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There’s something about Sunday night
that really makes you want to kill yourself
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Monday, October 31, 2005

Reading

I'm ashamed to say this, but I haven't read a real book in about a year. All my co-workers think I'm a bookworm because I read over lunch every day, but of late it's been magazines and trashy novels. I don't have a hour's commute on the train anymore, and the libraries here are worthless.

A real book is something engaging, thought-provoking, or well-read. I'm not much for non-fiction, I just want my novels to be great. I know there's enough good ones out there, that I shouldn't waste my time with crap.

But I haven't been reading. Then last night, I picked up a collection of short stories anthologized by David Sedaris. His intro said something about how stories can save you. It's something I've heard many times, but not thought about recently. But when I opened up the first story, I could see his words in my mind again. As I read it (by Richard Yates, someone I've never read before), the static in my brain smoothed out and I felt so calm. I remembered what good literature can do to you.

It was hard to follow though. I'm scared my brain has turned to mush, that my year of not reading has rendered me incapable of reading something above a sixth-grade level.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

I have friends

I have friends now. It's strange and wonderful. I've never had friends like this.

I know them both from work. Sally, I recruited to play on my tennis team. We were partners last night and lost mightily, but had so much fun.

Fran and I have sipped wine together at an art museum First Friday event. Last weekend, I took her to my bead store, then we drove around town to various craft stores looking for sheet metal. Later, we went to Sonic, drank limeades, and sat in the car talking for a long time.

This weekend, I'm having them over for chili and pumpkin pie, a Halloween movie party just for us. Today we're carving a pumpkin together for work's Fall Festival carving contest.

They just popped into my office with a limeade for me. So when I said it's also strange having friends, it's because I'm not used to such thoughtful people. A limeade is not much, but remembering I like plain lime and not cherry lime is a thoughtful gesture to me.

So cool and wonderful.

Sunday, October 23, 2005

Oh, coffee!

It seems to me that a lot of people take dramatic pride in being seriously addicted to coffee. I am not one of them. Never got hooked during all-nighters in college--of course, had there been any semblence of a real cafe in my "college" town, I might have.

After college, I worked in a cafe near Northwestern for a bit, just to make friends. Nope. No new addiction then, either.

It was one of the most fun jobs, though, and I did develop a longing for the smell. What that scent can stand for! If I even get a whiff of coffee beans now, I start longing for the Unicorn Cafe again, and the whole coffee house culture.

Sometimes I linger in the coffee aisle at Winn-Dixie.

Today, I don't know, I was with Tim, and he and I treat grocery shopping like antiquing or something. We were perusing the shelves at Fresh Market, and while he bent over the cheese selection trying to find the cheapest decent parmesan, I turned around to find the coffee aisle! Buckets and buckets of coffee beans--there were at least forty different roasts. I lifted lids and waved my hands over them, trying to waft the smells my way. Finally I saw their bargain selection, a bunch of decaf French Roast that had been discontinued. Half-price. I thought, "Wouldn't it be a good idea to have some coffee around just in case?" Just in case what, I don't know, because we're firmly established tea drinkers. But I mentioned it to Tim, anyway.

"You're evil, woman," he said. "Do you know how long it took me to wean myself of drinking coffee?" (another former barrista)

But $4 for a pound of good coffee is fantastic, so I shook the beans into the grinder, and selected Coarse for our french press.

And I felt guilty, even at the cheap price, for it seems so indulgent to buy stores of something we only drink as a special treat.

I remember when I got my first job, which paid pretty well for a first real job, it was really exciting to be able to indulge, treat myself to things I'd never before considered purchasing for myself. Clothes, dinners out, fancy lattes. That lasted until Tim, who is frugal to the core.

But now, I guess, treats really do feel like treats again, so I am daydreaming about curling up around a warm cup of coffee some cool winter morning.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

The great pumpkin caper

Maybe caper is the wrong word, because that makes it sound frolicsome, when really it's a big (little) pumpkin mystery.

Two cute, baby pumpkins sitting on the porch. Innocently sunning themselves, waiting for their big debut at Halloween, only to be cut short. Very short.

Last night when I came home:
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It looks like they spontaneously combusted. Like Dementors paid them a visit and sucked out their will to live.

Our porch:
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As you can see by this picture in particular (our door is at top right), the up stairs end up by our neighbor's door, so anyone near our door is definitely there for a reason.
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I just don't know what reason that could be. The pumpkins don't look like they've been disturbed. The pile of guts is fairly neat, and there was but one or two seeds on the ground--it didn't look like a battlefield.

Tonight when I came home (I'm considering leaving everything intact for our Halloween party next week):
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(And lest anyone doubt my editorial prowess, I'm not the one who mispelled anonymous.)

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Smoking

Tonight was the perfect weather for porch sitting. We had Meghan and Lauren over for grilling and s'mores. Afterwards, Lauren left, Meghan and Tim read magazines in the living room, and I sat on the porch, amidst some citronella candles, enjoying my two-cider buzz and an herbal cigarette. (And by "herbal," I really mean herbal--a blend Tim makes, with a lot of spicy weedy planty things, mostly mullen). It was a perfect, calm moment, and it made me think about smoking.

During one of the rare times my family owned a TV, the rules were "one hour of TV a week." My pick when I was little was--I don't know why--"Hollywood Classics of the 30s and 40s." So ingrained in my subconscious is the sheer glamour and sexiness that is smoking. Movie stars back then knew how to make it look so appealing.

This didn't particularly lure me into the addiction as a teen or anything, but it did lead me to date at least one person simply because of the way he looked with a cigarette in his fingers.

I met him in an English class. Sort of. He sat across the room from me, piercing blue eyes, during a time when I was receiving mysterious secret admirer notes. I marched up to him and asked if they were from him. He said, "no; I wish I had thought of it, though," and we went to a poetry reading together. We had a few dates, then he vanished off the face of the earth (an mysterious thing--in my opinion--for a college student mid-semester) for a few months (I won't even go into the psychotic lengths to which I went to locate him). When he turned back up, it was obvious we were unsuited to each other, that it was the smoking that lured me in. It was the satisfaction and the ease, the downright sexiness of it.

I haven't dated many smokers, though. I prefer to admire it from afar. The first one, though, broke my heart, and after, I took up smoking because I missed him. An odd thing to start at 25, 26. It didn't take. I only smoked for about four months. But in some ways it gave me purpose. Not purpose exactly--something to do with myself in a bar.

During my single times in Chicago, I pushed myself into solo activities. Movies, cafes, even dinners at nice restaurants, those I accomplished with ease. But I always wanted to be able to sit in a bar and have a drink by myself. It never really worked because I didn't know what to do. I didn't go to sports bars, so I couldn't pass the time watching the game; I never went anyplace enough that the bartender would shoot the breeze with me; and the bars I frequented were always too dark to read in. Smoking solved my problem. Thus my greatest accomplishment in that regard was going to my favorite swanky bar to have a dirty martini and a few cigarettes. No one came up to light my cigarette or offer to buy me a second drink, which was something I halfway expected due to movies, but since I didn't really like people approaching me anyway, it was ok.

Then I dated a hard-core smoker for a few months, and it really lost its glamour. If I drink enough, I'll crave a smoke, but in the end, it's not a good thing.

The herbal mix, though, it's good at the right moments. Like right now, in the cooling fall night, under a nearly full moon, with a happy belly and a cider in my hand.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

A day of work

I feel like I crammed an entire week into today's work. I got tunnel vision and only remember the things directly in front of me, so to recap everything is impossible. I forgot to eat lunch, and only had time later when Sally mom'ed me down to the kitchen to eat with her and Fran. I was able to squeeze the time in because I was waiting on a client to complete an application for childcare before I drove her there. It was a thoroughly stressful, busy day.

This is the way I love my job. When my brain fires so rapidly that I don't have time to second-guess myself--when my body hums with excitement.

The adrenaline charge I get out of accomplishing tasks, no, not even accomplishing them, just doing them propels me on to do more. It doesn't seem right that I should get more done the busier I am, but my brain fogs over on the days I have nothing to do.

It doesn't seem right that a day like today isn't any sort of equivalent to a good workout, because the high that followed me home was equal to the satisfaction that I feel after exercising.

A phone call

"Hi, this is [the director]. I was just calling about Tim's costume fitting tomorrow. Could you please remind him to wear underwear?"

I've got to wonder, do other women get phone calls like this?

Fall

Crunch, crunch, crunch. I've started to notice I step out of my car in the work lot onto a bed of dried leaves. So I have to take back my original assertion that Alabama doesn't have a fall. Because the weather is still warmer than warm, I haven't noticed that a few trees are browning. There's a tree at work, with shrub-like properties, that had green berries all summer. I just realized they are turning orange now. Which makes me remember how last Christmas, they were bright red, and looked perfect to turn into a holly wreath.

I love the fall so much. The evenings now dip into the 60s, and when I drive home from work, the car is still heated from a day in the sun, but my arm out the window feels cool; the wind against it has a decided chill.

I'm ready to break out my jean jacket. Shawls. Fuzzy slippers. Cuddles under blankets. Hot apple cider. Soup. Roasted chicken. Pumpkins.

I miss Kansas every fall.

Monday, October 10, 2005

It's like I'm dating again

About four years ago, bored at work, I decided to spend my days dating online. In some ways, it was perfect for me, because I'm a sucker for a well-turned phrase, and I'm an e-mail addict. I had plenty of time (between proofreading the odd journal or laying out another) to craft perfectly worded messages, and read the responses. It made my stomach jump with excitement every time I saw a new e-mail in the In box. Oh, the potential!

And now I'm acting the same way, only it's about friends. Old friends reuniting again. I expect not everyone was able to have a lazy Saturday afternoon like mine, yet I still got online every half an hour or so to see if anyone had responded to the various e-mails that are shooting about, or posting new entries to our communal blog.

I couldn't sleep that night, my mind was so busy turning over blog post ideas, ways to redesign the blog to make it absolutely our own, what it will be like to see everyone again (some of whom I haven't seen in at least ten years).

And with that, also came some insecurity, which I think--I hope--is only natural.

I don't even remember who I was back then, or how I fit into the group. How does who I was then resemble who I am now? I have a very foggy memory of childhood, and high school.

Unlike the dating, where I just hoped I liked the guys as much in person as I did online, now I hope they like me. I worry that they won't. And I wonder how we've all changed, and how that will affect the dynamic of friendship.

But mostly, it feels so. good. to be back in touch with everyone, and I am so excited.

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Tennis across [my town]

Today my agency held their big yearly fundraiser, revolving around tennis. A coach from a local private college brings instructors to teach under-priviledged kids how to play, and there's a serve-a-thon to raise money. I served 42 m.p.h., and raised about $150 myself. I think the total was ~$7.5K.

The day was cloudy and cool. I almost needed a sweatshirt! It's so exciting to finally see some fall-ish weather here.

After clean-up, Sally and I had lunch, soft-serve cones, and shivered our way through talk about grad school. We are planning on seeing "In Her Shoes" tomorrow for lunch.

It's an incredible feeling, having friends again. I'm such a homebody, a solitary person, that I forget the comfort of other people sometimes. But I like it. A lot. Or maybe I'm still coasting from my sugar high. I feel drunk off Dr. Pepper and soft-serve frozen yogurt.

The best end to a week

The last item of business to this work week was telling a woman that Protective Services wanted to reunite her with her children, who were currently staying in foster care. I told her that we were working on the details, that it wasn't a done deal yet, but that I was going to try my hardest to make it happen.

There's absolutely no better feeling in the world than getting to share such good news like that.

I wish my job only consisted of wonderful things. This did make up for some hellaciously bad happenings earlier in the week, though.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Too soft

I am softer now than I was then, when I was a kid. Back then I was tough and leathery. Back then I jutted out my chin, refused to cry at sad movies, ran through the rock quarry barefoot.
Though I remember my jaw aching at times to keep tears back, I also remember callouses during the summer that could carry me across campfire coals.

Now I'm too soft. Now my feet ache after tennis, develop strain on the ball. My skin has developed an allergy to adhesives. My quirk of stripping stickers, the margins of self-adhesive stamp pages, prescription labels on medicine bottles, and applying them to the back of my left hand until there are none left to remove, makes me itch. The rubber edges of the world's best strapless bra have begun to raise welts on my back. The marks from last week had not yet disappeared when I needed to wear the bra again (Dumb, I know, but like I said, it's the world's best minus this one problem), and halfway through the day, the searing pain began again. Last time I got a tattoo, the burn marks from the medical tape the tattooist used to secure on my bandage took longer to heal than the tattoo itself.

And the first time I saw the preview for "North Country," I sobbed. Sobbed. At a preview.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Sounds in the sky

Today the weather was finally nice enough that I dragged out the World's Most Comfortable Chair to the porch and recovered from work there in a light breeze. The sky was a little dark, waiting, maybe to downpour later, or blow in the wind and dump on the next town. I heard keening on the wind, in the sky, and it reminded me of a story I wrote a few years ago, about growing up during the Cold War. (Maybe. I'm historically retarded and am not even sure if I qualify as growing up during the Cold War, or if I caught the tail end, or if I grew up in the after-effects of the Cold War. I don't know. My history classes usually ended right before Vietnam.)

What I forgot to write in "Nuclear War" that I just remembered was how I'd encounter parades of military vehicles driving down the highway. Single file for miles, the green and grey Hum-Vees seemed to march the road with menace. The Kansas flinthills, gorgeous though they are, felt like the right, appropriately desolate, place for the end of the world to begin. Everyone in the car would fall silent, and we'd drive past the many vehicles, soberly waiting for their line-up to be distant tail-lights in our rear-view mirror so we could shake off the chill that had fallen.

Nuclear War

When I was in grade school--young; younger than 10 or 11--it would have been the Reagan era. The Cold War. Fear of nuclear destruction. I didn’t know the specifics of anything, just tail ends of overheard conversations between my parents and their friends about the dire state of the world.

That whole period of my life--what I only remember of it was a nagging, unknown, unarticulated fear. I didn't believe I'd live to be an adult.

--I knew the effects of nuclear war. I knew the story of Sadako and the thousand paper cranes. It wasn't a far reach for my imagination to picture myself running through the fields of a Hiroshima-like Kansas, damaged flesh peeling away in the wind. There was something brutal and poetic about the way the dry wheatfields around my house figured into the nightmare.--

The sky was yellow in the summer. While I knew the color actually heralded tornados, I still likened it to the end of the world. I would lay in the front yard looking up into the sky, absolutely terrified of its vastness and my tiny existence my comparison. I clutched at the grass, certain that gravity would suddenly not apply and the universe would pluck me off the dirt and suck me into the sky.

The cloudless sky would moan and wail back at me. Those ominous, animalistic noises . . . I have never been able to articulate them to others. The closest explanation would be to liken them to the whine of a far-off plane coursing across the sky. Yet the horizons were empty. But the sounds still echoed through my head.

And then, at times, only when I was still quite young, the planes would appear. Fighter planes, streaking across the prairie and somehow honing in above the only house on the section: ours. The moans of an empty sky would be rifted by shrieks as the planes narrowly avoided our chimney and the windows shook and cracked.

Each time, crouched on the floor, fingers in our ears, praying that this was not the one time they'd really drop the bomb.

Eventually, the planes stopped. And tornados were more frequent so the yellow sky became a harbinger only of a different type of destruction, one that--oddly enough--seemed far less immediate and dangerous.

And then I left Kansas, and the wails of the sky became planes instead of phantom shrieks. And the sky did not yellow as often.

But sometimes, the memories of despair can return in late summer, in the heat-soaked city, when it is too hot still to wrap my bare skin up in a semblance of protection against the softly menacing whispers.

Monday, October 03, 2005

Well played

I always drive too fast after a good tennis match. My foot reaches for the pedals like I'm lunging for the ball, and my arms sway recklessly over the wheel. My body is still in motion, savoring the arm sweep towards a return, my feet dodging and parrying, a delicate dance into the proper position to let my racquet loose on the ball.

The soft thwack of ball arcing off strings in a well-placed hit is the most beautiful of all summer music.

It is dizzying, sometimes, to have found unexpected skill and joy in a sport.

It feels like flying.
 
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