queen, which until recently topped what I owned for myself. But still -- the principle has applied.) It wasn't so much whining about being single as it was whining about being the only one to have to travel anywhere. One of the glories of the pinnacle of adulthood -- home ownership -- is supposed to be your ability to have your family come and visit you. And I would love to host Christmas on a rotating basis. I delight in cooking yummy food for people, and watching them relax in a peaceful and tastefully (if whimsically) decorated environment that I created. I pour a lot of work -- a lot of myself -- into my home and my cooking, and it's hardly rewarding when I'm the only recipient.
Which always comes down to beds. Strange leap? Perhaps. But a real grown-up has a guest bed, a nice double or queen sized, the better to put up parents and married siblings. It's kind of embarrassing to invite people over just to sleep on my floor. (Which is absurd as I never mind sleeping on other people's floors. The Spine of Satan reaches a delicious state of moral neutrality from sleeping on floors.) I like my company to feel comfortable, and that means I'd like them to have a nice place to sleep.
So sometime this autumn/winter my parents are bringing me (or I am going to fetch) a nice large sofa that opens into a queen sized bed (and is no less comfortable as a couch for serving as a bed, which is nice), which, as I see it, puts me a step closer.
The most amazing thing of all, though, happened just recently. Boss-Lady owns a mobile home behind the office which she rents out, and the latest tenants have recently vacated it. She had rented it to them partially furnished, and one of those partial furnishings is a queen sized bed with a truly lovely frame. She's tired of her stuff getting damaged by unscrupulous renters, has no use for an extra bed in her house, and decided to give it to me. (?!)
When I hesitated about accepting it, she said she would just donate it to charity, and I said, "Well, if you're going to get rid of it anyway, I'll be the object of your charity!" and with many grateful exclamations agreed to take the bed.
The house I'm moving into (yes, thank God, another house all to myself -- the one I went to see a few days ago is going to work out beautifully, and the rent is a STEAL -- I'm still on my knees thanking God for that miracle) has considerably more space than The State of Denmark, but I don't know if its second (teeeeeeny weeny) bedroom will accommodate a queen; still, I have determined somehow to make it work. It's not a large house by any stretch, but it will be perfect for me, and although I don't necessarily see hosting Christmas this year, the new guest bed puts me a step closer.
Again, it's probably silly, and has just added to the pile of things I already haul around as I ping and pong across the Western Hemisphere, but even so, I'm ridiculously excited about it -- partially for extremely selfish reasons, because if I have a queen sized sofa bed, and a queen sized guest bed, I'll never have to give up my own roomy mattress in the name of proper hosting when my parents visit.
[Oh, and speaking of travel, I have decided that I am most definitely, as far as it remains up to me, making tracks for Grove City's Homecoming in October -- one of my brilliant excuses being that, now that I've decided to return to school, talking to my professors about programs and letters of recommendation will further my career. So taking a Friday off work to drive down and have some fun with old friends on old stomping grounds...well, I have to do that, see?
Which leads me to the question: Would any of my dear readers and fellow Grovers be willing to put me up? I'm keeping my budget simple and I'm a VERY thoughtful and entertaining houseguest. Not only do I wash the dishes and change the toilet paper roll when it runs out, I usually come armed with a pound of good coffee and a suitcase full of excellently dramatized stories.]
The one thing I have historically disliked the most about Christmas as I came into my adulthood has been the Bridget Jones Syndrome -- going home every Christmas to sleep in a single bed in my parents' house. (In point of fact, the bed I sleep in at my parents' house is a queen, which until recently topped what I owned for myself. But still -- the principle has applied.) It wasn't so much whining about being single as it was whining about being the only one to have to travel anywhere. One of the glories of the pinnacle of adulthood -- home ownership -- is supposed to be your ability to have your family come and visit you. And I would love to host Christmas on a rotating basis. I delight in cooking yummy food for people, and watching them relax in a peaceful and tastefully (if whimsically) decorated environment that I created. I pour a lot of work -- a lot of myself -- into my home and my cooking, and it's hardly rewarding when I'm the only recipient.
Which always comes down to beds. Strange leap? Perhaps. But a real grown-up has a guest bed, a nice double or queen sized, the better to put up parents and married siblings. It's kind of embarrassing to invite people over just to sleep on my floor. (Which is absurd as I never mind sleeping on other people's floors. The Spine of Satan reaches a delicious state of moral neutrality from sleeping on floors.) I like my company to feel comfortable, and that means I'd like them to have a nice place to sleep.
So sometime this autumn/winter my parents are bringing me (or I am going to fetch) a nice large sofa that opens into a queen sized bed (and is no less comfortable as a couch for serving as a bed, which is nice), which, as I see it, puts me a step closer.
The most amazing thing of all, though, happened just recently. Boss-Lady owns a mobile home behind the office which she rents out, and the latest tenants have recently vacated it. She had rented it to them partially furnished, and one of those partial furnishings is a queen sized bed with a truly lovely frame. She's tired of her stuff getting damaged by unscrupulous renters, has no use for an extra bed in her house, and decided to give it to me. (?!)
When I hesitated about accepting it, she said she would just donate it to charity, and I said, "Well, if you're going to get rid of it anyway, I'll be the object of your charity!" and with many grateful exclamations agreed to take the bed.
The house I'm moving into (yes, thank God, another house all to myself -- the one I went to see a few days ago is going to work out beautifully, and the rent is a STEAL -- I'm still on my knees thanking God for that miracle) has considerably more space than The State of Denmark, but I don't know if its second (teeeeeeny weeny) bedroom will accommodate a queen; still, I have determined somehow to make it work. It's not a large house by any stretch, but it will be perfect for me, and although I don't necessarily see hosting Christmas this year, the new guest bed puts me a step closer.
Again, it's probably silly, and has just added to the pile of things I already haul around as I ping and pong across the Western Hemisphere, but even so, I'm ridiculously excited about it -- partially for extremely selfish reasons, because if I have a queen sized sofa bed, and a queen sized guest bed, I'll never have to give up my own roomy mattress in the name of proper hosting when my parents visit.
[Oh, and speaking of travel, I have decided that I am most definitely, as far as it remains up to me, making tracks for Grove City's Homecoming in October -- one of my brilliant excuses being that, now that I've decided to return to school, talking to my professors about programs and letters of recommendation will further my career. So taking a Friday off work to drive down and have some fun with old friends on old stomping grounds...well, I have to do that, see?
Which leads me to the question: Would any of my dear readers and fellow Grovers be willing to put me up? I'm keeping my budget simple and I'm a VERY thoughtful and entertaining houseguest. Not only do I wash the dishes and change the toilet paper roll when it runs out, I usually come armed with a pound of good coffee and a suitcase full of excellently dramatized stories.]
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
the hunt begins
Number crunching makes my head explode.
I've fiddled my budget around in preparation for my new Find-a-Better-Place-to-Live project, and I'm going tonight to take a look at a house belonging to a friend of Boss-Lady's, which said friend is putting up for rent.
I only hope, fervently, that the connections will cause her to feel generous with the rent -- I talked to her today, and she hasn't decided on a number yet.
So this evening I will sally forth armed with my budget sheet, my winning smile, my disarming openness and all the forces my charisma can summon, and hope for a pleasant miracle.
If that doesn't work, I have a list of apartments taken from the classifieds on which to begin. Redoing my budget was great in that I realized fully the amount of money I'm hemorrhaging on where I'm living now. Cue horror and rage.
Oo, and if this house works out, she's remodeling it quite a bit at the moment, and there are promises, not only of laundry (which I haven't had in-house in three years) but of opportunities for me to help her pick the colors for some of the rooms. Cue potential squeals of giddy delight.
And if it doesn't work out, well, I have other things on which to focus. At the moment one of my primary sources of satisfaction comes from the flecks of primer and green paint decorating my person (hands, toes, forehead, collarbones, and, yesterday, eyebrows) from my latest ongoing project. At long last, I have paint clothes, scuzzy and stained, and the joy of getting utterly and messily engrossed in something that will turn out to be, if not pretty, at least exceptionally cool.
I've fiddled my budget around in preparation for my new Find-a-Better-Place-to-Live project, and I'm going tonight to take a look at a house belonging to a friend of Boss-Lady's, which said friend is putting up for rent.
I only hope, fervently, that the connections will cause her to feel generous with the rent -- I talked to her today, and she hasn't decided on a number yet.
So this evening I will sally forth armed with my budget sheet, my winning smile, my disarming openness and all the forces my charisma can summon, and hope for a pleasant miracle.
If that doesn't work, I have a list of apartments taken from the classifieds on which to begin. Redoing my budget was great in that I realized fully the amount of money I'm hemorrhaging on where I'm living now. Cue horror and rage.
Oo, and if this house works out, she's remodeling it quite a bit at the moment, and there are promises, not only of laundry (which I haven't had in-house in three years) but of opportunities for me to help her pick the colors for some of the rooms. Cue potential squeals of giddy delight.
And if it doesn't work out, well, I have other things on which to focus. At the moment one of my primary sources of satisfaction comes from the flecks of primer and green paint decorating my person (hands, toes, forehead, collarbones, and, yesterday, eyebrows) from my latest ongoing project. At long last, I have paint clothes, scuzzy and stained, and the joy of getting utterly and messily engrossed in something that will turn out to be, if not pretty, at least exceptionally cool.
neat
This morning as I flopped into the porch chair to read from 1 Corinthians 5 and 6, Paul's admonitory refrain, "Do you not know...?" triggered an association with one of my favorite passages in one of my favorite books in all the Bible: Isaiah 40.
So I read Isaiah 40, and all of its incredible "Do you not know....?" rhetoric, and felt massively comforted by the grand and glorious sweep of the scope of God's attention, from the names of the stars to the strengthening of man. Gorgeous.
And then I got to work, checked my email, and found a note from my mother -- transcribing Isaiah 40.
I don't believe in coincidence. And it's the small things that move me the most deeply -- they tell me that nothing is beyond attention, and everything matters.
It's so good to know I'm loved.
So I read Isaiah 40, and all of its incredible "Do you not know....?" rhetoric, and felt massively comforted by the grand and glorious sweep of the scope of God's attention, from the names of the stars to the strengthening of man. Gorgeous.
And then I got to work, checked my email, and found a note from my mother -- transcribing Isaiah 40.
I don't believe in coincidence. And it's the small things that move me the most deeply -- they tell me that nothing is beyond attention, and everything matters.
It's so good to know I'm loved.
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