While hugging the carpeted walls of my high school in my too-short pants (in the days when floods were an anathema) and bulky sweaters, trying to escape the notice of my peers, I often saw the district’s celebrated athletes crutching their way down the center of traffic, sporting their sprained ankles and blown-out knees packed in ice like donor organs. As the weeks went by, the ice disappeared to be replaced by mid-calf sports socks pulled up over the bulge of Ace bandages.
I helped the district’s physical therapist for a few weeks, exploring a possible (and long-discarded) gateway to the future. I learned to unroll and reroll Ace bandages over rainbow-colored puffy joints, tightly enough to provide support without cutting off all circulation. I learned to view Ace bandages as stinky extensions of their wearers, saturated with foot and ankle sweat and the slightly putrid smell of injury.
Then in college I had the opportunity to personalize my Ace bandage experience. A flying high-kick leap in flip-flops through the doors leading into the dorm lounge resulted in a popped ankle which swelled to the size of a grapefruit in about twelve seconds. My friends, all of whom, might I add, I dwarfed by about a foot, made a chair with their Superman-strength arms and carried me back to my room. I was on crutches for six weeks. I used a lot of Ace bandages. It became a form of art to wrap my ankle just so while it turned all shades of green, yellow, purple and black.
But my favorite Ace bandage experience topped off my senior year at Grove City: Children’s Theater. I was cast by the inestimable Hannah Fischer as Otter in The Wind in the Willows – a character distinctly male, robust, middle-aged, and jolly, complete with a "man gut." To transform myself from tall Amazonian woman to tall boisterous man, I pinned a few half-bolts of cloth together, held it to my middle, and had my friends wind me up from neck to Abercrombie waistline in Ace bandages. It was so successful that I even had a little bit of cloth pudge hanging strategically over my belt, and a small dimple that, under a shirt, looked like a belly button.
I obtained six bandages from the Nurse's office in order to be a successful man-mummy. Of course they didn’t want them back; so when Earl the Man Gut had to return to the scrap pile from whence he came, I rolled the Ace bandages into a plastic bag and kept them. You never know, I said.
Since then I’ve used them infrequently. Sometimes the old sprain acts up and I have to wrap it. And when, last night, I melted the skin on a small section of the heel of my hand taking biscuits out of the 450 degree oven by leaning briefly on the rack, I used a bandage to make a mummy of my hand around a Ziploc baggie of ice cubes for about an hour. Eating creamed chicken and biscuits with one working hand and one club with a thumb was interesting.
And today the burn, while rather ugly, is not even blistered.
And I couldn’t have done it without the Ace.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Tremors
This morning I woke from strange dreams involving revival-type meetings in a faux outdoor arena, complete with Astro turf, and Peter Cava, to the sound of footsteps in my hallway.
I jerked an earplug out and listened closely. Underneath the carpet right outside my bedroom door, which I keep mostly closed at night, I heard floorboards shifting, softly but unmistakably.
I lay awake in a flood of terrified sweat, breathing as quietly as possible in spite of the hyperventilating gasps my lungs were attempting. While the back of my mind sent up a stream of frantic prayer, I considered my options. The house phone was in the kitchen. The cell phone was turned on but would make a noise. The Maglite, my only realistic instrument of defense, was next to my bed. Was it wiser to try to confront the intruder, or to lie still and hope they were only after my TV and would go away?
The floorboards shifted again. Thirty seconds later the cat leaped onto my face to wish me good morning. He seemed unalarmed. I risked a glance at the clock. 6:15. An unlikely, though not impossible, hour for breaking and entering.
Now, I know from daily routine that the cat has a heavy tread. He climbs all over my chest and torso and shoulders in the mornings, rolling around on my abdomen in an ecstacy of affection and anticipation of breakfast, and some days I can barely breathe. But I did not know that his tread was heavy enough that he, when not galloping around like a mad giraffe, could sound like a human tiptoeing down the hall.
I got up, shivering as the chilly air attacked my soaked pajamas. My covers as I left them felt as though someone had gotten in bed straight out of the shower without drying off. I flashed the Maglite around the apartment for certainty’s sake, concluded that I was in no danger and that all the windows were sound, and fed the cat in a zombie-ish state of post-adrenaline rush.
I don’t often consider the possibility of danger; and while I don’t live in a savory neighborhood, I’ve never felt threatened beyond the first terrors of living alone when I first moved in. But it’s Halloween, possibilities are always there, however remote, and I hate being defenseless.
I’m not going to be that afraid again. My boss is now going to spend a few weekends teaching me to shoot, and I’m buying a gun.
I jerked an earplug out and listened closely. Underneath the carpet right outside my bedroom door, which I keep mostly closed at night, I heard floorboards shifting, softly but unmistakably.
I lay awake in a flood of terrified sweat, breathing as quietly as possible in spite of the hyperventilating gasps my lungs were attempting. While the back of my mind sent up a stream of frantic prayer, I considered my options. The house phone was in the kitchen. The cell phone was turned on but would make a noise. The Maglite, my only realistic instrument of defense, was next to my bed. Was it wiser to try to confront the intruder, or to lie still and hope they were only after my TV and would go away?
The floorboards shifted again. Thirty seconds later the cat leaped onto my face to wish me good morning. He seemed unalarmed. I risked a glance at the clock. 6:15. An unlikely, though not impossible, hour for breaking and entering.
Now, I know from daily routine that the cat has a heavy tread. He climbs all over my chest and torso and shoulders in the mornings, rolling around on my abdomen in an ecstacy of affection and anticipation of breakfast, and some days I can barely breathe. But I did not know that his tread was heavy enough that he, when not galloping around like a mad giraffe, could sound like a human tiptoeing down the hall.
I got up, shivering as the chilly air attacked my soaked pajamas. My covers as I left them felt as though someone had gotten in bed straight out of the shower without drying off. I flashed the Maglite around the apartment for certainty’s sake, concluded that I was in no danger and that all the windows were sound, and fed the cat in a zombie-ish state of post-adrenaline rush.
I don’t often consider the possibility of danger; and while I don’t live in a savory neighborhood, I’ve never felt threatened beyond the first terrors of living alone when I first moved in. But it’s Halloween, possibilities are always there, however remote, and I hate being defenseless.
I’m not going to be that afraid again. My boss is now going to spend a few weekends teaching me to shoot, and I’m buying a gun.
Friday, October 27, 2006
politically shaded ramblings
I've discovered a love for NPR. Maybe it's the upcoming elections, but something in me wants to tune into the news, and if you listen to NPR you can also get fabulous music, Guy Noir, Writer's Almanac reports, and Science Friday. I was grinning this morning because I knew every author in the Writer's Almanac who was born today (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MAXINE HONG KINGSTON!).
One of the news reports from this morning concerned the gas prices, which are expected to remain lower than all summer but will still (surprised?) bring the profits rolling into the oil industries. An audio file of a company respresentative speaking in ecstatic tones about the "record profits for the third quarter" almost had me wrecking the car yelling THAT'S BECAUSE YOU HELD THE AMERICAN PEOPLE HOSTAGE ALL YEAR, YOU UNPRINCIPLED FREAKS.
I could have understood the high gas prices if the oil companies were barely scraping by with what they've been paying and what they've been charging. But for God's sake. And I know, I know, Europe has been paying through the nose for years. But Europe has a.) smaller countries and b.) outstanding public transportation. The bus lines in South Bend don't run after eleven at night. The only trains running through most small cities and towns and villages carry freight. Most Americans commute long distances to work, rendering cycling absurd. I once saw a news report saying, "And now a look at how Britain has been dealing with the rising gas prices," with a shot of hundreds of people on bikes in the city. I choked on my water. England is pretty much the size of New Jersey, and the population tends to be more dense due to the limited available space. Of course biking is a great option. But not here, if you're one of the average middle-class suburban-dwelling commuters. There's not that much leeway for creative options.
Obviously suburbia sucks (and I don't understand the range in gas prices any more than the next averagely aware individual; but I'm tired of it jumping up and down twenty or thirty cents every three days like some demented sugar-high kindergartener). When MP and I visited Pittsburgh the other weekend, it enforced to me how much I'm coming to love city life. There's always something to do within a short walk or shorter drive; car pooling is excellent, recycling regular; there are fabulous family-owned businesses to frequent, markets to support, and political buzzes to listen to. In short, you can be pretty "crunchy."
I have MP to thank for introducing me to crunchiness. South Bend has a way to go before it's a truly crunchy city, but it's not that big and not that old, so there aren't as many creative opportunities to postmodernize, say, an abandoned stone church by turning it into a coffee shop and arts center (as in Pittsburgh, where we bought coffee and locally made mugs on our Homecoming trip). But it's a start. The Farmer's Market carries every kind of imaginable produce (including skinned rabbit), most of it organic, all of it local; I've even begun buying my milk there, which is the kind of milk that makes all other milk seem like skimmed blue shadows of what milk really is. Nearly every Saturday morning I roll out of bed, don a pair of jeans and a hoodie, and head to market with MP.
I still shop at Wal-Mart for the things in bulk that I need, or for housewares (n. v. crunchy). But I also have to live within my means, which I became very bad at this summer, and sometimes you just need chicken stock at forty-seven cents a can, instead of a dollar-fifty.
And at least once a week we wander around the worn brick streets of our incredibly, beautifully conscious neighborhood and revel in the fact that the houses are so old and that we live so close to everything in South Bend.
One of the news reports from this morning concerned the gas prices, which are expected to remain lower than all summer but will still (surprised?) bring the profits rolling into the oil industries. An audio file of a company respresentative speaking in ecstatic tones about the "record profits for the third quarter" almost had me wrecking the car yelling THAT'S BECAUSE YOU HELD THE AMERICAN PEOPLE HOSTAGE ALL YEAR, YOU UNPRINCIPLED FREAKS.
I could have understood the high gas prices if the oil companies were barely scraping by with what they've been paying and what they've been charging. But for God's sake. And I know, I know, Europe has been paying through the nose for years. But Europe has a.) smaller countries and b.) outstanding public transportation. The bus lines in South Bend don't run after eleven at night. The only trains running through most small cities and towns and villages carry freight. Most Americans commute long distances to work, rendering cycling absurd. I once saw a news report saying, "And now a look at how Britain has been dealing with the rising gas prices," with a shot of hundreds of people on bikes in the city. I choked on my water. England is pretty much the size of New Jersey, and the population tends to be more dense due to the limited available space. Of course biking is a great option. But not here, if you're one of the average middle-class suburban-dwelling commuters. There's not that much leeway for creative options.
Obviously suburbia sucks (and I don't understand the range in gas prices any more than the next averagely aware individual; but I'm tired of it jumping up and down twenty or thirty cents every three days like some demented sugar-high kindergartener). When MP and I visited Pittsburgh the other weekend, it enforced to me how much I'm coming to love city life. There's always something to do within a short walk or shorter drive; car pooling is excellent, recycling regular; there are fabulous family-owned businesses to frequent, markets to support, and political buzzes to listen to. In short, you can be pretty "crunchy."
I have MP to thank for introducing me to crunchiness. South Bend has a way to go before it's a truly crunchy city, but it's not that big and not that old, so there aren't as many creative opportunities to postmodernize, say, an abandoned stone church by turning it into a coffee shop and arts center (as in Pittsburgh, where we bought coffee and locally made mugs on our Homecoming trip). But it's a start. The Farmer's Market carries every kind of imaginable produce (including skinned rabbit), most of it organic, all of it local; I've even begun buying my milk there, which is the kind of milk that makes all other milk seem like skimmed blue shadows of what milk really is. Nearly every Saturday morning I roll out of bed, don a pair of jeans and a hoodie, and head to market with MP.
I still shop at Wal-Mart for the things in bulk that I need, or for housewares (n. v. crunchy). But I also have to live within my means, which I became very bad at this summer, and sometimes you just need chicken stock at forty-seven cents a can, instead of a dollar-fifty.
And at least once a week we wander around the worn brick streets of our incredibly, beautifully conscious neighborhood and revel in the fact that the houses are so old and that we live so close to everything in South Bend.
Monday, October 23, 2006
every once in awhile...
I decided that, like it or not, my introvert batteries need some serious recharging. I've been on the go constantly for two months, and my resources are significantly drained. So, starting Friday, I began a period of a recluse, hermitish existence whereby I go nowhere except the grocery store and hang out with virtually no one. And it's been splended so far. I'm not sure how long this period will last -- hopefully I'll be ready to rejoin the social world again by Sunday, since I'm supposed to host Sunday dinner.
Chris Pipkin coined a term last weekend: "socially hungover." And I've had it bad.
So this weekend I did nothing but sew my curtains. I finally figured out the darn sewing machine, and I spent a good period of forty-eight hours kneeling on the floor sticking pins in seamlines. I used no pattern but the ideas in my head, which fluctuated every hour or so. And by eleven o'clock last night I was finished. And they look awesome.
They're made of panels of a dark red, plush-ish fabric and a cream faux linen fabric. As I have three windows in my living room, two of which are in the same wall, I tried a little organic-type design, so that each window has a different kind of curtain. The outer windows have the red at the outside, the cream at the inside; the middle window has the red at either side and the cream in the middle. I sewed tabs on them from which to suspend the curtains, and then tied the panels together into a knot at the very center of the window.
The result: phenomenal. I wish I had a digital camera to share.
I've also been losing weight. I don't know how much, since I don't have scales, but the belt I couldn't buckle a month ago now fits comfortably at the second hole, so that's at least an inch gone. And that's good: After the Summer of Existential Despair, I started porking up like a pig for the slaughter, and I reached again the weight I was in college (v. bad). But now I'm feeling more comfortable with myself (and my clothes are more comfortable too -- it's so freaking expensive to replace a wardrobe), and another five to ten pounds should do the trick admirably, so that I'm at a healthy, attractive poundage.
My second home decorating project has been the appearance of my walls. I've forestalled painting them (again), but I've begun collecting old postcards at the antique stores in Edwardsburg, and this weekend I purchased a lot of cheap-yet-interesting picture frames, and have been arranging them in the corners behind the entertainment center -- heretofore a vast empty space of sterile white, now a pleasing array of strategically placed pictures. I even figured out how to hang some of them IN the corner, so that they face out and bring the two walls more smoothly together.
Some of the postcards are of local places, some of places far away; and some of them are postmarked with notes -- one of them from 1910, and another rather nasty one from some crotchety-sounding Aunt So-and-So, who wrote to her niece, "This warm weather must be rough on fat people like you. Got your postcard. I was forgetting some of the childrens' names." Others are funny, or rather sweet -- one from an apparently ten-year-old kid to his sister on a trip to the Alps, with a picture of skiers on the front and a note on the back reading, "Dear sister, I had some of those snow shoes on at the top of that mountain, but I couldn't slide with them on. John."
I love old correspondence.
So yes, my self-imposed isolation from society has been doing me good, and given me a chance to work on some nest-lining projects that are turning out well (now I just need to clean the filthy apartment).
Most of this year I've felt like the Anti-Midas, but every once in awhile, the things I touch turn to gold. Or at least cool, red-and-cream curtains, and nicely pictured walls.
Chris Pipkin coined a term last weekend: "socially hungover." And I've had it bad.
So this weekend I did nothing but sew my curtains. I finally figured out the darn sewing machine, and I spent a good period of forty-eight hours kneeling on the floor sticking pins in seamlines. I used no pattern but the ideas in my head, which fluctuated every hour or so. And by eleven o'clock last night I was finished. And they look awesome.
They're made of panels of a dark red, plush-ish fabric and a cream faux linen fabric. As I have three windows in my living room, two of which are in the same wall, I tried a little organic-type design, so that each window has a different kind of curtain. The outer windows have the red at the outside, the cream at the inside; the middle window has the red at either side and the cream in the middle. I sewed tabs on them from which to suspend the curtains, and then tied the panels together into a knot at the very center of the window.
The result: phenomenal. I wish I had a digital camera to share.
I've also been losing weight. I don't know how much, since I don't have scales, but the belt I couldn't buckle a month ago now fits comfortably at the second hole, so that's at least an inch gone. And that's good: After the Summer of Existential Despair, I started porking up like a pig for the slaughter, and I reached again the weight I was in college (v. bad). But now I'm feeling more comfortable with myself (and my clothes are more comfortable too -- it's so freaking expensive to replace a wardrobe), and another five to ten pounds should do the trick admirably, so that I'm at a healthy, attractive poundage.
My second home decorating project has been the appearance of my walls. I've forestalled painting them (again), but I've begun collecting old postcards at the antique stores in Edwardsburg, and this weekend I purchased a lot of cheap-yet-interesting picture frames, and have been arranging them in the corners behind the entertainment center -- heretofore a vast empty space of sterile white, now a pleasing array of strategically placed pictures. I even figured out how to hang some of them IN the corner, so that they face out and bring the two walls more smoothly together.
Some of the postcards are of local places, some of places far away; and some of them are postmarked with notes -- one of them from 1910, and another rather nasty one from some crotchety-sounding Aunt So-and-So, who wrote to her niece, "This warm weather must be rough on fat people like you. Got your postcard. I was forgetting some of the childrens' names." Others are funny, or rather sweet -- one from an apparently ten-year-old kid to his sister on a trip to the Alps, with a picture of skiers on the front and a note on the back reading, "Dear sister, I had some of those snow shoes on at the top of that mountain, but I couldn't slide with them on. John."
I love old correspondence.
So yes, my self-imposed isolation from society has been doing me good, and given me a chance to work on some nest-lining projects that are turning out well (now I just need to clean the filthy apartment).
Most of this year I've felt like the Anti-Midas, but every once in awhile, the things I touch turn to gold. Or at least cool, red-and-cream curtains, and nicely pictured walls.
Friday, October 20, 2006
See, and even that was a little melodramatic for how I'm actually feeling. What I'm actually feeling is more like this: - .
All I want to do is go home and sew my curtains (MP and I are on a quest to further our psychotic domesticity together). My sewing machine was giving me fits last night, as I was trying to figure out how to use it, but a brief discussion with my boss's wife had her a.) laughing at me for trying to seam the fabric in the wrong direction and b.) giving me tips for how to fix the problem. So now that's all I want to do.
And the only story I really feel like telling is this one.
When I was a senior in high school, I started dating this guy from my Calculus and Spanish classes. He was very short, very cute, very shy, and very sweet. We used to do our calc homework together as a way of getting around my parents' -- and my -- anti-dating policy. He made me laugh. Holding hands with him was lovely. We went to Prom.
I broke up with him (or stopped talking to him) the summer before college, telling myself that long-distance relationships don't work and unable to get past his nonparticipation in the Christian faith. I think that mercenary decision is one of my only regrets.
But when I think about him, aside from all the passing notes in Spanish class and watching movies at Hillori's and scrambling around in the woods building rock formations with our other dorky and funny friends, I think about how I would get up for school at 4:45 a.m. to use the shower ahead of the rest of my family, and how when I got home from school I was so tired I would fall dead asleep on my bed, and how he would call while I was sleeping, and how Mom would wake me up to give me the phone, and how I would be groggy and stupid and take twelve seconds to mumble a response to anything he said, and how he would laugh and ask, "Did your Mom wake you up again? ... She really shouldn't do that," and how his voice was so warm and affectionate it was like he was sitting next to me, and how talking to him on the phone, even with a sleep-reduced IQ, made me wonderfully happy, and how I would look out the window next to my bed and feel the almost-summer breeze blow over the sheets, and think about how happy I was, because of him.
All I want to do is go home and sew my curtains (MP and I are on a quest to further our psychotic domesticity together). My sewing machine was giving me fits last night, as I was trying to figure out how to use it, but a brief discussion with my boss's wife had her a.) laughing at me for trying to seam the fabric in the wrong direction and b.) giving me tips for how to fix the problem. So now that's all I want to do.
And the only story I really feel like telling is this one.
When I was a senior in high school, I started dating this guy from my Calculus and Spanish classes. He was very short, very cute, very shy, and very sweet. We used to do our calc homework together as a way of getting around my parents' -- and my -- anti-dating policy. He made me laugh. Holding hands with him was lovely. We went to Prom.
I broke up with him (or stopped talking to him) the summer before college, telling myself that long-distance relationships don't work and unable to get past his nonparticipation in the Christian faith. I think that mercenary decision is one of my only regrets.
But when I think about him, aside from all the passing notes in Spanish class and watching movies at Hillori's and scrambling around in the woods building rock formations with our other dorky and funny friends, I think about how I would get up for school at 4:45 a.m. to use the shower ahead of the rest of my family, and how when I got home from school I was so tired I would fall dead asleep on my bed, and how he would call while I was sleeping, and how Mom would wake me up to give me the phone, and how I would be groggy and stupid and take twelve seconds to mumble a response to anything he said, and how he would laugh and ask, "Did your Mom wake you up again? ... She really shouldn't do that," and how his voice was so warm and affectionate it was like he was sitting next to me, and how talking to him on the phone, even with a sleep-reduced IQ, made me wonderfully happy, and how I would look out the window next to my bed and feel the almost-summer breeze blow over the sheets, and think about how happy I was, because of him.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
an obligatory post, by way of apology for my long silence
When will my spring come? When shall I be as the swallow, that I may sing and not be silent? I have lost the Muse in silence, and Apollo regards me not.
~Pervigilium Veneris
This is me. I had a fabulous Homecoming weekend, but now everything seems flat and barely worth going through. I'm alone. I have nothing much to say. I am tired and oversocialized. I have no perspective.
And I can't even talk about it. What is there to say?
~Pervigilium Veneris
This is me. I had a fabulous Homecoming weekend, but now everything seems flat and barely worth going through. I'm alone. I have nothing much to say. I am tired and oversocialized. I have no perspective.
And I can't even talk about it. What is there to say?
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Trash Day
In early August thunderstorms push
flash floods into the car-plowed furrows
of the historic street and lay
two inches of water along the house foundation.
Thursday morning I sit on the porch
with a side view of the swamped lawn
and front-row exposure to the hammer
of rain over neglected gutters.
Tips of grass blades lean over the water
toward the sidewalk, a dirty tributary to the alley
where the garbage truck idles.
From my patio chair I can see
the yellow slicker of the trash man
lurch toward the green city-supplied cans.
In the gray caste of the day
the white bags snap from his arm
into the back of the truck
like sodden sheets jerked free of the line.
flash floods into the car-plowed furrows
of the historic street and lay
two inches of water along the house foundation.
Thursday morning I sit on the porch
with a side view of the swamped lawn
and front-row exposure to the hammer
of rain over neglected gutters.
Tips of grass blades lean over the water
toward the sidewalk, a dirty tributary to the alley
where the garbage truck idles.
From my patio chair I can see
the yellow slicker of the trash man
lurch toward the green city-supplied cans.
In the gray caste of the day
the white bags snap from his arm
into the back of the truck
like sodden sheets jerked free of the line.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
leeky boats
In an effort to contain the Bridget Jonesian fat splurging out from our hips and sides, MP and I decided to begin the French Women Don't Get Fat diet, which kicks off with two days of nothing but leek soup. We had planned on making this a weekend thing, but put it off this past weekend, and didn't want to do it this coming weekend (GCC HOMECOMING!!!), and the weekend following is too far away, so we decided to do it yesterday and today.
When Sunday Dinner lasted too late into the night for us to purchase the leeks then, we decided that MP should go to Meijer at 7 a.m. on Monday and then come to my apartment armed with leeks to make the soup.
And she did it. (We do nothing by halves, we two.) We made a gargantuan pot of boiled leeks (throwing in thyme and oregano for some flavor), split it in half, and went about our day. I drove to work with an enormous pot of soup snuggled at the bottom of the car, which infused the office with a strong smell of onions as it sat looking bizarre atop the filing cabinets. I spent the morning gulping ladlefuls of leek broth to pacify my screaming stomach, and the afternoon hating leeks and avoiding them by drinking Coke. I became giddy, dizzy, and half-delusional. Email conversations with MP found her in the same state.
My determination lasted exactly until I got home from work, when I dumped the soup in the yard and went to Fiddler's for a steak sandwich.
It just goes to show that I'm not French (and that one should never panic about splurging fat when one is undergoing the camel-syle water storage of PMS). So I'm doing what I did two years ago and reinstilling the Peanut Butter Diet.
When Sunday Dinner lasted too late into the night for us to purchase the leeks then, we decided that MP should go to Meijer at 7 a.m. on Monday and then come to my apartment armed with leeks to make the soup.
And she did it. (We do nothing by halves, we two.) We made a gargantuan pot of boiled leeks (throwing in thyme and oregano for some flavor), split it in half, and went about our day. I drove to work with an enormous pot of soup snuggled at the bottom of the car, which infused the office with a strong smell of onions as it sat looking bizarre atop the filing cabinets. I spent the morning gulping ladlefuls of leek broth to pacify my screaming stomach, and the afternoon hating leeks and avoiding them by drinking Coke. I became giddy, dizzy, and half-delusional. Email conversations with MP found her in the same state.
My determination lasted exactly until I got home from work, when I dumped the soup in the yard and went to Fiddler's for a steak sandwich.
It just goes to show that I'm not French (and that one should never panic about splurging fat when one is undergoing the camel-syle water storage of PMS). So I'm doing what I did two years ago and reinstilling the Peanut Butter Diet.
Monday, October 09, 2006
I'm the princess
Neighbors Kevin and Jim and I spent all summer fuming in preparation for the showdown with the Absent Landlord demanding central heating this winter. We've been meeting on and off for months, talking about it and planning our attack.
Preliminary to our planned group meeting with him, last weekend while the AL was at my apartment surveying two bedroom windows which had been broken for sixteen months and ten months, respectively, I asked, with all my usual diplomatic subtlety, when he was going to turn on the heat and which system he was using this year. When he began to say he wanted to keep the heat low and have us use the space heaters, like last year, I interrupted him and said, "Yeah, I'm not okay with that." I informed him of his legal obligation to keep the heat at sixty-five degrees during the day and sixty degrees at night. He then promised to keep it at sixty-four.
Two days later, Kevin told me that the AL told him sixty during the day.
Oh no, I said. This is not going to fly. We're having a meeting.
So Kevin and Jim and I conferenced, and Kevin put in a casual call to the AL arranging to have him come over to Kevin's apartment yesterday evening to examine a ceiling leak. When the AL arrived (very very late), he found the three of us waiting on the porch.
"So," I said. "While we're all here, I just wanted to make sure we're all on the same page about the heat this winter. You told me sixty-four during the day, sixty at night. Is that what we're doing?"
And the three of us pretty much bullied him into it, which wasn't that hard. We just kept repeating ourselves. One of the AL's favorite tricks (as he tends to avoid confrontation) is to tell one of us one thing, and another of us another, and then play us off against each other ("Why are you upset about this, Kevin? Sarah's fine with it"). We decided to avoid that by making him say the same thing to all of us at once. And now three people have heard him promise to keep the heat at one particular central temperature.
While we were waiting for the AL to show up, Kevin looked at me (this is a thirty-five-year-old man, mind you, who in the past has appeared to demonstrate no problem with speaking his mind) and said, "I'll follow your lead on this one, Sarah."
"Why?" I said. "Because I'm psychotically confrontational?"
He laughed.
So we get baseline heat this winter (yay!) and Kevin and Jim won't be moving out in the near future (again yay! they're great neighbors -- we're all quiet, considerate, articulate, able to compromise with problems of living in one house, and enjoy little nickel-and-dime improvements around the place, like patio furniture, clotheslines, and now we're planning a firepit in the backyard. I also bought Jim's old bicycle, and Kevin and I are porch-sitters. We all get along beautifully, and the AL has a bad habit of renting to drug dealers, so who knows who would move in?).
And Jim told me yesterday that if we got the heat and he decided to stay, he was getting a satellite dish. "You can feel free to tap in," he said, "I won't charge you. In fact, I'm getting hookup for four rooms, but I only have three televisions, so I'll just give you the fourth receiver."
"Oh. My. Gosh. That would be so awesome, Jim. I'll pay for that receiver," I said.
"Why? I won't be paying for it; it comes with the package. You can just have it."
So I'll have central heat AND Direct TV this winter.
I win.
Preliminary to our planned group meeting with him, last weekend while the AL was at my apartment surveying two bedroom windows which had been broken for sixteen months and ten months, respectively, I asked, with all my usual diplomatic subtlety, when he was going to turn on the heat and which system he was using this year. When he began to say he wanted to keep the heat low and have us use the space heaters, like last year, I interrupted him and said, "Yeah, I'm not okay with that." I informed him of his legal obligation to keep the heat at sixty-five degrees during the day and sixty degrees at night. He then promised to keep it at sixty-four.
Two days later, Kevin told me that the AL told him sixty during the day.
Oh no, I said. This is not going to fly. We're having a meeting.
So Kevin and Jim and I conferenced, and Kevin put in a casual call to the AL arranging to have him come over to Kevin's apartment yesterday evening to examine a ceiling leak. When the AL arrived (very very late), he found the three of us waiting on the porch.
"So," I said. "While we're all here, I just wanted to make sure we're all on the same page about the heat this winter. You told me sixty-four during the day, sixty at night. Is that what we're doing?"
And the three of us pretty much bullied him into it, which wasn't that hard. We just kept repeating ourselves. One of the AL's favorite tricks (as he tends to avoid confrontation) is to tell one of us one thing, and another of us another, and then play us off against each other ("Why are you upset about this, Kevin? Sarah's fine with it"). We decided to avoid that by making him say the same thing to all of us at once. And now three people have heard him promise to keep the heat at one particular central temperature.
While we were waiting for the AL to show up, Kevin looked at me (this is a thirty-five-year-old man, mind you, who in the past has appeared to demonstrate no problem with speaking his mind) and said, "I'll follow your lead on this one, Sarah."
"Why?" I said. "Because I'm psychotically confrontational?"
He laughed.
So we get baseline heat this winter (yay!) and Kevin and Jim won't be moving out in the near future (again yay! they're great neighbors -- we're all quiet, considerate, articulate, able to compromise with problems of living in one house, and enjoy little nickel-and-dime improvements around the place, like patio furniture, clotheslines, and now we're planning a firepit in the backyard. I also bought Jim's old bicycle, and Kevin and I are porch-sitters. We all get along beautifully, and the AL has a bad habit of renting to drug dealers, so who knows who would move in?).
And Jim told me yesterday that if we got the heat and he decided to stay, he was getting a satellite dish. "You can feel free to tap in," he said, "I won't charge you. In fact, I'm getting hookup for four rooms, but I only have three televisions, so I'll just give you the fourth receiver."
"Oh. My. Gosh. That would be so awesome, Jim. I'll pay for that receiver," I said.
"Why? I won't be paying for it; it comes with the package. You can just have it."
So I'll have central heat AND Direct TV this winter.
I win.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
oh life
What a fabulous week.
I'm finally beginning to settle in at work; I'm not making as many stupid mistakes, and I have apparently worked out an excellent organizational system which allows me to manage my menagerie of tasks without losing track of what I'm doing.
The legal secretary thing is a challenge. On any given day I'm responsible for drawing up documents, transcribing letters, and making copies of said documents and sending them to the appropriate people (with nearly every one of them I sign an affidavit or proof of service, swearing under oath that on that particular date I served the opposing counsel or unrepresented parties the documents by placing them in the mail, which means that if I forget or lose them I can get my petutie tossed in jail). I also have to open and copy the mail, send and receive and copy and file faxes, make sure my boss sees the important ones, file papers in their appropriate files, be absolutely certain to send clients their notices of hearing, manage my boss's calendar, get his office going in the morning, pack and unpack his satchel for court appearances, take his messages and make calls for him. Furthermore, I'm also the receptionist, so I am in charge of answering phones, taking messages, making appointments, putting new clients in the system and helping them complete their paperwork, accepting monies through the mail or in person, making receipts, and keeping track of all charges made for appointments, documents, enclosures sent through the mail, faxes sent and received, phone conferences, and court appearances.
With absolutely no prior training, and so much room for massive errors, it's been a tough change. Add to that my recovery from the trauma of my previous job, betrayal from and loss of people I had considered friends, difficulties with my antidepressants, major spiritual upheaval through exploring Catholicism (which, some days, nearly kills me with stress and uncertainty, and other days fills me with certainty and joy), a sudden sober awareness of the state of my finances and a need to screw down a really tight budget, and it's been a grueling summer and early fall.
But I'm coming along. Very well, in fact.
I'm beginning to work on my writing again; the past couple of weeks I've sat down and begun to revise my poetry, and to consider where to begin to submit it for publication. I'm getting more sleep. Simon has once again become my bedfellow through the cold nights (he stopped sleeping on my bed when I began to be hit hard by depression in April, and I've missed his warm little furry body tremendously). I'm starting to get up earlier and be glad to be awake. The weather has morphed over the past week from rainy and miserable to perfect sunny crisp autumn. I've stocked up on staples for my forays into the world of Indian cooking. I feel like I'm getting myself back.
The past few weekends have been filled with several important home improvement projects (nest-lining in preparation for winter), which have made my delightful apartment even more a beautiful home. The other week poking around in an old antique/junk store down the street from where I work, I found a gorgeous 1920s dresser (for $34!!), which Joan helped me transport into my apartment last Sunday -- finally I can get the majority of my clothes out of the plastic bins under the bed! I also found a heavy old drawer reinforced with rusted iron, once painted yellow but now almost entirely weathered and gray, and divided into four segments; last Sunday I figured out my drill and screwed it into the wall and turned it into a spice rack, and hung my "Chat Noir" pictures on either side of it. I also found an authentic old spice rack, with eighteen empty clear glass spice bottles, so now I have an attractive display for all the Asian and Indian spices I bought, which all come in plastic bags. I battled with the drywall and studs and hung all my pots and pans on another wall. A weathered beer crate has become a shoe rack in the entryway, an old window trough serves to hold my writing projects under revision on my writing desk, and an old wooden box with a worn leather strap now contains all of my stationary.
My house is beautiful.
It's been over a year since I first moved in, and I've fallen in love with the neighborhood, with the local Farmer's Market, and with my apartment. And now, with the additional furniture from last weekend, and with the writing desk and huge armchair I bought over the summer, it feels perfectly settled and at home with itself.
And now that I see Meg and Phillip at least once a week (we spent Friday night eating pizza and watching Star Trek: The Next Generation -- joy! rapture! I love Data!), and Marianne nearly every day, and the grad students who have become like family at the newly-instituted Sunday dinner (a perfect way to pretend Monday is never coming, and to sit down and enjoy a home-cooked meal with wine among familiar company and excellent conversation), and talking to Leigh Ann every Wednesday night while watching Bones, my social calendar is pleasantly filled with people I love in relaxed settings.
So life is settling in and I'm beginning to enjoy it again. Autumn always brings out the best in me anyway, and the changes have reached what appears to be an equilibrium, and all has turned out, indeed, for the best.
And I'm inexplicably content and perfectly happy with being single. I can't actually imagine dating right now, and I'm treasuring too much this refreshing time of loving my life and feeling settled and glad in myself, my God, my friends, and my existence to feel like I have room for someone else. Of course, when the time comes, I'll be glad to greet it. But this is, simply, wonderful.
Oh life.
I'm finally beginning to settle in at work; I'm not making as many stupid mistakes, and I have apparently worked out an excellent organizational system which allows me to manage my menagerie of tasks without losing track of what I'm doing.
The legal secretary thing is a challenge. On any given day I'm responsible for drawing up documents, transcribing letters, and making copies of said documents and sending them to the appropriate people (with nearly every one of them I sign an affidavit or proof of service, swearing under oath that on that particular date I served the opposing counsel or unrepresented parties the documents by placing them in the mail, which means that if I forget or lose them I can get my petutie tossed in jail). I also have to open and copy the mail, send and receive and copy and file faxes, make sure my boss sees the important ones, file papers in their appropriate files, be absolutely certain to send clients their notices of hearing, manage my boss's calendar, get his office going in the morning, pack and unpack his satchel for court appearances, take his messages and make calls for him. Furthermore, I'm also the receptionist, so I am in charge of answering phones, taking messages, making appointments, putting new clients in the system and helping them complete their paperwork, accepting monies through the mail or in person, making receipts, and keeping track of all charges made for appointments, documents, enclosures sent through the mail, faxes sent and received, phone conferences, and court appearances.
With absolutely no prior training, and so much room for massive errors, it's been a tough change. Add to that my recovery from the trauma of my previous job, betrayal from and loss of people I had considered friends, difficulties with my antidepressants, major spiritual upheaval through exploring Catholicism (which, some days, nearly kills me with stress and uncertainty, and other days fills me with certainty and joy), a sudden sober awareness of the state of my finances and a need to screw down a really tight budget, and it's been a grueling summer and early fall.
But I'm coming along. Very well, in fact.
I'm beginning to work on my writing again; the past couple of weeks I've sat down and begun to revise my poetry, and to consider where to begin to submit it for publication. I'm getting more sleep. Simon has once again become my bedfellow through the cold nights (he stopped sleeping on my bed when I began to be hit hard by depression in April, and I've missed his warm little furry body tremendously). I'm starting to get up earlier and be glad to be awake. The weather has morphed over the past week from rainy and miserable to perfect sunny crisp autumn. I've stocked up on staples for my forays into the world of Indian cooking. I feel like I'm getting myself back.
The past few weekends have been filled with several important home improvement projects (nest-lining in preparation for winter), which have made my delightful apartment even more a beautiful home. The other week poking around in an old antique/junk store down the street from where I work, I found a gorgeous 1920s dresser (for $34!!), which Joan helped me transport into my apartment last Sunday -- finally I can get the majority of my clothes out of the plastic bins under the bed! I also found a heavy old drawer reinforced with rusted iron, once painted yellow but now almost entirely weathered and gray, and divided into four segments; last Sunday I figured out my drill and screwed it into the wall and turned it into a spice rack, and hung my "Chat Noir" pictures on either side of it. I also found an authentic old spice rack, with eighteen empty clear glass spice bottles, so now I have an attractive display for all the Asian and Indian spices I bought, which all come in plastic bags. I battled with the drywall and studs and hung all my pots and pans on another wall. A weathered beer crate has become a shoe rack in the entryway, an old window trough serves to hold my writing projects under revision on my writing desk, and an old wooden box with a worn leather strap now contains all of my stationary.
My house is beautiful.
It's been over a year since I first moved in, and I've fallen in love with the neighborhood, with the local Farmer's Market, and with my apartment. And now, with the additional furniture from last weekend, and with the writing desk and huge armchair I bought over the summer, it feels perfectly settled and at home with itself.
And now that I see Meg and Phillip at least once a week (we spent Friday night eating pizza and watching Star Trek: The Next Generation -- joy! rapture! I love Data!), and Marianne nearly every day, and the grad students who have become like family at the newly-instituted Sunday dinner (a perfect way to pretend Monday is never coming, and to sit down and enjoy a home-cooked meal with wine among familiar company and excellent conversation), and talking to Leigh Ann every Wednesday night while watching Bones, my social calendar is pleasantly filled with people I love in relaxed settings.
So life is settling in and I'm beginning to enjoy it again. Autumn always brings out the best in me anyway, and the changes have reached what appears to be an equilibrium, and all has turned out, indeed, for the best.
And I'm inexplicably content and perfectly happy with being single. I can't actually imagine dating right now, and I'm treasuring too much this refreshing time of loving my life and feeling settled and glad in myself, my God, my friends, and my existence to feel like I have room for someone else. Of course, when the time comes, I'll be glad to greet it. But this is, simply, wonderful.
Oh life.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop
Monday, September 25, 2006
stresssssss
I'm wondering if the stomach upsets I've been dealing with all weekend are actually the beginnings of an ulcer.
I'm pretty sure I had one in high school -- I was under constant, slow, elongated pressure from a variety of sources. My stomach hurt all the time, I felt constantly nauseous, and as if butterflies were leaping about with abandon every hour of the day.
It's starting to happen again. I'm hardly ever hungry. My stomach just HURTS.
Not surprising, I guess. I haven't undergone this level of stress in all the combined facets of my life in quite some time, and I've always been one to internalize.
I don't know how to lower the stress levels, though. Exercise more, I think -- which, surprisingly, I began to do voluntarily last week. Pray more. Eat sparingly (oh good, maybe I can start shedding those ten extra pounds). Sleep a lot. Try my hardest to relax whenever I'm not at work, since my hours at work are invariably crammed with stress.
Sometimes I feel a little trapped. MP asked me, a year and a half ago, what my ideal job was. "Quick, like a Rorschak -- don't think about it, just answer -- what's your ideal job?" Instant response: "Not to have one."
Right, that's doable. But all the things I love to do involve not having a job: writing, reading, nesting, cooking. That's real life to me. These just-to-pass-the-time jobs are wearing me out.
And since I have to provide for myself, my only hope is grad school, which is at least a year away.
As the author of Proverbs declares, "Hope deferred rots the bones."
I'm pretty sure I had one in high school -- I was under constant, slow, elongated pressure from a variety of sources. My stomach hurt all the time, I felt constantly nauseous, and as if butterflies were leaping about with abandon every hour of the day.
It's starting to happen again. I'm hardly ever hungry. My stomach just HURTS.
Not surprising, I guess. I haven't undergone this level of stress in all the combined facets of my life in quite some time, and I've always been one to internalize.
I don't know how to lower the stress levels, though. Exercise more, I think -- which, surprisingly, I began to do voluntarily last week. Pray more. Eat sparingly (oh good, maybe I can start shedding those ten extra pounds). Sleep a lot. Try my hardest to relax whenever I'm not at work, since my hours at work are invariably crammed with stress.
Sometimes I feel a little trapped. MP asked me, a year and a half ago, what my ideal job was. "Quick, like a Rorschak -- don't think about it, just answer -- what's your ideal job?" Instant response: "Not to have one."
Right, that's doable. But all the things I love to do involve not having a job: writing, reading, nesting, cooking. That's real life to me. These just-to-pass-the-time jobs are wearing me out.
And since I have to provide for myself, my only hope is grad school, which is at least a year away.
As the author of Proverbs declares, "Hope deferred rots the bones."
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Weekend pleasures...and pains...and ponderings
Apparently something at a departmental party for MP's program on Friday night yielded up a case of something-didn't-agree-with-me. I spent the majority of yesterday, especially into the evening and through the night, in a fog of ill-being and gastrointestinal anguish.
But yesterday was a lovely Saturday nonetheless. Rainy -- as it has been for most of September in the Bend -- but perfectly enjoyable. MP and I planned a short, simple trip to the Farmer's Market, and it wound up being something like this:
1. Go to the new branch of our credit union in downtown South Bend to take cash from the ATM for use at the Market.
2. Notice the little used bookstore that is never open with its doors...open. Go inside and poke around and find several interesting new acquisitions to bulk up our already crammed shelves (a delight for any book collector. I purchased an anthology of Kierkegaard; a translation of the Tao, including commentary, by Ursula K. LeGuin; a work by Pierre de Chardin, a Catholic priest exiled to the Far East by the Church for his espousal of human evolution, who is quoted extensively in Annie Dillard's For the Time Being; an anthology of American folklore, printed in wartime United States; and an updated version of Love Medicine -- the proprietor commented on my eclectic selections).
3. Drive to the Farmer's Market, getting outrageously lost in what ought to be, after two years, a familiar area of town. Buy lots of delightfully local, slightly unnecessary items such as Indiana- or Michigan-grown Cortland apples, Concord grapes, Provolone, and garlic.
4. Swing by Bamber's, a family-owned grocery store a stone's throw from the Market, which has on its shelves amazing and hard-to-find staples such as bulgur wheat, red lentils, and sherry vinegar (a requirement for the finer points of Spanish cooking), as well as amazing and hard-to-find luxuries such as spicy pickled beans, mini cloth bags for bouquets garni, and cooking twine. I then and there fell head-over-heels in love with small, privately owned businesses.
5. Drop MP off at her apartment so she can begin concocting her almost sinfully delicious spaghetti sauce, and zip up to Wal-Mart for everything I've been running out of lately, which almost put me in the poorhouse.
6. Lounge around for the remainder of the day, nursing my digestive tract.
I've also been pondering, a little, the predicament of Christian singles everywhere. It seems there are a plethora of young Christian women and a dearth of young Christian men, none of whom in much of any kind of ratio are dating each other.
It appears to be a double-edged sword (forgive the cliche). Plenty of the Christian women I know I wouldn't date if I were a man. MP realized yesterday, and I agree, that it's hard enough for us to find female Christian friends, let alone for Christian men to find dating partners -- in the two years we've lived in South Bend, we've only grown really close to one Christian woman. We're becoming better acquainted with a few more, but ironically we've met none of them through church. So for the first time I begin to sympathize with the male predicament. Most Christian men whom I have met through church are simply not friends with any women, and when I survey the available material, I don't much blame them. The girls seem to have impenetrable social walls around themselves, and even if they didn't, those girls and I have very little in common except our shared faith. What then, are the guys to do? Church, despite what our elders tell us, is not a good place to meet future mates.
For women either. I've only had one pseudo-dating experience with a man that I met in church, and he turned out to be much less than what I was looking for -- to be specific, he seemed to be strongly physically attracted to me, which I enjoyed, but ended up calling me only once every three or four weeks, and seemed to expect those few and far between appearances to light up my life.
The flip-side of the predicament for women in situations like mine is that I know a lot of guys, some non-Christian, mostly Christian (which is perhaps unusual, but we are talking about South Bend, Indiana). I count a lot of them as friends. The ratio of men whose company I enjoy actually outstrips the ratio of women whose company I enjoy, if we're talking about group environments. Why, then, is it so difficult to attract a date?
So the situation appears to run something like this: Christian men don't see the trees for the forest, and Christian women don't see the the forest for the trees. Men aren't finding any individuals to inspire their attention because the over-all scene is humdrum and they stop looking, while women get so fed up with the lackadaisical individuals they know that they write off the whole species.
What's the answer? My solution has been a resolution to spend less time losing my mind over the issue, and to spend more time out socially in groups, meeting people, getting to know acquaintances better, and deepening already good friendships, while continuing to cultivate excellence in my lifestyle, skills, and habits. The true frustration lies in the knowledge that in the end there's not much more I can do. I find myself growing virulent towards Christian men in a similar vein to my attitude toward men in general while at Grove City, and I would like to avoid that cutting persona a little -- I don't want to run everyone off.
Plus when it comes down to it (where did that most generic of phrases originate?), I truly have faith that I will find the person I've been seeking, and that no art or cunning or rage on my part will bring him along any faster. At the finale, it's all about the right person at the right time in the right place. There's mystery to it. And it won't be all that complicated when all the coordinates are in place; but I can't orchestrate those coordinates any more than I can pattern the stars. So my part, for now, is to wait, to be patient, to cultivate my talents and to grow in love and virtue, to enjoy all of my friendships, and to be content and really happy with my life as I pray for the future.
Besides, constant frustration gets to be exhausting. If there's nothing more I can be doing than what I listed above, it's futile to "throw effort after foolishness," as Spur says in The Man from Snowy River.
And yet there is a time to express frustration, to shout questions, to shake fists -- there's as much a season for trumpeting warnings from the roofs as there is for waiting for the dawn. So I'm certainly not going to give up thinking or writing about, or discussing, the problems among the Christian single population. For now I'm just tired, and coming off a period of deep despair, and I'd like to rest a bit from all the worrying. And I'm not that unhappy with being single, believe it or not.
But yesterday was a lovely Saturday nonetheless. Rainy -- as it has been for most of September in the Bend -- but perfectly enjoyable. MP and I planned a short, simple trip to the Farmer's Market, and it wound up being something like this:
1. Go to the new branch of our credit union in downtown South Bend to take cash from the ATM for use at the Market.
2. Notice the little used bookstore that is never open with its doors...open. Go inside and poke around and find several interesting new acquisitions to bulk up our already crammed shelves (a delight for any book collector. I purchased an anthology of Kierkegaard; a translation of the Tao, including commentary, by Ursula K. LeGuin; a work by Pierre de Chardin, a Catholic priest exiled to the Far East by the Church for his espousal of human evolution, who is quoted extensively in Annie Dillard's For the Time Being; an anthology of American folklore, printed in wartime United States; and an updated version of Love Medicine -- the proprietor commented on my eclectic selections).
3. Drive to the Farmer's Market, getting outrageously lost in what ought to be, after two years, a familiar area of town. Buy lots of delightfully local, slightly unnecessary items such as Indiana- or Michigan-grown Cortland apples, Concord grapes, Provolone, and garlic.
4. Swing by Bamber's, a family-owned grocery store a stone's throw from the Market, which has on its shelves amazing and hard-to-find staples such as bulgur wheat, red lentils, and sherry vinegar (a requirement for the finer points of Spanish cooking), as well as amazing and hard-to-find luxuries such as spicy pickled beans, mini cloth bags for bouquets garni, and cooking twine. I then and there fell head-over-heels in love with small, privately owned businesses.
5. Drop MP off at her apartment so she can begin concocting her almost sinfully delicious spaghetti sauce, and zip up to Wal-Mart for everything I've been running out of lately, which almost put me in the poorhouse.
6. Lounge around for the remainder of the day, nursing my digestive tract.
I've also been pondering, a little, the predicament of Christian singles everywhere. It seems there are a plethora of young Christian women and a dearth of young Christian men, none of whom in much of any kind of ratio are dating each other.
It appears to be a double-edged sword (forgive the cliche). Plenty of the Christian women I know I wouldn't date if I were a man. MP realized yesterday, and I agree, that it's hard enough for us to find female Christian friends, let alone for Christian men to find dating partners -- in the two years we've lived in South Bend, we've only grown really close to one Christian woman. We're becoming better acquainted with a few more, but ironically we've met none of them through church. So for the first time I begin to sympathize with the male predicament. Most Christian men whom I have met through church are simply not friends with any women, and when I survey the available material, I don't much blame them. The girls seem to have impenetrable social walls around themselves, and even if they didn't, those girls and I have very little in common except our shared faith. What then, are the guys to do? Church, despite what our elders tell us, is not a good place to meet future mates.
For women either. I've only had one pseudo-dating experience with a man that I met in church, and he turned out to be much less than what I was looking for -- to be specific, he seemed to be strongly physically attracted to me, which I enjoyed, but ended up calling me only once every three or four weeks, and seemed to expect those few and far between appearances to light up my life.
The flip-side of the predicament for women in situations like mine is that I know a lot of guys, some non-Christian, mostly Christian (which is perhaps unusual, but we are talking about South Bend, Indiana). I count a lot of them as friends. The ratio of men whose company I enjoy actually outstrips the ratio of women whose company I enjoy, if we're talking about group environments. Why, then, is it so difficult to attract a date?
So the situation appears to run something like this: Christian men don't see the trees for the forest, and Christian women don't see the the forest for the trees. Men aren't finding any individuals to inspire their attention because the over-all scene is humdrum and they stop looking, while women get so fed up with the lackadaisical individuals they know that they write off the whole species.
What's the answer? My solution has been a resolution to spend less time losing my mind over the issue, and to spend more time out socially in groups, meeting people, getting to know acquaintances better, and deepening already good friendships, while continuing to cultivate excellence in my lifestyle, skills, and habits. The true frustration lies in the knowledge that in the end there's not much more I can do. I find myself growing virulent towards Christian men in a similar vein to my attitude toward men in general while at Grove City, and I would like to avoid that cutting persona a little -- I don't want to run everyone off.
Plus when it comes down to it (where did that most generic of phrases originate?), I truly have faith that I will find the person I've been seeking, and that no art or cunning or rage on my part will bring him along any faster. At the finale, it's all about the right person at the right time in the right place. There's mystery to it. And it won't be all that complicated when all the coordinates are in place; but I can't orchestrate those coordinates any more than I can pattern the stars. So my part, for now, is to wait, to be patient, to cultivate my talents and to grow in love and virtue, to enjoy all of my friendships, and to be content and really happy with my life as I pray for the future.
Besides, constant frustration gets to be exhausting. If there's nothing more I can be doing than what I listed above, it's futile to "throw effort after foolishness," as Spur says in The Man from Snowy River.
And yet there is a time to express frustration, to shout questions, to shake fists -- there's as much a season for trumpeting warnings from the roofs as there is for waiting for the dawn. So I'm certainly not going to give up thinking or writing about, or discussing, the problems among the Christian single population. For now I'm just tired, and coming off a period of deep despair, and I'd like to rest a bit from all the worrying. And I'm not that unhappy with being single, believe it or not.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Joy
I have begun reading Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling, and I think it's going to change my life.
RCIA is going beautifully. This past Tuesday I met with Father Nate, the young and dynamic, intelligent and energetic priest who leads the group, to tell him my story and my background, which was excellent. (There's something so trustworthy about a priest. Maybe it's that Confessional privacy understanding, similar to doctor-patient privilege.) Last night we discussed Scripture, the origins and the importance of the Bible. The Bible-bred Protestants in the room rocked the conversation, and I learned a few nifty new things -- such as the books that were affirmed or ratified to the canon were books that had been found to be in use by Christian communities in extremely variant geographical locations across the known world. Neat. I was impressed by a young man in the class who was appalled at the misogyny inherent in the Gnostic gospel of Thomas (since were were talking a little bit about books that didn't make it into the canon). We talked about the beauty and truth and divine inspiration of Scripture, and its usefulness in drawing us to God.
Afterward Joan and I went to Fiddler's for tea with a couple she knows from the grad school, and whom I met through RCIA. They're wonderful, intellectual, knowledgeable about Scripture, and passionate about the faith. He is Catholic, she is not, but is drawn to it the way I am. Immediately following RCIA they turned and invited me to a grad student Bible study that meets on Wednesday nights. "Some people don't like it because it's a bunch of grad students, and it's 'brainy,'" Heather said, and then laughed. "But you strike me as the kind of person who would like that."
So once Bones switches to Friday nights (DOOOM! DOOOM! Is Fox TRYING to kill my favorite show?), I'll be able to attend this excellent study. They're currently going through 1 Peter, which is a book I'd like to study, as I have a dicey relationship with it. (And lest you think me either shallow or too incompetent to manage the VCR, I will add the caveat that I watch Bones while on the phone with Leigh Ann -- it's our once-a-week show night. Geeky, absolutely, but familial and fun, because we're 600 miles away from each other and have always loved watching movies and shows together -- even though this season the network here is out of sync with the exact timing over there. Grrrr.)
And on Sundays I've been regularly attending Mass with friends.
Kids, this is what I've always wanted from religious community life. Assurance of God's love, beauty, challenge, truth, and most of all peace from the services; people to attend with; new friends; people to socialize with outside of church; encouragement in the mystery of faith; and intellectual stimulation. I am experiencing a joy that I had given up finding. I actually look forward to Sunday. I spend all week in anticipation of RCIA on Thursday. I feel incredibly free, to say what I'm really thinking, to ask my questions, and to respond to discussion questions. That's the whole point -- to explore, to learn, to ask tough questions, and to freely choose whether or not to be Catholic.
Plus I love this one thing: the option of going to Mass at 5:00 on Saturday, or 5:00 on Sunday evening.
Mmm, and September brings with it the delight of apples, and of grapes. I think I'm going to have to drag Meg and Phillip somewhere up in Michigan to smell the grapes. Sometimes something in my brain fires the remembered scent into my nose and makes my throat glands tingle.
RCIA is going beautifully. This past Tuesday I met with Father Nate, the young and dynamic, intelligent and energetic priest who leads the group, to tell him my story and my background, which was excellent. (There's something so trustworthy about a priest. Maybe it's that Confessional privacy understanding, similar to doctor-patient privilege.) Last night we discussed Scripture, the origins and the importance of the Bible. The Bible-bred Protestants in the room rocked the conversation, and I learned a few nifty new things -- such as the books that were affirmed or ratified to the canon were books that had been found to be in use by Christian communities in extremely variant geographical locations across the known world. Neat. I was impressed by a young man in the class who was appalled at the misogyny inherent in the Gnostic gospel of Thomas (since were were talking a little bit about books that didn't make it into the canon). We talked about the beauty and truth and divine inspiration of Scripture, and its usefulness in drawing us to God.
Afterward Joan and I went to Fiddler's for tea with a couple she knows from the grad school, and whom I met through RCIA. They're wonderful, intellectual, knowledgeable about Scripture, and passionate about the faith. He is Catholic, she is not, but is drawn to it the way I am. Immediately following RCIA they turned and invited me to a grad student Bible study that meets on Wednesday nights. "Some people don't like it because it's a bunch of grad students, and it's 'brainy,'" Heather said, and then laughed. "But you strike me as the kind of person who would like that."
So once Bones switches to Friday nights (DOOOM! DOOOM! Is Fox TRYING to kill my favorite show?), I'll be able to attend this excellent study. They're currently going through 1 Peter, which is a book I'd like to study, as I have a dicey relationship with it. (And lest you think me either shallow or too incompetent to manage the VCR, I will add the caveat that I watch Bones while on the phone with Leigh Ann -- it's our once-a-week show night. Geeky, absolutely, but familial and fun, because we're 600 miles away from each other and have always loved watching movies and shows together -- even though this season the network here is out of sync with the exact timing over there. Grrrr.)
And on Sundays I've been regularly attending Mass with friends.
Kids, this is what I've always wanted from religious community life. Assurance of God's love, beauty, challenge, truth, and most of all peace from the services; people to attend with; new friends; people to socialize with outside of church; encouragement in the mystery of faith; and intellectual stimulation. I am experiencing a joy that I had given up finding. I actually look forward to Sunday. I spend all week in anticipation of RCIA on Thursday. I feel incredibly free, to say what I'm really thinking, to ask my questions, and to respond to discussion questions. That's the whole point -- to explore, to learn, to ask tough questions, and to freely choose whether or not to be Catholic.
Plus I love this one thing: the option of going to Mass at 5:00 on Saturday, or 5:00 on Sunday evening.
Mmm, and September brings with it the delight of apples, and of grapes. I think I'm going to have to drag Meg and Phillip somewhere up in Michigan to smell the grapes. Sometimes something in my brain fires the remembered scent into my nose and makes my throat glands tingle.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
the gilded month
I KNEW September was going to be glorious. I felt it in my weary bones. When I turn twenty-five, I thought, things will start looking up.
And oh, they are.
A slightly constricted social schedule is blossoming outward. Already good friendships are deepening into a refreshing, relaxed, familial closeness. My need to retreat from all of humanity has abated, as has my distaste for sitting in silence. My house is astonishingly clean. I'm happy to wake up in the mornings. I'm slightly more motivated to cook.
I'm getting my life back.
Having MP for a neighbor is completely marvelous -- we spent most of last year yelling, "Why do you live so far away?!" and now it's a hop, skip and a jump down the alley for some riotous fun and listening to her landlord doing shotput in his apartment above her.
The job is up and down -- with the stress, chaos and insanity that revolves around the practice of law, there are many days when I think I'm about to yield up my last shred of mental stamina to the four winds; those days are even worse in combination with the depression and recuperation from the stress of the summer. Yet there are others, like today, where I feel productive and more or less on top of things. My bosses are consistently supportive, corrective, and concerned with my wellbeing, while expecting monumental things of me. It's a challenge I haven't had in awhile.
Grad school plans are progessing apace, insofar as I'm further resolved to go. I miss my long vacations and the ability to skip class. I miss the learning environment and the (slightly) gentler pace. I miss having the time and space to focus on writing.
Then last night MP and I went for Chinese and met the new Victor Lee. He asked us all about our academic/professional lives, was duly impressed by our responses, and heaped a take-out box with free crab rangoon while we waited for our order...and, ladies and gentlemen, crab rangoon is my favorite. I had been on the verge of ordering that instead of the egg rolls and egg drop soup, but some little conviction clamped down on my soul and told me to order the egg rolls and soup instead. So I got to have it all. (And isn't that what everybody wants?)
Now with a few new promising possibilities on the near horizon, and with anticipations of a ROAD TRIP to Grove City in three weeks, I find myself, for the first time in months, simply and purely happy to be alive.
And oh, they are.
A slightly constricted social schedule is blossoming outward. Already good friendships are deepening into a refreshing, relaxed, familial closeness. My need to retreat from all of humanity has abated, as has my distaste for sitting in silence. My house is astonishingly clean. I'm happy to wake up in the mornings. I'm slightly more motivated to cook.
I'm getting my life back.
Having MP for a neighbor is completely marvelous -- we spent most of last year yelling, "Why do you live so far away?!" and now it's a hop, skip and a jump down the alley for some riotous fun and listening to her landlord doing shotput in his apartment above her.
The job is up and down -- with the stress, chaos and insanity that revolves around the practice of law, there are many days when I think I'm about to yield up my last shred of mental stamina to the four winds; those days are even worse in combination with the depression and recuperation from the stress of the summer. Yet there are others, like today, where I feel productive and more or less on top of things. My bosses are consistently supportive, corrective, and concerned with my wellbeing, while expecting monumental things of me. It's a challenge I haven't had in awhile.
Grad school plans are progessing apace, insofar as I'm further resolved to go. I miss my long vacations and the ability to skip class. I miss the learning environment and the (slightly) gentler pace. I miss having the time and space to focus on writing.
Then last night MP and I went for Chinese and met the new Victor Lee. He asked us all about our academic/professional lives, was duly impressed by our responses, and heaped a take-out box with free crab rangoon while we waited for our order...and, ladies and gentlemen, crab rangoon is my favorite. I had been on the verge of ordering that instead of the egg rolls and egg drop soup, but some little conviction clamped down on my soul and told me to order the egg rolls and soup instead. So I got to have it all. (And isn't that what everybody wants?)
Now with a few new promising possibilities on the near horizon, and with anticipations of a ROAD TRIP to Grove City in three weeks, I find myself, for the first time in months, simply and purely happy to be alive.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
How to Make Hummus
Ingredients:
1 15-oz. can garbanzo beans (chick peas)
2 cloves garlic, crushed
4 Tb tahini (Greek paste of ground sesame seeds, available in the ethnic section of most grocery stores)
6 Tb lemon juice
4+ Tb extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp ground cumin
salt and ground black pepper, to taste
Directions:
1. Drain the liquid from the beans into a bowl and set aside.
2. In a blender or food processor, preferably one from 1978 (those things never die and are always at top performance), process the drained beans into a smooth, stiff paste, using the liquid sparingly as necessary. Discard remaining liquid.
3. In a bowl, combine the garlic, tahini and lemon juice. Pour over the beans in the processor.
4. Mix.
5. Listen to sudden, strange thumps coming from the other side of your apartment. Step into the hall to listen -- it sounds like something sliding, dragging, and thudding, but it's not your neighbor in the entryway outside your door. Listen to your cat growl from your bedroom window. With your heart in your throat, tiptoe to the bedroom expecting to see a head in your window.
6. AAAAAH! There's a head in your window! Swallow your heart. Notice that the head is furry and not human. Walk toward your bristling cat in the windowsill and wonder aloud how a cat got on the roof. Notice that the head is the wrong shape for a cat. Conclude, correctly, that it is a raccoon. A dirty, round raccoon slapping at the screen and upsetting your cat.
7. Pull your cat away from the windowsill with terrors of rabies in your soul. Let curiosity get the better of you and stick your head against the screen to see the raccoon retreated further up the roof. Cluck and chirrup at it until it crawls down to see what you are. Watch it scramble away when it catches your human scent.
8. Shut the window and wonder if this accounts for your cat's odd behavior lately. Feel a little less secure in the supremacy of your human dominion. Realize that the wild is everywhere...just a millimeter past your screen. A house is in itself insufficient protection. Feel a little creeped out by the ambiguous voyeur-robber tendencies of raccoons.
9. Keep an eye on your cat and watch the raccoon come back to the window and put its face right against the screen. Watch your cat leap nervously away from the window. Reach out and bang the glass with the flat of your hand and crack the brittle windowpane. Resolve to call your landlord about replacing the window, which in all fairness has been cracked since you moved in.
10. Return to the kitchen. Vow to take your cat to the vet as soon as possible for renewed shots.
11. Add olive oil to contents of blender, a little at a time, until the paste loses its stiffness and achieves a smooth, semi-solid consistency.
12. Add seasoning. Mix. Season further to taste.
13. Scrape hummus into a bowl, cover, and refrigerate until needed. Serve with pita.
1 15-oz. can garbanzo beans (chick peas)
2 cloves garlic, crushed
4 Tb tahini (Greek paste of ground sesame seeds, available in the ethnic section of most grocery stores)
6 Tb lemon juice
4+ Tb extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp ground cumin
salt and ground black pepper, to taste
Directions:
1. Drain the liquid from the beans into a bowl and set aside.
2. In a blender or food processor, preferably one from 1978 (those things never die and are always at top performance), process the drained beans into a smooth, stiff paste, using the liquid sparingly as necessary. Discard remaining liquid.
3. In a bowl, combine the garlic, tahini and lemon juice. Pour over the beans in the processor.
4. Mix.
5. Listen to sudden, strange thumps coming from the other side of your apartment. Step into the hall to listen -- it sounds like something sliding, dragging, and thudding, but it's not your neighbor in the entryway outside your door. Listen to your cat growl from your bedroom window. With your heart in your throat, tiptoe to the bedroom expecting to see a head in your window.
6. AAAAAH! There's a head in your window! Swallow your heart. Notice that the head is furry and not human. Walk toward your bristling cat in the windowsill and wonder aloud how a cat got on the roof. Notice that the head is the wrong shape for a cat. Conclude, correctly, that it is a raccoon. A dirty, round raccoon slapping at the screen and upsetting your cat.
7. Pull your cat away from the windowsill with terrors of rabies in your soul. Let curiosity get the better of you and stick your head against the screen to see the raccoon retreated further up the roof. Cluck and chirrup at it until it crawls down to see what you are. Watch it scramble away when it catches your human scent.
8. Shut the window and wonder if this accounts for your cat's odd behavior lately. Feel a little less secure in the supremacy of your human dominion. Realize that the wild is everywhere...just a millimeter past your screen. A house is in itself insufficient protection. Feel a little creeped out by the ambiguous voyeur-robber tendencies of raccoons.
9. Keep an eye on your cat and watch the raccoon come back to the window and put its face right against the screen. Watch your cat leap nervously away from the window. Reach out and bang the glass with the flat of your hand and crack the brittle windowpane. Resolve to call your landlord about replacing the window, which in all fairness has been cracked since you moved in.
10. Return to the kitchen. Vow to take your cat to the vet as soon as possible for renewed shots.
11. Add olive oil to contents of blender, a little at a time, until the paste loses its stiffness and achieves a smooth, semi-solid consistency.
12. Add seasoning. Mix. Season further to taste.
13. Scrape hummus into a bowl, cover, and refrigerate until needed. Serve with pita.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Early autumn
I have a positive love affair with September. I love the cooling off, the slight change in leaves, the dying freshness to the air, the slight tang of vinegar that precedes falling apples. One of my favorite Saturday autumn activities is loitering in my apartment looking out the windows with a candle burning in the background while I attend to the basic chores of housecleaning.
I cleaned out my refrigerator today, which wasn't as terrifying as I thought it would be, and am now gearing up to swab the deck from stem to stern.
MP and I have begun, with our friends Joan, David, and Peter, to have Sunday night dinner. It inadvertently began last week with a casual invitation from MP to enjoy a simple (simple?) meal of spaghetti with mussels around her table.
Sundays are usually bittersweet, the dregs of the weekend and the brewing of unpleasant anticipations of weekday duties. Last Sunday I found, to my utmost delight, that a sit-down meal in the relaxed company of good friends, just before the close of the evening, almost obliterated the doldrums. There was good food, good conversation, and a smattering of football. Lovely.
So this week I'm hosting, and in celebration of the cooler weather I think I'll make this excellent garlic and chickpea soup I found in a couple of my cookbooks. It will also be a lovely opportunity to use my new red dishes (which are just enough of a deep pink shade to complement the dishes I already have, which is excellent for dinner parties, since the new dishes only seat four).
Recovery from my black Monday has been slow, but a fun party last night at Joan's helped top off the week, and a lot of sleep did some good as well.
It's no fun sometimes to realize that a chemical imbalance that I was born with will cause bad episodes, regardless of medication, three or four times a year for the rest of my life. I mean, how marketable is that? "Hi, attractive man. I'm slightly insane and for perhaps four days out of the year I will turn into a sobbing, hysterical lunatic for no discernable reason, which will draw out into a full week of dazed exhaustion before I recover what you and I know as my personality. So how about dinner next Saturday?"
When I have a bad day I can't disguise it. I spent all of Monday going about my normal work duties crying -- just like the mother in About a Boy. I couldn't stop. What am I going to do when I have a family, so that I don't scare the bejeebers out of my kids and wear out my husband? My boss's wife has had similar difficulties, and she takes care of it by going away by herself for a weekend, which may be necessary but I'm afraid it will freak the kids out, Ya-Ya Sisterhood style. Or I could try to make sure I live close enough to one set of grandparents to pack up the kids for the weekend, so they'd have some fun while I get some rest.
I know I'm putting the cart a bit before the horse. I don't even have a boyfriend. But I like to have strategies, plans, so that the bad head days don't catch me unprepared. I guess another problem too is that when times like these roll around, I can't be strong. I can barely keep myself together. I'm always strong; I've always been. But these things completely break me down.
I suppose they're a blessing, in a way. That thorn in the side which I've begged to have taken away, but which shatter me to the point where I don't have to be strong, because I can't; and in those moments I'm able, in ways I'm usually not, to rely more heavily on the love of Christ. The last episode I had, Scripture verses yanked out of my memory at random were all that saved me; this time it was prayer.
I would rather not suffer. But if I must, at least I can know it's going to produce something good. And I confess that I look forward to the day when I can lay my head on someone's shoulder and have a pair of human arms around me. No one can fix me, but human touch does so much to heal. In the meantime there are my friends, there are candles and tea and fuzzy slippers and hot baths and George Winston, and there is Simon in all his sweetness. And there is God, who suffers alongside me and who "daily bears my burdens" (Psalm 68). And for the time being, it's enough.
I cleaned out my refrigerator today, which wasn't as terrifying as I thought it would be, and am now gearing up to swab the deck from stem to stern.
MP and I have begun, with our friends Joan, David, and Peter, to have Sunday night dinner. It inadvertently began last week with a casual invitation from MP to enjoy a simple (simple?) meal of spaghetti with mussels around her table.
Sundays are usually bittersweet, the dregs of the weekend and the brewing of unpleasant anticipations of weekday duties. Last Sunday I found, to my utmost delight, that a sit-down meal in the relaxed company of good friends, just before the close of the evening, almost obliterated the doldrums. There was good food, good conversation, and a smattering of football. Lovely.
So this week I'm hosting, and in celebration of the cooler weather I think I'll make this excellent garlic and chickpea soup I found in a couple of my cookbooks. It will also be a lovely opportunity to use my new red dishes (which are just enough of a deep pink shade to complement the dishes I already have, which is excellent for dinner parties, since the new dishes only seat four).
Recovery from my black Monday has been slow, but a fun party last night at Joan's helped top off the week, and a lot of sleep did some good as well.
It's no fun sometimes to realize that a chemical imbalance that I was born with will cause bad episodes, regardless of medication, three or four times a year for the rest of my life. I mean, how marketable is that? "Hi, attractive man. I'm slightly insane and for perhaps four days out of the year I will turn into a sobbing, hysterical lunatic for no discernable reason, which will draw out into a full week of dazed exhaustion before I recover what you and I know as my personality. So how about dinner next Saturday?"
When I have a bad day I can't disguise it. I spent all of Monday going about my normal work duties crying -- just like the mother in About a Boy. I couldn't stop. What am I going to do when I have a family, so that I don't scare the bejeebers out of my kids and wear out my husband? My boss's wife has had similar difficulties, and she takes care of it by going away by herself for a weekend, which may be necessary but I'm afraid it will freak the kids out, Ya-Ya Sisterhood style. Or I could try to make sure I live close enough to one set of grandparents to pack up the kids for the weekend, so they'd have some fun while I get some rest.
I know I'm putting the cart a bit before the horse. I don't even have a boyfriend. But I like to have strategies, plans, so that the bad head days don't catch me unprepared. I guess another problem too is that when times like these roll around, I can't be strong. I can barely keep myself together. I'm always strong; I've always been. But these things completely break me down.
I suppose they're a blessing, in a way. That thorn in the side which I've begged to have taken away, but which shatter me to the point where I don't have to be strong, because I can't; and in those moments I'm able, in ways I'm usually not, to rely more heavily on the love of Christ. The last episode I had, Scripture verses yanked out of my memory at random were all that saved me; this time it was prayer.
I would rather not suffer. But if I must, at least I can know it's going to produce something good. And I confess that I look forward to the day when I can lay my head on someone's shoulder and have a pair of human arms around me. No one can fix me, but human touch does so much to heal. In the meantime there are my friends, there are candles and tea and fuzzy slippers and hot baths and George Winston, and there is Simon in all his sweetness. And there is God, who suffers alongside me and who "daily bears my burdens" (Psalm 68). And for the time being, it's enough.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
birthday-presents
Early this morning I put in a call to my very good friend MP, and before going about our usual business of the day we went, in spite of the torrents of rain, for a saunter along the egg-smelling banks of the St. Joe River which borders our neighborhood. It was the perfect weather for a slicker with a hood, and galoshes. (I never get to wear my galoshes, so I was excited. I feel like I'm four when I put them on. And it makes puddle-stomping so much drier.)
As we laughed and I poked around the usual debris looking for odd trinkets to decorate my apartment (I already have a few twisted spoons, small medicine bottles, bits of colored glass and broken Delftware, and a big old eaten-away brick that says "BRAZIL" on it -- which fell on Adam's foot when he helped me put in my air conditioners early in the summer), MP's eyes were caught by a yellow glitter under a rock in the water.
She edged out on a pile of flotsam, bent down, and pulled out a ring. A simple, plain band that looked almost a little too bright in the gray cast of the day. I picked my way over the rocks, cans, and tree branches to crouch over her shoulder and get a better look.
I really wanted it. I asked her if I could have it; she said no.
"But it's my birthday! I want it!" I said in tones of great injury.
"I already got you something from Italy! I found it and I get to keep it!"
But I couldn't let her have it. I needed that ring. So I knocked her down and took it. (Yes, I know. I'm a terrible friend. But I'll be making dinner on Sunday, so that should make up for it.)
Suddenly my career plans are changing drastically. I find that, instead of the legal field, or even grad school for writing or English lit, I want to spend the next five hundred years in a black cave so deep no one's discovered it yet, eating raw fish.
Strange thing, though. I've been wearing the ring since this morning, and no one seems to know I'm here.
Also, I got my period this morning. Hello, cramps. Thank you for your many happy returns.
As we laughed and I poked around the usual debris looking for odd trinkets to decorate my apartment (I already have a few twisted spoons, small medicine bottles, bits of colored glass and broken Delftware, and a big old eaten-away brick that says "BRAZIL" on it -- which fell on Adam's foot when he helped me put in my air conditioners early in the summer), MP's eyes were caught by a yellow glitter under a rock in the water.
She edged out on a pile of flotsam, bent down, and pulled out a ring. A simple, plain band that looked almost a little too bright in the gray cast of the day. I picked my way over the rocks, cans, and tree branches to crouch over her shoulder and get a better look.
I really wanted it. I asked her if I could have it; she said no.
"But it's my birthday! I want it!" I said in tones of great injury.
"I already got you something from Italy! I found it and I get to keep it!"
But I couldn't let her have it. I needed that ring. So I knocked her down and took it. (Yes, I know. I'm a terrible friend. But I'll be making dinner on Sunday, so that should make up for it.)
Suddenly my career plans are changing drastically. I find that, instead of the legal field, or even grad school for writing or English lit, I want to spend the next five hundred years in a black cave so deep no one's discovered it yet, eating raw fish.
Strange thing, though. I've been wearing the ring since this morning, and no one seems to know I'm here.
Also, I got my period this morning. Hello, cramps. Thank you for your many happy returns.
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