I'm really damn lonely.
If I didn't have a job where I get to hug kids all day, I think I would just sit down with a big old bottle of red wine and purposefully lose my mind.
At least now I know what the problem is. I've been naggingly depressed for weeks and unable to pinpoint why. Now I plan to get my ass out there and make people meet me. (Hey, it's worked before.)
Physical labor helps as well. The Hated Loveseat was wrenched and wrestled out my apartment (argh, despite our best efforts Colette and I got it impossibly stuck in the doorway, until wheezing crippled sickly really old Ted limped out of his apartment and unstuck it in TWO SECONDS -- appreciated and yet so humiliating!), down the stairs, and to the curb, and now my muscles are deservedly tired and endorphins have soothed my troubled brain.
As for the loneliness -- it sucks, but it will pass. I just need to keep busy.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Daily Poem
Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread
and forgive us our debts
as we forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.
For Thine is the kingdom,
and the power,
and the glory forever.
Amen.
Charge our stiff backs with power
to roll into the morning.
As we squint over the rims of our coffee
let our eyes see blessing in the quivers
of the leaves outside the window,
dappling the table with spatters
of the sun that rose too soon for our taste.
Let us want nothing more than
the feel of your goodness gliding over
our dry hands as we check our e-mail,
the light slide of the Spirit
like a finger along our jaws
directing our heads to turn
and putting love into our hands
so that we smile and tell people hello
and give our spare quarters
so others can use the vending machines.
As we walk out to the parking lot
listing chores, call us to lift our eyes
to trace the boiling summer clouds
shaped like clay in your hands.
Put a song between our teeth and our tongues
like bread from the beaks of ravens
that we may taste praise
not of our making in our own mouths.
Teach us to feel above the contortions
in our guts when our coworkers
call us “you people,” when our families
forget to phone, when the feral yellow cat
kicks over the tomato plants for the twentieth time,
for we know we have said “you people,”
we have refrained from words of comfort,
and we have kicked the staring ribs of strays.
Let us take the stones we so readily gather
into our hands, and use them to line gardens.
Let us break no skulls or windows,
raise no welts on our own skin or others’.
Let us step upon the ruins of old orchard walls
on our walks, and breathe apple-tinged air in the evening.
For we know, O Lord, that today is a jar
of dark moving water
and when we hold back to watch you stir it
the pattern of light on the surface
will run sharp red over the backs of our knuckles
when we dip our hands
to draw forth wine under your watching.
Teach us, then, when we drag ourselves
under covers and muffle the light,
to close our eyes. Teach us to sink backward
into dark moving water, to stretch
toward your hands and to open our mouths.
Teach us to cry out, Amen.
hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread
and forgive us our debts
as we forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.
For Thine is the kingdom,
and the power,
and the glory forever.
Amen.
Charge our stiff backs with power
to roll into the morning.
As we squint over the rims of our coffee
let our eyes see blessing in the quivers
of the leaves outside the window,
dappling the table with spatters
of the sun that rose too soon for our taste.
Let us want nothing more than
the feel of your goodness gliding over
our dry hands as we check our e-mail,
the light slide of the Spirit
like a finger along our jaws
directing our heads to turn
and putting love into our hands
so that we smile and tell people hello
and give our spare quarters
so others can use the vending machines.
As we walk out to the parking lot
listing chores, call us to lift our eyes
to trace the boiling summer clouds
shaped like clay in your hands.
Put a song between our teeth and our tongues
like bread from the beaks of ravens
that we may taste praise
not of our making in our own mouths.
Teach us to feel above the contortions
in our guts when our coworkers
call us “you people,” when our families
forget to phone, when the feral yellow cat
kicks over the tomato plants for the twentieth time,
for we know we have said “you people,”
we have refrained from words of comfort,
and we have kicked the staring ribs of strays.
Let us take the stones we so readily gather
into our hands, and use them to line gardens.
Let us break no skulls or windows,
raise no welts on our own skin or others’.
Let us step upon the ruins of old orchard walls
on our walks, and breathe apple-tinged air in the evening.
For we know, O Lord, that today is a jar
of dark moving water
and when we hold back to watch you stir it
the pattern of light on the surface
will run sharp red over the backs of our knuckles
when we dip our hands
to draw forth wine under your watching.
Teach us, then, when we drag ourselves
under covers and muffle the light,
to close our eyes. Teach us to sink backward
into dark moving water, to stretch
toward your hands and to open our mouths.
Teach us to cry out, Amen.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
heat
The heat is bad. A fan provides no relief. All the pleasure is gone from drinking water, but you have to drink or pass out and so you keep drinking. The only foods you want to eat are dripping with grease and salt, or dug from green dappled rinds.
The only living creature in my apartment that is happy is the majesty palm. The other plants are looking wilted and oppressed.
But it has been a beautiful day. I walked down to a nearby park and climbed a tree and swung from playground swings. I also discovered that the "blackberry tree" in the alley is a mulberry, so it's officially safe to eat the fruit.
I wrote a poem yesterday.
The heat is killer.
The only living creature in my apartment that is happy is the majesty palm. The other plants are looking wilted and oppressed.
But it has been a beautiful day. I walked down to a nearby park and climbed a tree and swung from playground swings. I also discovered that the "blackberry tree" in the alley is a mulberry, so it's officially safe to eat the fruit.
I wrote a poem yesterday.
The heat is killer.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
pure, delicious, unadulterated malice
I have finally embraced the fact that I hate one of my loveseats. Not just accepted; embraced. I HATE this loveseat.
It was fine as a landing pad for bookbags, shopping bags, spare pillows, and mail when Marianne and I roomed together in our huge apartment at Hurwich Farms. It was even necessary, on occasion, to sit in (though not very often).
Surprisingly it's the couch that, of the two, looks the better. It has a sedate gingham pattern in slate blue -- ugly, but not an eyesore. It has respectable curves and lines, and looks like it could easily belong in a small suite in an assisted living facility. It appears to be comfortable, modest, and useful.
It's not any of those. The couch that M and I prefer is hideous, covered in scratchy upholstery over which the worst flowers of the 70s committed a grotesque mass suicide. It's orange and brown on a cream background, its lines and curves are accented by awful fakey wood, and it looks like it could easily belong in a garbage dump. It appears to be uncomfortable, garish, and better left for dead. However, it is quite comfortable and when one hides it under linen sheets it's not as offensive.
This living room ain't big enough for the two of them. I refused to admit this until moving day, when lo, the two together in one room made for a tight squeeze. Being stressed, I resolved to worry about it another day. (Never do this, Sarah; never do this.) So I kept ignoring it, a feat made easier by the prevalence of sixty hour work weeks.
Now that I'm done at Ann Taylor, I spent my Saturday cleaning the hell out of my kitchen. (Just about literally.) The kitchen is bitchin' and I'm itchin' to do the living room. But alack, NOTHING CAN BE DONE with the hated gingham loveseat smugly taking up more than its fair share of the room.
What I really resent about this loveseat is that I can't move it out alone. I'm not Mrs. Incredible. I'm not even Miss Incredible. I'm just a tall angry woman living alone who resents the fact that she cannot heave this accursed loveseat out the nearest window without help.
Colette is out of town for the day or I would have knocked on her door with a grinning request for assistance sometime this morning. I think I'll request her help when she gets home.
Bite me, loveseat.
It was fine as a landing pad for bookbags, shopping bags, spare pillows, and mail when Marianne and I roomed together in our huge apartment at Hurwich Farms. It was even necessary, on occasion, to sit in (though not very often).
Surprisingly it's the couch that, of the two, looks the better. It has a sedate gingham pattern in slate blue -- ugly, but not an eyesore. It has respectable curves and lines, and looks like it could easily belong in a small suite in an assisted living facility. It appears to be comfortable, modest, and useful.
It's not any of those. The couch that M and I prefer is hideous, covered in scratchy upholstery over which the worst flowers of the 70s committed a grotesque mass suicide. It's orange and brown on a cream background, its lines and curves are accented by awful fakey wood, and it looks like it could easily belong in a garbage dump. It appears to be uncomfortable, garish, and better left for dead. However, it is quite comfortable and when one hides it under linen sheets it's not as offensive.
This living room ain't big enough for the two of them. I refused to admit this until moving day, when lo, the two together in one room made for a tight squeeze. Being stressed, I resolved to worry about it another day. (Never do this, Sarah; never do this.) So I kept ignoring it, a feat made easier by the prevalence of sixty hour work weeks.
Now that I'm done at Ann Taylor, I spent my Saturday cleaning the hell out of my kitchen. (Just about literally.) The kitchen is bitchin' and I'm itchin' to do the living room. But alack, NOTHING CAN BE DONE with the hated gingham loveseat smugly taking up more than its fair share of the room.
What I really resent about this loveseat is that I can't move it out alone. I'm not Mrs. Incredible. I'm not even Miss Incredible. I'm just a tall angry woman living alone who resents the fact that she cannot heave this accursed loveseat out the nearest window without help.
Colette is out of town for the day or I would have knocked on her door with a grinning request for assistance sometime this morning. I think I'll request her help when she gets home.
Bite me, loveseat.
Friday, June 24, 2005
grabbing your rights by the tail
I'm on my monthly lunchbreak. Since Meg and I are the only adults reliably present during naptime, we get no lunchbreak any day of the week except the last Friday of every month, when we have an in-service day to clean and plan and restock our food cupboards...and take approximately five minutes for every day that we didn't get a break. (This works out to be a 90-minute lunch.)
All it all, it's a good job.
All it all, it's a good job.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
June goodness
The only sucky thing about summer is that if you put off washing your dishes for too long, the things in them start to rot.
Other than that...I love June.
There's a blackberry tree in the alley behind my house. I ate a lot of berries from it over the weekend and didn't get sick, so apparently it's bonafide. Colette and I saw a few more blackberry trees on the walk home from the ghetto Martin's today (for those of you who have never had the interesting experience of living in the Midwest, Martin's is a chain grocery store with lettering that looks like Halloween). The sad thing about the trees is that they were so big the branches didn't start till a good twenty feet up.
What a waste. I trod on fifteen pies' worth of fallen blackberries and couldn't possibly reach up to pick even a handful.
I'm going to plant one outside my window.
Other than that...I love June.
There's a blackberry tree in the alley behind my house. I ate a lot of berries from it over the weekend and didn't get sick, so apparently it's bonafide. Colette and I saw a few more blackberry trees on the walk home from the ghetto Martin's today (for those of you who have never had the interesting experience of living in the Midwest, Martin's is a chain grocery store with lettering that looks like Halloween). The sad thing about the trees is that they were so big the branches didn't start till a good twenty feet up.
What a waste. I trod on fifteen pies' worth of fallen blackberries and couldn't possibly reach up to pick even a handful.
I'm going to plant one outside my window.
Monday, June 20, 2005
an apology
It appears that I have offended a friend.
My apologies to Joshua Caler. He has e-mailed me with an explanation of his perspective and I'm fairly satisfied of his lack of malice (though easily misunderstood) in commenting on my post about the kittens.
I did not react to his comments with kindness or brotherly (sisterly?) love, which I regret. Thanks everyone for supporting me as usual (I've got some wonderfully loyal friends) in the decision by which I stand; but I was wrong in my final response, and I'm sorry for it.
A note on the kittens. They're not at the Humane Society; the good folk who found them are farmers who are continuing to put out kitten food for them, but are letting nature take its course outside the bounds of human population control.
And this is fine with me.
My apologies to Joshua Caler. He has e-mailed me with an explanation of his perspective and I'm fairly satisfied of his lack of malice (though easily misunderstood) in commenting on my post about the kittens.
I did not react to his comments with kindness or brotherly (sisterly?) love, which I regret. Thanks everyone for supporting me as usual (I've got some wonderfully loyal friends) in the decision by which I stand; but I was wrong in my final response, and I'm sorry for it.
A note on the kittens. They're not at the Humane Society; the good folk who found them are farmers who are continuing to put out kitten food for them, but are letting nature take its course outside the bounds of human population control.
And this is fine with me.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
the perils of good hygiene
I am never clipping my toenails again.
Thursday night I was sitting at the edge of my bed clipping my toenails when a fragment flew up into my right eye. It hurt like bloody hell. I clapped my hand over my eye and shot to the bathroom to wash it out and press a cold wet washcloth against it. After five or ten minutes the pain eased, though the eye didn't feel its usual slightly impaired but chipper self; but I was tired, so I went to bed.
Friday morning I woke up late and in the rush forgot all about my eye. But as the morning at work progressed, the eye kept getting more cranky. When I rolled it far to the right, I felt a sharp prick against my eyeball beneath the upper lid, in the corner by my nose. By lunchtime I was frantically flushing it out with a bulb syringe while the kids ate and ran around before naptime. By the time Meg got the last kid down for a nap, my eye was swollen and red, but no matter how many times I turned the lid inside out, I couldn't see anything in the tiny hand mirror that we had in the room.
"I'm going to the bathroom to check in better light," I told Meg and one of the volunteers, who were both looking at me with that pitying aw-poor-crazy-girl expression. "Maybe it's nothing and I've worked it all up by rubbing at it, but I'm going to see, just to make sure, and then I'll leave it alone."
In the bathroom I flipped on the beautiful fluorescent lights and leaned close to the mirror. I turned up my eyelid and slid out, not a tiny fragment as I had thought, but an entire toenail clipping, crescent shape and all, preserved completely intact inside my eye. It had turned to fit the curvature of my eyeball.
I swallowed a post-traumatic panic attack and went running back to the room to show Meg and Carolyn what had been lodged in my eye. Meg said a very naughty word in disbelief (fear not, the kids sleep in another room); Carolyn started patting my shoulder.
My eye has felt much better ever since. (Poor eye.) I've been told that I'm the only person who would need to wear goggles to keep her toenails trimmed.
Or at least my glasses. I'll approach toenail-clipping much less casually, henceforth. Who knew good hygiene habits could be so dangerous?
Thursday night I was sitting at the edge of my bed clipping my toenails when a fragment flew up into my right eye. It hurt like bloody hell. I clapped my hand over my eye and shot to the bathroom to wash it out and press a cold wet washcloth against it. After five or ten minutes the pain eased, though the eye didn't feel its usual slightly impaired but chipper self; but I was tired, so I went to bed.
Friday morning I woke up late and in the rush forgot all about my eye. But as the morning at work progressed, the eye kept getting more cranky. When I rolled it far to the right, I felt a sharp prick against my eyeball beneath the upper lid, in the corner by my nose. By lunchtime I was frantically flushing it out with a bulb syringe while the kids ate and ran around before naptime. By the time Meg got the last kid down for a nap, my eye was swollen and red, but no matter how many times I turned the lid inside out, I couldn't see anything in the tiny hand mirror that we had in the room.
"I'm going to the bathroom to check in better light," I told Meg and one of the volunteers, who were both looking at me with that pitying aw-poor-crazy-girl expression. "Maybe it's nothing and I've worked it all up by rubbing at it, but I'm going to see, just to make sure, and then I'll leave it alone."
In the bathroom I flipped on the beautiful fluorescent lights and leaned close to the mirror. I turned up my eyelid and slid out, not a tiny fragment as I had thought, but an entire toenail clipping, crescent shape and all, preserved completely intact inside my eye. It had turned to fit the curvature of my eyeball.
I swallowed a post-traumatic panic attack and went running back to the room to show Meg and Carolyn what had been lodged in my eye. Meg said a very naughty word in disbelief (fear not, the kids sleep in another room); Carolyn started patting my shoulder.
My eye has felt much better ever since. (Poor eye.) I've been told that I'm the only person who would need to wear goggles to keep her toenails trimmed.
Or at least my glasses. I'll approach toenail-clipping much less casually, henceforth. Who knew good hygiene habits could be so dangerous?
Saturday, June 11, 2005
the story of a girl
No, friends, I'm not crying a river, and I'm certainly not drowning the whole world. I don't usually look sad, and there aren't many photographs of me...
Okay, that's enough.
Today my landlord installed the air conditioner in my bedroom -- hallelujah, praise the Lord. I can't wait to walk into my own private Antarctica come bedtime. It has been HOT here and I'm tired of waking up five or six times in a night just because my body is wailing discomfort.
I also bought a window fan which will hopefully draw more air in through my windows. So far it seems to be working a little bit.
Manager Deborah had two black kittens for me to look at, but they were too small and needy for what I can handle right now, and way too expensive (I'd need to get them fixed, shots, and kitten food), so I comforted myself (because they're going to be killed -- argh, don't yell at me, I feel badly but this is the responsible thing to do) by going to Wal-Mart and buying a large palm plant. I brought it home and got my hands absolutely deliciously filthy in potting soil.
I put in my two-weeks' notice at Ann Taylor yesterday. I'm going to be poor as Adam for awhile but much happier with my nights and weekends wholly mine. I can't wait to spend Saturday mornings at the Farmers Market with Colette, and to take trips to the Warren Dunes on Lake Michigan, and to learn to garden, and to work around the apartment, and to read. It's going to be GREAT.
Hm, I think I can watch a movie before it's bedtime. Tomorrow I'm going to get a phone call from a good friend with whom I haven't spoken for awhile, so I'm excited. (Hey, that good friend could be you.)
Okay, that's enough.
Today my landlord installed the air conditioner in my bedroom -- hallelujah, praise the Lord. I can't wait to walk into my own private Antarctica come bedtime. It has been HOT here and I'm tired of waking up five or six times in a night just because my body is wailing discomfort.
I also bought a window fan which will hopefully draw more air in through my windows. So far it seems to be working a little bit.
Manager Deborah had two black kittens for me to look at, but they were too small and needy for what I can handle right now, and way too expensive (I'd need to get them fixed, shots, and kitten food), so I comforted myself (because they're going to be killed -- argh, don't yell at me, I feel badly but this is the responsible thing to do) by going to Wal-Mart and buying a large palm plant. I brought it home and got my hands absolutely deliciously filthy in potting soil.
I put in my two-weeks' notice at Ann Taylor yesterday. I'm going to be poor as Adam for awhile but much happier with my nights and weekends wholly mine. I can't wait to spend Saturday mornings at the Farmers Market with Colette, and to take trips to the Warren Dunes on Lake Michigan, and to learn to garden, and to work around the apartment, and to read. It's going to be GREAT.
Hm, I think I can watch a movie before it's bedtime. Tomorrow I'm going to get a phone call from a good friend with whom I haven't spoken for awhile, so I'm excited. (Hey, that good friend could be you.)
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
run rabbit run
I'm waiting on a friend to arrive to help me unload the furniture Mom and Dad bought for me, which I cannot get into my apartment by myself. (Sigh. The only downside to being single...you can't lift everything.)
She's running late.
I am rather happy, though, having learned that I can throw away my ugly and superfluous loveseat on the premises, once I call the Borough (or whatever) of South Bend to arrange for special pickup. One large item per month you can have removed for free.
I broke a glass last night on my kitchen floor (I had lifted the drying rack momentarily to the floor to create some temporary sink space and the glasses crashed against each other and one shattered -- applause to my genius) and although I did not sustain serious injuries from looking down and realizing that I was standing barefoot among the remains of the glass, I have been picking up little sparkling slivers all night and my poor feet hurt.
And yow, my apartment is disgustingly hot. The landlord offered to help me install my new air conditioner, so I'm going to call him and see if he can do it on Saturday. (I don't expect this air conditioner to cool the entire apartment; just my bedroom, so I can sleep comfortably; I'll get a large window fan for the rest of the apartment, to suck in air through all the open windows.)
Smoking Neighbor Ted took a tumble down the stairwell yesterday, and I arrived home from running errands at the same time as the paramedics and the police. (Five police officers with drawn guns waved me and the woman next door aside; apparently this isn't the best neighborhood.)
So it was interesting. I'm tired and going to bed; maybe I'll conclude the Ted tale tomorrow.
She's running late.
I am rather happy, though, having learned that I can throw away my ugly and superfluous loveseat on the premises, once I call the Borough (or whatever) of South Bend to arrange for special pickup. One large item per month you can have removed for free.
I broke a glass last night on my kitchen floor (I had lifted the drying rack momentarily to the floor to create some temporary sink space and the glasses crashed against each other and one shattered -- applause to my genius) and although I did not sustain serious injuries from looking down and realizing that I was standing barefoot among the remains of the glass, I have been picking up little sparkling slivers all night and my poor feet hurt.
And yow, my apartment is disgustingly hot. The landlord offered to help me install my new air conditioner, so I'm going to call him and see if he can do it on Saturday. (I don't expect this air conditioner to cool the entire apartment; just my bedroom, so I can sleep comfortably; I'll get a large window fan for the rest of the apartment, to suck in air through all the open windows.)
Smoking Neighbor Ted took a tumble down the stairwell yesterday, and I arrived home from running errands at the same time as the paramedics and the police. (Five police officers with drawn guns waved me and the woman next door aside; apparently this isn't the best neighborhood.)
So it was interesting. I'm tired and going to bed; maybe I'll conclude the Ted tale tomorrow.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
bright bright sunshiny day
I'm blogging from the homestead in my beloved Pennsylvania (I can now call it PA without people looking slightly puzzled) and it's gorgeously hot and very much June.
Eric and Kristin's wedding was perfect. (Of course, I was fifteen minutes late and so nearly missed the whole wonderfully short ceremony.)
And I'm with my family, including my sister (for the first time since last August -- hooray!!!), which is also perfect.
Eric and Kristin's wedding was perfect. (Of course, I was fifteen minutes late and so nearly missed the whole wonderfully short ceremony.)
And I'm with my family, including my sister (for the first time since last August -- hooray!!!), which is also perfect.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
peaceful early summer
Today with the babies was invigorating; Christopher the Drool-King exudes an aura of calm, so that even when he is not calm himself (such as when you abruptly put him down to take care of something else) he is so ridiculously relaxing to be around that I love working in the infant room. This child climbs into my lap at any given opportunity, usually accompanied by a self-launch at my face to wrap his arms around my neck and make happy baby noises. Today he topped off the gesture by fitting my whole chin into his mouth; I assume this was meant to be a kiss.
So freaking cute. I can't stand it.
I also caught up on bills today and rediscovered my kitchen table. The dishes are washed as well, so now I can sit back and thoroughly enjoy the evening at my leisure.
I bought The Master Butcher's Singing Club by Louise Erdrich at a discount at Barnes and Noble yesterday (what better way to spend part of a holiday than by browsing through my favorite place on earth) and I've already begun to read it -- a record for me, shameless purchaser of books which then accumulate dust on the shelf (but at least I own them). It's so good to be able to read again; the past few months have been full of planning, packing, moving, unpacking, and worrying when I wasn't doing anything else. So now, with no real worries that merit attention, I can once again take up my favorite hobby: Reading my eyes fuzzy.
Oh, haha, and a particularly boring individual at church (dubbed Chris with a House by Marianne et moi, because when we first met him and couldn't remember his name the fact that he owned a house was the only thing we knew about him), who has used every Sunday to wait doggedly by my shoulder until courtesy requires me to turn to him and ask about his week, where he then launches into a monotone tirade about how awful his job is and all the problems with his house and how much his week sucked, received a comeuppance a couple of weeks ago. I interrupted him mid-"I hate my boss" to say pointedly (though with a smile), "You know, it would be REALLY nice to hear 'My week was great and I'm doing well' from you sometime." --At which he sheepishly kept complaining.
The following week I determined to be outright rude to him; NEVER hearing a positive thing from his mouth had made me really angry with him -- I barely know this guy, why on earth would he pour out all his woes on my shoulder? What do I care? Besides which, QUIT WHINING and make the best out of your life that you can (BE A MAN) -- but he wasn't there, so I was saved from myself.
However, this past Sunday he was present, so I chatted animatedly to everyone else and didn't speak to him; after the service he came up and tapped my elbow and BECKONED me aside (I almost called him on it -- no one beckons me to do anything -- but decided I had been rude enough already), so I followed him out of everyone else's earshot with a momentary horror that he was going to ask me out, when he said, "Thanks for a couple of weeks ago."
"Oh?" I said, quickly switching gears to feigned innocence. "What was a couple of weeks ago?"
"A wake-up call you gave me."
"Oh," I said, really surprised, and so dropping the pretense. "So...you've had a good week?"
"A great one," he said. "Things at work are going much better."
"Well...good. That's -- that's really good to hear!"
The conversation didn't go on much longer than that. Apparently I can pleasantly tolerate his presence from now on. And once again, I speak the truth not in love and some poor dope eats it out of my hand and thanks me for it.
I've gotta quit doing that. Although, must admit, it will be nice not to hear a string of complaints when I ask about his week anymore. Maybe if I learn to be blunt with love instead of irritation at heart...
But we can't hope for too much at once.
So freaking cute. I can't stand it.
I also caught up on bills today and rediscovered my kitchen table. The dishes are washed as well, so now I can sit back and thoroughly enjoy the evening at my leisure.
I bought The Master Butcher's Singing Club by Louise Erdrich at a discount at Barnes and Noble yesterday (what better way to spend part of a holiday than by browsing through my favorite place on earth) and I've already begun to read it -- a record for me, shameless purchaser of books which then accumulate dust on the shelf (but at least I own them). It's so good to be able to read again; the past few months have been full of planning, packing, moving, unpacking, and worrying when I wasn't doing anything else. So now, with no real worries that merit attention, I can once again take up my favorite hobby: Reading my eyes fuzzy.
Oh, haha, and a particularly boring individual at church (dubbed Chris with a House by Marianne et moi, because when we first met him and couldn't remember his name the fact that he owned a house was the only thing we knew about him), who has used every Sunday to wait doggedly by my shoulder until courtesy requires me to turn to him and ask about his week, where he then launches into a monotone tirade about how awful his job is and all the problems with his house and how much his week sucked, received a comeuppance a couple of weeks ago. I interrupted him mid-"I hate my boss" to say pointedly (though with a smile), "You know, it would be REALLY nice to hear 'My week was great and I'm doing well' from you sometime." --At which he sheepishly kept complaining.
The following week I determined to be outright rude to him; NEVER hearing a positive thing from his mouth had made me really angry with him -- I barely know this guy, why on earth would he pour out all his woes on my shoulder? What do I care? Besides which, QUIT WHINING and make the best out of your life that you can (BE A MAN) -- but he wasn't there, so I was saved from myself.
However, this past Sunday he was present, so I chatted animatedly to everyone else and didn't speak to him; after the service he came up and tapped my elbow and BECKONED me aside (I almost called him on it -- no one beckons me to do anything -- but decided I had been rude enough already), so I followed him out of everyone else's earshot with a momentary horror that he was going to ask me out, when he said, "Thanks for a couple of weeks ago."
"Oh?" I said, quickly switching gears to feigned innocence. "What was a couple of weeks ago?"
"A wake-up call you gave me."
"Oh," I said, really surprised, and so dropping the pretense. "So...you've had a good week?"
"A great one," he said. "Things at work are going much better."
"Well...good. That's -- that's really good to hear!"
The conversation didn't go on much longer than that. Apparently I can pleasantly tolerate his presence from now on. And once again, I speak the truth not in love and some poor dope eats it out of my hand and thanks me for it.
I've gotta quit doing that. Although, must admit, it will be nice not to hear a string of complaints when I ask about his week anymore. Maybe if I learn to be blunt with love instead of irritation at heart...
But we can't hope for too much at once.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
not-so-lazy sunday
I plan to split this day between rest and work. Rest, of course, comes first. Hence blogging.
I am currently enjoying a Cherry Coke, one of my rare indulgences in soda (or "pop," as I can once again call it, since no one in the Midwest has heard of soda -- take that, all of my non-Western-PA friends). The mood for said pop arose with another phenomenon unique (as far as I can tell) to the Midwest, which I must extol here: Nelson's Port-a-Pit Chicken.
Our church had a huge tent sale yesterday (and lest you think it was a sale at which people purchased tents, I will specify by saying it was a garage sale that took place under a tent) and the college ministry (my Sunday School) sold Nelson's Port-a-Pit Chicken as a fundraiser. I skipped out on the entire deal yesterday, preferring to stay at home, but helped sell the leftovers after church today.
Manager-and-friend Ashleigh told me about Nelson's months ago, so I've been looking forward to the advent of summer to experience this palatable treasure. I'm not sure how everything works exactly, but the idea is that you rent a Nelson's truck which contains barrels of chicken halves soaking in some kind of marinade, then you barbecue it in a white sauce and sell it. I took one of the leftover boxes home today and devoured half of it standing in the kitchen. It is fabulously good.
And of course one cannot have barbecued chicken without sodapop.
Ashleigh's good-bye party went well. I had the best margarita of my life at the Hacienda (this is the correct spelling; I was too lazy to correct it in my previous post) and met several of her good friends, who are loud, wild and fun.
Smoking Neighbor Ted is still alive (last week for a few days the stairwell between our apartments smelled funny and the smoke stopped, so I called my dad to ask how dead people smell, just in case; but then Smoking Neighbor Ted seemed to start showering again -- the odor was mainly that of Unwashed Aging Male -- and the smoke kicked back in, so he is apparently, if not alive and well, at least alive). He seems to be the kind of irritating person who posts notes from "The Management" on the door to the stairs leading up to our apartments, saying things like "This door is to be kept closed and locked at all times" and advertising to the world that Bell 2A is for Sarah.
Sarah is going to type up a revised version of the note from "The Management" changing her name to something gender neutral. I know that the landlord didn't write the note from "The Management" for two reasons: 1.) because the note appeared on Saturday morning, and when I called the landlord on Saturday afternoon to ask advice regarding the REALLY loud music of the other downstairs neighbor (who works nights and whom I've never actually met, but who apparently likes easy listening nature albums and the "Grease" soundtrack, all loud enough to shake my dishes) and learned that he was in Chicago for the weekend and 2.) because the handwriting of the note matched the handwriting on Smoking Neighbor Ted's mailbox.
Thank God for at least one good neighbor -- Colette.
I am currently enjoying a Cherry Coke, one of my rare indulgences in soda (or "pop," as I can once again call it, since no one in the Midwest has heard of soda -- take that, all of my non-Western-PA friends). The mood for said pop arose with another phenomenon unique (as far as I can tell) to the Midwest, which I must extol here: Nelson's Port-a-Pit Chicken.
Our church had a huge tent sale yesterday (and lest you think it was a sale at which people purchased tents, I will specify by saying it was a garage sale that took place under a tent) and the college ministry (my Sunday School) sold Nelson's Port-a-Pit Chicken as a fundraiser. I skipped out on the entire deal yesterday, preferring to stay at home, but helped sell the leftovers after church today.
Manager-and-friend Ashleigh told me about Nelson's months ago, so I've been looking forward to the advent of summer to experience this palatable treasure. I'm not sure how everything works exactly, but the idea is that you rent a Nelson's truck which contains barrels of chicken halves soaking in some kind of marinade, then you barbecue it in a white sauce and sell it. I took one of the leftover boxes home today and devoured half of it standing in the kitchen. It is fabulously good.
And of course one cannot have barbecued chicken without sodapop.
Ashleigh's good-bye party went well. I had the best margarita of my life at the Hacienda (this is the correct spelling; I was too lazy to correct it in my previous post) and met several of her good friends, who are loud, wild and fun.
Smoking Neighbor Ted is still alive (last week for a few days the stairwell between our apartments smelled funny and the smoke stopped, so I called my dad to ask how dead people smell, just in case; but then Smoking Neighbor Ted seemed to start showering again -- the odor was mainly that of Unwashed Aging Male -- and the smoke kicked back in, so he is apparently, if not alive and well, at least alive). He seems to be the kind of irritating person who posts notes from "The Management" on the door to the stairs leading up to our apartments, saying things like "This door is to be kept closed and locked at all times" and advertising to the world that Bell 2A is for Sarah.
Sarah is going to type up a revised version of the note from "The Management" changing her name to something gender neutral. I know that the landlord didn't write the note from "The Management" for two reasons: 1.) because the note appeared on Saturday morning, and when I called the landlord on Saturday afternoon to ask advice regarding the REALLY loud music of the other downstairs neighbor (who works nights and whom I've never actually met, but who apparently likes easy listening nature albums and the "Grease" soundtrack, all loud enough to shake my dishes) and learned that he was in Chicago for the weekend and 2.) because the handwriting of the note matched the handwriting on Smoking Neighbor Ted's mailbox.
Thank God for at least one good neighbor -- Colette.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
testing, testing...1 2 3...
I don't know if anyone will be able to read this or not; no computer I've tried in the past few days can access my poor blog, but we'll see if publishing a new post will help anything.
Life is delightful right now; I'm really settling into my job and now that I have the whole weekend off I can devote time to cleaning up the apartment. This morning I slept in and took my time getting about the day, so currently I'm still unshowered and luxuriating in not having to be anywhere till this evening. (Manager-and-friend Ashleigh's Marines unit has been activated, so she's having a good-bye get-together at the Hacienca tonight.)
I'm developing some new friendships, which is wonderful, and next weekend I get to journey home to witness the marriage of Eric and Kristin. It's going to be great.
And since I don't know if anyone will be able to read this, I'll end here.
Life is delightful right now; I'm really settling into my job and now that I have the whole weekend off I can devote time to cleaning up the apartment. This morning I slept in and took my time getting about the day, so currently I'm still unshowered and luxuriating in not having to be anywhere till this evening. (Manager-and-friend Ashleigh's Marines unit has been activated, so she's having a good-bye get-together at the Hacienca tonight.)
I'm developing some new friendships, which is wonderful, and next weekend I get to journey home to witness the marriage of Eric and Kristin. It's going to be great.
And since I don't know if anyone will be able to read this, I'll end here.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Monday exhaustion
Pretty bad when you wake up tired, but that's Monday, I guess.
Also pretty bad when you know the parents of the children whom it is your job to watch and teach haven't been putting their children to bed at all over the weekend, so Mondays are needlessly emotional with tired kids.
However, I prayed a lot more than usual today and got through it much better than I otherwise would have.
I have discovered a new love: avocados. This would be thanks to MP, who would occasionally salt one and have it for dinner. I followed suit tonight. Aldi (some things never change) has avocados for 79 cents in Indiana, and I take advantage of that whenever I can. I've been having tacos the past few days (Okay, so I'm not eating the same meal for a week anymore, but honestly, what is one girl trying to lose weight to do with an entire pound of ground beef?) and chopping a bit of avocado on top seals the tastefulicious deal.
Most of the boxes are cleared out of the living room by now, and many of the ones in my bedroom as well. This weekend I have THE ENTIRE WEEKEND OFF and I intend to spend it as I spent yesterday: sleeping and cleaning. As soon as everything is put in order, I'm going to paint my apartment. Sage green and taupe in the bedroom, sage green and white in the bathroom, avocado green in the kitchen, and ___________ in the living room (this one I still haven't figured out). Naturally I love green. This should be fun; a facet of home improvement that I've never tried before.
All right, I'm tired, so I'm going to pop in Monsters, Inc. -- the movie I watch to relax.
Also pretty bad when you know the parents of the children whom it is your job to watch and teach haven't been putting their children to bed at all over the weekend, so Mondays are needlessly emotional with tired kids.
However, I prayed a lot more than usual today and got through it much better than I otherwise would have.
I have discovered a new love: avocados. This would be thanks to MP, who would occasionally salt one and have it for dinner. I followed suit tonight. Aldi (some things never change) has avocados for 79 cents in Indiana, and I take advantage of that whenever I can. I've been having tacos the past few days (Okay, so I'm not eating the same meal for a week anymore, but honestly, what is one girl trying to lose weight to do with an entire pound of ground beef?) and chopping a bit of avocado on top seals the tastefulicious deal.
Most of the boxes are cleared out of the living room by now, and many of the ones in my bedroom as well. This weekend I have THE ENTIRE WEEKEND OFF and I intend to spend it as I spent yesterday: sleeping and cleaning. As soon as everything is put in order, I'm going to paint my apartment. Sage green and taupe in the bedroom, sage green and white in the bathroom, avocado green in the kitchen, and ___________ in the living room (this one I still haven't figured out). Naturally I love green. This should be fun; a facet of home improvement that I've never tried before.
All right, I'm tired, so I'm going to pop in Monsters, Inc. -- the movie I watch to relax.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
i'm back!
At last, at long long last...
So much for a cleaner apartment.
Georges is going to Lebanon for the summer to learn Arabic, but has said he would e-mail, which gave me the final push to get on the phone with tech support and figure the darn thing out. I'm giving myself clever points for calling them on a Sunday, since my groundline phone won't work and I can only use my cell, so that today's phone call to SBC was free.
Today was the first day off I've had since I moved, and I spent it emptying boxes in my bedroom and napping. There's still something magical about a nap when you're exhausted. It's discouraging sometimes how quickly a carefully maintained sleep schedule goes to pot -- a week ago I was well-rested, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; due to three nights of later-than-usual bedtimes I am suddenly worn to a frazzle and barely able to keep walking around at my second job. So this day off, and this magical nap, were just what the body needed.
I am so glad to have the Internet back.
So much for a cleaner apartment.
Georges is going to Lebanon for the summer to learn Arabic, but has said he would e-mail, which gave me the final push to get on the phone with tech support and figure the darn thing out. I'm giving myself clever points for calling them on a Sunday, since my groundline phone won't work and I can only use my cell, so that today's phone call to SBC was free.
Today was the first day off I've had since I moved, and I spent it emptying boxes in my bedroom and napping. There's still something magical about a nap when you're exhausted. It's discouraging sometimes how quickly a carefully maintained sleep schedule goes to pot -- a week ago I was well-rested, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; due to three nights of later-than-usual bedtimes I am suddenly worn to a frazzle and barely able to keep walking around at my second job. So this day off, and this magical nap, were just what the body needed.
I am so glad to have the Internet back.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
i would have internet at home but...
...I'm lazy.
Tonight's project is setting up the SBC package that I picked up at the UPS station yesterday. Last night I was too darn tired.
Georges stopped by to return a movie that I had lent him and to spoil me with another half gallon of ice cream. (I do love being spoiled.) He sat down among the wreckage of books in my living room and we hung out for awhile. I had wanted to get to bed early, but I suppose social interaction has its advantages too. :) (MP was yelling at me the other day for not hanging out with anyone. At this point I've been so busy and exhausted settling in and working that I haven't felt up to it; but now that's ending and it's nice to talk to people.)
I skipped church last Sunday (bad me), but today got an e-mail from one of the Sunday School folks checking up on me. I love my church.
Tonight's project is setting up the SBC package that I picked up at the UPS station yesterday. Last night I was too darn tired.
Georges stopped by to return a movie that I had lent him and to spoil me with another half gallon of ice cream. (I do love being spoiled.) He sat down among the wreckage of books in my living room and we hung out for awhile. I had wanted to get to bed early, but I suppose social interaction has its advantages too. :) (MP was yelling at me the other day for not hanging out with anyone. At this point I've been so busy and exhausted settling in and working that I haven't felt up to it; but now that's ending and it's nice to talk to people.)
I skipped church last Sunday (bad me), but today got an e-mail from one of the Sunday School folks checking up on me. I love my church.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
the drought has almost ended
I'm supposed to get internet at the apartment tomorrow. We'll see how it goes.
Garbage bags and duct tape have indeed done (most of) the trick. Thanks, Josh. I shall be applying your other hints at first opportunity, but for now my apartment, although decidedly stuffier, no longer smells like a casino. It's an old house, with transom (sp?) windows that I think I can reopen, if I can get the paint off the hooks and bars that would hold them up, which would increase air circulation.
I think I have a new friend, the girl from the couple downstairs which is no longer the couple downstairs. She is residing alone now, and so we hung out the other night and had a good time and have set up a time to go to the local fresh produce market on Saturday morning. She's frank and nice and down-to-earth and funny and sensible -- all good qualities in an acquaintance, and very good qualities in a friend. She'll probably be staying here through the summer till she can find something smaller, so it's nice to know there's a nearby door I can knock on when I feel like a chat.
Here's hoping that when I start my computer tomorrow, the DSL network light will be on.
Garbage bags and duct tape have indeed done (most of) the trick. Thanks, Josh. I shall be applying your other hints at first opportunity, but for now my apartment, although decidedly stuffier, no longer smells like a casino. It's an old house, with transom (sp?) windows that I think I can reopen, if I can get the paint off the hooks and bars that would hold them up, which would increase air circulation.
I think I have a new friend, the girl from the couple downstairs which is no longer the couple downstairs. She is residing alone now, and so we hung out the other night and had a good time and have set up a time to go to the local fresh produce market on Saturday morning. She's frank and nice and down-to-earth and funny and sensible -- all good qualities in an acquaintance, and very good qualities in a friend. She'll probably be staying here through the summer till she can find something smaller, so it's nice to know there's a nearby door I can knock on when I feel like a chat.
Here's hoping that when I start my computer tomorrow, the DSL network light will be on.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
i can't live without the internet
This is killing me, Smalls.
Okay, brief update:
You know you have a great job when you can interchange your work clothes and your pajamas.
If I could be any Greek god, right now it would be Morpheus, because being the god of sleep and dreams would make naptime so much easier.
I'm settling into my life and my apartment. (Well, the apartment already felt like home, so now it's just a matter of organizing and cleaning up the boxes.) My only (and big) complaint about my new abode: The guy across the hall smokes heavily. Cigarette smoke seeps under my front door and pours through the vents in the evening, now that the heat is turned off. Help! How do I fix this? This morning I woke up feeling like I spent the night in a bar, and I hadn't even left my apartment. I refuse to allow my furniture, books, and clothes to smell disgusting just because my neighbor has a bad habit.
My favorite TV show ever (well, besides a few others like Star Trek: The Next Generation/Deep Space Nine, Will and Grace, and Dark Angel) just came out on DVD: The Pretender. It's taken them forever to come out with it. So last night I bought it and am in 90s TV drama heaven.
Okay, brief update:
You know you have a great job when you can interchange your work clothes and your pajamas.
If I could be any Greek god, right now it would be Morpheus, because being the god of sleep and dreams would make naptime so much easier.
I'm settling into my life and my apartment. (Well, the apartment already felt like home, so now it's just a matter of organizing and cleaning up the boxes.) My only (and big) complaint about my new abode: The guy across the hall smokes heavily. Cigarette smoke seeps under my front door and pours through the vents in the evening, now that the heat is turned off. Help! How do I fix this? This morning I woke up feeling like I spent the night in a bar, and I hadn't even left my apartment. I refuse to allow my furniture, books, and clothes to smell disgusting just because my neighbor has a bad habit.
My favorite TV show ever (well, besides a few others like Star Trek: The Next Generation/Deep Space Nine, Will and Grace, and Dark Angel) just came out on DVD: The Pretender. It's taken them forever to come out with it. So last night I bought it and am in 90s TV drama heaven.
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