The Year of Being Still

2004 has been a stellar year. Whatever disappointments cropped up were short-lived, for the most part, and do not compare with the satisfaction of meeting the goals I met, or with the sense of personal accomplishment that came from taking the one step I'd previously been scared to make, going to grad school.

Poised on the edge of 2005 (I can see it from here), I am again in the Valley of Decision. It will be a year of facing more things that make me terrified, I'm sure. Discipline has been defined as a long obedience in the same direction, and the Bible says that no discipline is pleasant at the time, but painful, but in the end it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace.

The discipline that I must exercise is that of patience and relinquishing control. I know of no harder place to be (for myself) than in the place of holding my ground. The Bible also says that a patient man is better than one who takes a city, that a person who can master her own anger and arrogance is to be lauded more than a fierce warrior.

Patience is active. It will require significantly more strength and spiritual accuity than I currently posess. It is not a resolution so much as it is a revolution of one. "Lastly, I war with myself the most..."

There Now, that's better...

For those who are interested, when I asked Jesus, in my last post, to let me be with him... that was not a serious indication that I am ready to leave the earth. More like "I am over it... temporarily speaking." Jesus understands me. He knows I wasn't saying "okay, I'm ready to die."

I am in a good mood, which is curious given that 1) I got very little sleep last night, and that 2)There is no ostensible reason for this spike. But today I won't be looking gift horses in the mouth. I'll just be saying "thank you, gift horse, thank you. You always know just what I like."

My sister Caryl and the dog, a one Ms. Babygirl, are headed to my house to help me ring in the new year. What could be better?

Post Holiday Depression

Things just didn't connect on every level this year; something felt "off" and did not right itself by December 25th. I know that December 26th (if the 25th is the day you celebrate) can feel like a let down to many, but it usually finds me still reveling in the giving and receiving and the family and friends that I enjoyed all through the month.

I saw friends this December. I was with my family. I bought and ordered presents. I made every provision to ensure that things happened on time, and it was for naught. I will be mailing out presents into next week and potentially the week after because of a colossal display of human error at every turn. That doesn't feel like Christmas. It feels like a disorganized mass of trouble.

I am not exempted from this by any means. Through a misunderstanding, I bought my best friend a present that she is in no way interested in--and upon further discovery, another gift that I gave her, which she did like, appears to be marred.
Have you ever been caught in a downward spiral in which whatever choice you make is the categorical wrong one?

Not 24 hours after receiving a lovely turquoise sushi platter from Sarah, I chipped one of the edges, and managed to bruise my shin (and I never bruise) in the process.

Being at my mother's house depressed me, I realize, because she is knee deep in a psychological ailment--she calls it being a "pack rat." I call it a fire hazard--and psychosis on parade. This woman has been trying to "tidy up" since I was born. I told her that there comes a point when you can't clean up until you throw out. Being there made me want to come home and trash everything I own. That kind of clutter and resulting filth messes with the mind, makes you feel like climbing the walls, like nothing is possible. No where to go. She has never experienced the freedom of an empty corner, for pete's sake.

And whether or not I should be, I am depressed about my relationship landscape, particularly as it pertains to one person. Every day I vacillate between feeling that I was absolutely right to tell him how I felt about his dismissal of me as a friend, and chiding myself for even letting it "go there." At the moment, I don't see this working itself out. Not because I don't want it to, but because I can't imagine him feeling anything other than that I've lost my mind. If he thinks of this "incident" at all, it's probably in the context of feeling that I am unreasonable. Impasse. If I give in and e-mail, I'm done for. He never ever has to even consider me in any situation again. If I don't, I may never see or hear from him again. You may think "okay, well screw him. So What?" But if you've ever loved anyone, even as a friend, you know that is painful fork in the road.

And to top it off, the morons at Gateway keep billing me for something I cancelled months ago. Jesus, I beg of you, let me come to be with you...

Anna Karenina

I have been meaning to read this novel for a long, long time. Because I already know how it ends thanks to numerous movie and literary references, it seemed especially fitting reading for me--what with my preoccupation with trains and all. The now defunct book club of which I was a part wanted to take it on this winter. I still work with one of the girls who was part of that unsuccessful foray into the world of literary pursuits, and she left it for me, as a gift, in my top left drawer at the office on Thursday when I was out.

I was truly delighted by her thoughfulness. I began the 923-page journey yesterday and have calculated that if I read 35 pages a day, it will take me about a month to complete. When school stars back up, I may drop to 20 pages, which will push me over into the month and a half bracket. It shall be my wintertime companion. That and Netflix.

Coffee was mine in abundance this year. I will not soon run out between my Starbucks gift card and the bags and tins that I received. So I will hunker deep on my couch and read and read and sip and sip, and get lost in Russia, thousands of miles away.

All is Not Lost

About 3 months ago, I thought I left my favourite bra in St. Mary's City, MD. It was the weekend of my youngest sister's school's Family Weekend, and in the hubbub of checking out of our hotel and saying our good-byes, I left it behind. I didn't notice for some weeks....and as much as I was bummed (it was not only my favourite, but also a recent purchase, and therefore doubly disappointing), I was resolute and gave it up as permanently gone.

As I sat up late on Christmas Eve watching DVDs with my sisters, Caryl turned to me abruptly and said "Crystal has your purple bra." Apparently, she saw it and took it home to upstate New York with her, and forgetting she'd done so, never mentioned it to me...but she did remember to bring it back to MD. Something that in the scheme of things was not that important, so completely given up on by me, returned in an instant.

On Friday night, My thumb ring slid off my hand and dropped almost soundlessly in Jim's car. He and my mom came to get me that evening after I spent the day waiting for UPS (one successful delivery, but unfortunately not the package containing my sister's present). I did not worry at that time that I couldn't find it, because I knew I'd have a chance to look for it before they took me back home on Sunday...but I began to fear that I would never see it again as I sat in the back seat last night, wordlessly scrounging for it, and not finding it anywhere. I enlisted mom's and Jim's help in the search when we pulled up to my apartment, but we came up empty.

My mom helped me get some things inside and when she left, she asked me if I wanted to walk her back down to the car. I felt on a visceral level that I should, because if I did, my ring would be waiting for me, but I said no--not wanting to be disappointed. Before my mom got out of the door, the phone rang. It was jim saying he'd found it.

I remember once that I lost a grey beret outside on St. Paul Street. I was going to the movies at the Charles Theatre to see Amelie with Victoria and a couple of other guys. Once inside the moviehouse I realized I didn't have it, and deduced that I must have dropped it someplace between the car and the theatre. I was preoccupied that night with some other internal angst, and losing my favourite hat was a crushing blow.

When we walked back to the vehicle later that night, there was my hat lying on the ground outside the car, perfectly kept, and unsoiled. In that moment, I heard God say to me "everything you thought you'd lost, I have kept for you."

This is our shorthand. I lose an object that is important to me, make my peace with the loss, and when I genuinely no longer expect it, it comes back. This is His way of saying "I have the final word on what's gone forever and what's not..."

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. God restores all things, great and small. He who is concerned about my soul is also concerned about my bras and my dimestore treasures. He cares about all of it. He cares for me.

Catherine and I finally got our opportunity to watch "Napoleon Dynamite" together--it was somewhat surrealist humour. Maybe that isn't the right term--it's definitely somewhat absurd, but not in an existential way, not totally. I guess what matters is that it was funny.

Speaking of existentialism, apparently my 20th Century World Lit Instructor did not turn in grades in time for the report card, because when I received mine in the mail yesterday, beneath the A- I got in PW was an "M." "Great," I thought. "I failed so badly I got an M..." but when I looked at the code on the back I saw that this curious mark is my university's way of saying the professor is negligent. Terrific.
I wonder how long I'll have to wait to find out how I actually did.

Anyway, back to my visit with Catherine. She gave me some truly wonderful presents. One being a stellar cook book filled with recipes that are right up my alley, and then two original print publications from the 1920s (a political commentary and a composition rule book) to go with my 20s era apartment. So creative and original. I'll have to be very careful thumbing through them. One chapter title is "The Munitions of Lingerie." Stellar.

Workmen have been banging away at the apartment next to mine and it sounds like someone is knocking down one of my walls. They are replacing the windows in the unit, and it's so riotous that I've not been able to concentrate on much in the way of work (I logged in hours from home today).

So now I'm just waiting for the UPS man... hoping he has a delivery for me. 2 days out from Christmas feels mighty lonely.

Christmas Wrapping

I set about the daunting task of wrapping presents last night, at least the ones that have shown up, and even with my online orders still outstanding (and yes, I am getting nervous), there was a lot to do, and it was exhausting.

To make matters worse, I am positive that I heard some scurrying behind or in my stove. I saw nothing, and I have been rather paranoid of late, but still... and just when I was getting comfortable again.

I'm trying to be philosophical about the A- in Poetry Workshop, and I wondered if it wasn't more of my overreacting, initially, but everyone who has talked with me about it understands immediately why I am upset, and registers it as a subpar grade. Nice to know that I am not off base in my feeling that something is amiss with this. I did e-mail the instructor to inquire about the mark, and she essentially told me that there were other students who "took their work farther," and that while I made "excellent progress" and should not feel that "there was any imperfection in my performance" that she had to grade not only on the basis of my personal effort, but the totality of the class's effort. So I took it on the chin and got an A- because she assessed that someone else made greater strides? I wouldn't say that this has soured my grad school experience, but I feel sobered, and do not trust people who have been entrusted with the task of making judgments and decisions to do so soundly.

I had been feeling positively about my chances of getting a solid A in 20th Century World Literature, but now expect to be blindsided by something else.

My long-back burnered romance novel has moved back to front burner and is now on simmer. I do hope to complete it over the course of the next semester.

Cold Snap

I was in Berkeley Springs, WV this past Saturday. Michael had a brass quintet gig and he invited Sarah and Myself to hear his ensemble play at the Coolfont resort (since we were with the band we got the dinner buffet for free). One of the members--the trombonist--kept referring to the "cold snap" that was heading for us--and for the rest of the night my mind kept turning over this phrase. I've heard it before, but suddenly it seemed so full of potential, poetically speaking. Cold. Snap. I said it aloud to myself, softly, throughout the night.

Yesterday morning I stood at the bus stop while winds knifed me in the back, in the shins, and sliced my fingers, encased in thick fleece gloves that I might as well not have been wearing. It slashed at my face, plunged through my black knit cap. Cold Snap. 9 degrees in the sun.

This morning the temperature boasted a tropical 17 degrees while I stood at the bus stop, and while I am dressed even warmer than I was yesterday, I also felt a naked difference--the windy gales have ceased and desisted--and there is a Warm front. moving in. Warm. Front.

I spent time with Naomi last night. She drove up from the DC area where she is visiting friends. Her return to the west is imminent and she wanted to connect before departing. I really wanted to see her too. We had a nice low key evening of anecdotes and takeout Chinese food--her treat, and before she left we got a chance to pray together. I really felt the presence of God in those moments, and felt that He did give me several revelations and impressions about matters that concern Naomi (I was praying for her, primarily). And when she prayed for me, her words were relevant, and I did feel very much that she was mindful of the various things that were troubling me, mostly my relationship with G, whom I miss terribly right about now. I woke up in a nice mood this morning.

A-

The snow, mixed with rain, flew violent and sideways. While I sat in the upper room of Minas in Hampden at a poetry reading that featured every crackpot, would be laureate in the city, or so it seemed, the December sky tore open. I was so sad to see my old enemy back in town so soon. It vexed me last year, robbed me of sure footing. It was impossible to get arms around anything, everything a trial of slush and ice.

Of the billed readers, Only Moira Egan (in this week's Featured Poet section of my links) is a poet. One woman read from her book, a long short story. I'm sorry but a short story has no business being read aloud at a poetry reading. Wrong venue, wrong type of literature. The third woman, whose name I don't even remember, was complete rubbish. Let's just say part of her "presentation" involved singing. A crackpot's crackpot. She belongs to the Diva Squad. Apparently being a member of this squad entitles you to write crap poetry and give lectures to a captive audience about your particular brand of politics. I'll admit freely that I'm not into the "slam" element of poetry. Not so into the rhythmic, singing mishmash. She and her cohorts were all about that.

I'm also not a fan of the "open mic" scene, but after the monthly readings at Minas, there is a free for all. This is the event that my Poetry Workshop Instructor encouraged us all to participate in (after I told them about it from attending last month's reading). So most of the women from my class came out and did just that--including the instructor as she promised she would. And we read, indistinguishable from a few lunatics and one woman who read a page from her nonfiction book!!! I'm sorry, but it all made me remember why I hate the idea of open mics. No dignity. No discretion. And the crowd is all wrong--you're not getting people who know what it's all about--just people who want to belong to something and think of poetry as something easy, a way to be a local nuisance who comes for the free wine and cheese.

During Moira's reading there were people talking! Talking... I am always torn, internally, about how accessible poetry readings should be. There is something to be said for being exclusive.

After it was over (more than 2 painstaking hours of that nonsense, and I only stayed till the end because I agreed to sack up and participate in the open mic where I knew my poem was going to get lost in the shuffle of chairs, dying before it reached the ears of tired, worn out people, and I stood there feeling like a joke, feeling like it was all very very stupid after all), the Instructor gave us back our portfolios and our final grades.

I stood there feeling like I'd been kicked in the chest. I met every requirement, participated in every class, even revised in a way that it is not intuitive to me in an effort to consider the possibility that I'd simply been undisciplined all this time--and it yielded an A-. I was under the impression that for something like a Poetry Workshop, where grading a work is entirely subjective, that what can be quantified is the showing up, the putting forth an effort, the meeting of outside obligations... No solid A, but an A that was nearly a B. I guess I didn't remove a line somewhere that she deemed superfluous. I guess it came down to that.

{Ding Dong Merrily on High}

Why do I do that?

I got together with Holly last night since she is Boston bound post Christmas. It was our last chance to see each other for what will probably be quite some time. Her season of bleakness in MD is coming to a close and she is going North to take on the world of Oriental Rug sales and being closer to her family is a lovely by product of this change in locale.

Among the many things we talked about was the tendency we both have to cast a negative light on things as a protection against disappointment when they don't pan out. My referring to the office "Secret Holiday Exchange" as a "debacle" midweek would be one application of this principle. Anyway, our "Culmination Lunch" at Amicci's yesterday showed me a thing or two. All week all this subversive, secretive activty had been going on, and everyone had such lovely intentions, and the final gifts were a real "hurrah," after all. My person (whose identity I knew for reasons it's not necessary to go into) gave me a double disc of classical guitar by the man who made classical guitar famous--Andres Segovia, a dark chocolate with raspberry candy bar, and a lovely Egyptian candle with a very sensual scent.

Here's the truth. I am very judgmental and easily angered. This the proverbial "fool" in the Old Testament book Proverbs. I have been known to say that if the "fools" I refuse to suffer gladly were more like me, we'd all be okay... I see now that if that were true, I wouldn't stand a chance. When I come up short, I'd much rather face mercy and compassion than the icy blast of my criticism.

When I think back on this year--the one in which I cut ties with people, either officially or unofficially, I see that I am the only constant in all of these scenarios, and that suggests a few things. In two of the situations, there were unheathly elements, so I don't feel that I made a mistake... but I know that pretty soon I'm going to run out of people to cut loose at the rate I'm going.

When is a situation truly toxic, and when does it simply require bearing through. Why do I become enraged at the first hint of disaster? And so to help disaster along, I destroy even more what I worry has become ruined.

The Office Party

I love after hours work gatherings. Seeing someone with his or her significant other brings so many other elements of who he or she is to the forefront. Spouses, partners,intendeds--people become more fully realized in light of their relationships, instead of being these uni-dimensional "work" personas that you encounter Monday-Friday. I'm not saying my coworkers aren't real at at the office, but there's so much that has to be truncated, tamped down, forced into "work mode," etc.

I spent all of my time with Michael and Sarah (she came as my guest since Michael didn't decide to come till the last minute) and L and Her guy. We were a happy fivesome, though I did make little conversational forays outside our social bubble.

I won a door prize... The President of the company who has talked to me before bastardized my name with some strange pronunciation. I was offended, to be certain. I took the prize but gave it to L (tickets to a show at the Hippodrome that I saw at the Lyric in 1998 and didn't really enjoy). She won two of her own, so now she and her s.o. can take two more friends. I had been hoping for the MP3 player--I already told Sarah I would give her my prize if I won anything, because she got the major shaft from the secret santa at her job--but sarah saw that show with me in 1998 and hated it even more, hence the reason I did not bestow the tickets on her.

I'm looking forward to the "Secret Holiday Exchange Culmination Lunch" in Little Italy today. We are going to Amicci's.

Titles of Christmas Albums

If you were a recording artist and your label taxed you with doing a Holiay Album, what songs would you want to record, and what would you title your album? Let me hear from you!

My album would be called "Cafe Christmas," and I would definitely record "Christmas Time Is here (slow, melancholy tempo)" and "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentleman," which I have always loved.

The Secret Santa Debacle



There is a disturbing trend among office secret santas. Many seem to be of the mindset that candy in miniature is the only inexpensive gift available. Now, I am NOT looking to my secret holiday exchange person to rock my world on a large scale, and it has just been two days (this is day 3), but I managed to think up three really great, non candy ideas so far (one of which was free, practically)--and I did not break the bank, not even close.

We filled out questionnaires to help guide the person who drew each name--and I feel that the point of them is largely lost when your SS keeps tossing foil wrapped sugar on your desk. Surprise, indeed. No one seems to really be getting into the spirit of the thing if you ask me--but then again, I should consider the people with whom I work. All very nice, but not very festive.

Anyway, I know that the point is to be intentional, and this candy is something that I would not have had otherwise (By the way, I don't like candycanes--I find them cumbersome to eat), so I shouldn't even care that it's not interesting or original or personal to me in any way.

I am using it to decorate the table top tree that sits to the left of my computer monitor. It's all about the spin, I guess. When your secret santa hands you lemons...

Upon my initiation the team of people with whom I work are doing a "secret holiday exchange." We decided that it would span a work week--beginning yesterday and going through this coming Friday. On that date we will all go out to lunch in Little Italy, where we will exchange final presents of the week (the pieces de resistance)in a dramatic "reveal" ceremony.

Tomorrow morning, I am placing a mammoth order with Amazon.com, and going for the expedited shipping. I have a lot to get done. Have started the process of addressing Christmas cards--am thinking I will do a letter to go to closer friends this year.

My antibiotic is nearly gone. I have perhaps 3 more meals (I have to take it with food) until the bottle is empty. I will miss my antibiotic given all of the other things I've said goodbye to recently--goodbye first semester of grad school, goodbye amusing diversion of flirtation with professor, so long to another relationship (2004 seemed to be my year to shed people)that wasn't working...

Am significantly less skeeved out by the thought of the mouse. Have reclaimed apartment emotionally as well as physically. I have little comforting rituals I haven't yet dispensed with, like leaving the lights and tv on in the living room when I'm home, but in the bedroom, to give the impression of a presence, to keep the noise going. I still keep a towel bunched under the seal of my door to prevent anything small from crawling in. You may feel that I am overreacting, but I don't recover easily from things like this. I don't recover easily from anything.

To go back briefly to something I said in the first paragraph. I had a couple of clarifying moments this week. One came on Tuesday night--the night of the flat finale of 20th Cent. Wrld. Lit. As I sat there, not having read the last book, I saw that even my harmless crush on my professor was another way of stacking the deck in favour of futility. I saw that his demeanor is one of equal-opportunity bantering...and that while he may have enjoyed some of my comments, there was nothing intentional about his behavior toward me--he is exactly the same with everyone. And I sat there laughing to myself that even for a mindless diversion, that it had been rather piss poor, built on out of context moments. I am the queen of invention, I swear. Realizing this did not break my heart, thank God. It was the perfect noncommittal fantasy, one in which there is no stake in any outcome. Not actually caring is the safest place to be.

At least the paper is coming along. If not to him, I did give my heart to the instructor's class (the last session excepted); I'm hoping to get an A for my trouble. Have recently had nightmares about getting a C, because I was offbase, not only in thinking there had been intentional flirting on his part, but about the idea that I was doing well. This would actually hurt me much more.

The other moment was about my virtually ruined friendship with G. I thought to myself (and I do not want to know if others agree with this; confirmations that I am right would not be helpful) that perhpas this my chance to be happy at last. For nearly 6 years I have been in anguish over my feelings for him, worried about him dating someone else, wondering if the tide would ever turn in my favour, not sure why this kind of thing always happens to me. For as much as I have felt that there was a greater purpose in my knowing him, in us being in each other's lives, I have occasionally wished to go back to the time before that fateful dinner party in 1999--the one in which I really talked to him for the first time, and my heart opened its doors. I had known him, loosely, through Victoria from the year before. But we had never spoken to speak of, and he wasn't even a blip on my radar, save for being V's semi weird, intellectual friend (that's what I thought then)... if our friendship is indeed over now (as I suspect it is), then this could be that opportunity.

Well, have to get back to final essay. I really do want an A.

For as lacklustre as the final 20th Century World Literature class was, the last Poetery Workshop was lovely, spirited, and the best meeting we had all semester. In addition to my baguette and artichoke spinach dip, there were mini quiche, 2 bottles of red wine, two variations on the theme of olive tapanade, a spicy mozarella cheese, white cheddar, crackers, grape tomatos marinaded in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, multigrain bread, and chocolate truffles. A veritable European picnic while savoring the poems we'd each brought. The general consensus is that we should have had food at every meeting. Why hadn't we thought of that before! Food and Literature (or Poetry) are meant for each other. Poetry and Wine are the ultimate compatriots.

At the risk of sounding hoakey, there was such poetic justice for me, personally, at the last class. One of the other women said that the poem I brought reminded her of the very first poem I'd shared--because of two words that were used in both pieces. I told her how complimented I was, not that she was saying she liked it or disliked it, but that she remembered. And because I'd had a few glasses of wine, I said to everyone "And by the way, that was a real train I was on; It wasn't a metaphor."

So we are all (save for one person--the girl with the awful penchant to annoy me--who after a 3-week hiatus, came last night, about an hour in to the class)going to continue to meet up, perhaps monthly to keep workshopping our stuff together. And we have plans to meet up at Minas in Hampden for a Sunday afternoon reading on the 19th.

Unrelated.

I have been dreaming lately about a former boss--the truly awful woman I supported at the Dupont Circle job in DC in 1999. Last night she and I were shopping for handbags and Tiffany lamps.

I managed to eke out 2.5 pages of the final essay last night. I am calling it "In Search of Kafka: The quest for intimacy with the Father of Modern Literature."
I will obviously continue to work on it through the weekend; it's due on Monday, so I am hopeful that this will all go off without a hitch.

At about 1:30 today I go into an afternoon of meetings, wherein I will be tied up until it's time for me to leave. I am so looking forward to Poetry Workshop tonight. We will have light fare--wine, chocolate truffles... I, personally, am bringing spinach avocado dip and a baguette.

On December 19th there is a reading in Hampden that almost all of my classmates and I are attending, afterwhich there will be an open mic portion. Our instructor told us that we all have to participate as part of our final grade--I don't know how serious she is, but it will be good for me to do something daring, maybe get myself on the map as a local writer of note.

The Anticlimax

Last night was the last meeting of my 20th Century World Literature class (I still have the final essay to write, but for all intents and purposes, it's over), and it was such a let down...for all involved. No one really connected with the last book, Chris Abani's Graceland, or if they were like me, didn't even really read that much of it. The prof didn't much care for it himself, and his attempts (valiant) to create a discussion about it fell flat. No one really gave him much to work with. For my part, I made a few truly inane comments (and I am not being unkind to myself when I say this. It's true.).

So tonight I sit down to try to recap, with some degree of commitment and intelligence, how my reading of literature has been shaped by this semester's analysis of Kafka and those who followed him. I'll make a light dinner and get to work. No mindless tv watching for me. No preoccupation with my troubled relationship landscape. I also have to put the finishing touches on some poems for my poetry workshop portfolio.

December is shaping up to be event-filled. Parties, get togethers, more shopping. I won't have much time to ponder much of anything until the dust settles on January 1st.

You have the Vermeer girl look. A Vermeer girl
appealed mostly to the old masters of the Dutch
school, who painted pictures of everyday life
as they knew it. With her fine, fair skin, she
suited a light, natural, dewy make-up. The
Vermeer Girl loved homely things, such as
homemade soaps and candles. The following
artists would have liked to paint you; Pieter
de Hooch and Jan Vermeer.


'Pretty As A Picture' - Which Artist Would Paint You?
brought to you by Quizilla


Hi, person! You are the very long Christmas list.
That means that you could either be naughty or
nice, although you may go along with nice more.
You may consider yourself the regular guy/girl.
You don't like it, though, when people take
advantage of your goodness. You can easily get
mad and leash out the beast. You may try to
control your anger, which is a good thing.
People could like that about you. Yeah, Merry
Christmas =)


What Christmas Figure Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

The exterminator came to my place yesterday. I know this because he (or she) left a calling card and a smell so bad I thought I was going to be ill. Fortunately, by the time I got home yesterday evening, I had already planned to spend the night at Sarah's to help her procure and set up a Christmas tree. I knew she was going to end up wanting one!

I will give it to my rental office liaison. She was responsive, warm, and empathetic when I told her about the mouse. Apparently, other residents with apartments in the same vicinity (within the building) as mine have also complained of seeing mice recently, and as we talked more and more about the particular point of entry (the building's construction is such that there are entryways behind the stoves, which in colder months can lead to this kind of thing), she became more concerned, and suggested that she get the exterminator to come out specifically to treat my place. Under normal circumstances, the company comes out only once a month, and they had already been to my building this week, unbeknownst to me.

I really hope this will take care of the problem, because knowing that rodents are lurking about is seriously messing with my ability to: 1)have any peace of mind when I'm at home in what is supposed to be my sanctuary, and 2): to feel any kind of pride or joy in all that I'm working to accomplish regarding realizing my vision for the kind of home I want.

Because I spent last night at Sarah's place, I rode in to work this morning with a coworker (L) who lives pretty close to her. L's boyfriend drove us both in, and I so enjoyed their couple banter. He is one of those effortlessly funny guys, and I felt immediately at ease. I liked him right away. We mostly listened to talk radio for the bulk of the drive, but at one point he switched the station and a song came on, and both he and L began to dance in earnest (as much as possible while sitting in a car). They definitely have a nice vibe going.

As for me, I'm just looking forward to leftovers for lunch (spaghetti carbonara) and class tonight.

Things began well enough

I felt noticeably better this morning; the tight, vague soreness in my throat, which is usually bad when I first open my eyes, was practically non-existent. I felt well-rested, even after only 5 and a half straight hours of sleep. I took a long nap when I got in from work yesterday, so when my night got going at about 8:30, I stayed up till about 2 a.m. decorating the small tree in my bedroom, sorting laudry, and hanging up clothes that had been living in the chair beside my bed for the last several days.

A few groceries were delivered this morning by the time I finished my laundry, and I was all set to start revising every poem I submitted to poetry workshop this semester. The day was a clear success by noon. My youngest sister called at about one, chatting animatedly about how well her solo went at the concert her a cappella group gave last night, the flirting action with the guy she's crushing on, and some other anecdotes. With my cell phone in the crook of my neck and shoulder, I weaved in and out of rooms in my apartment listening to her tell this tale. I happened to come into the kitchen just in time to see a mouse disappear into the opening of one of the burners of my stove. Naturally I screamed, then called emergency maintenance.

I hid out in my bedroom for about two hours before I decided to reclaim the greater living space and the kitchen, but I remained disgusted. I called emergency maintenance a second time to no avail. I guess they don't bother with rodents inside stoves. I guess they don't care that there is clearly a disease carrying vermin in my kitchen that got in through some opening in their walls.

I may well be over this vintage thing.

The good news? I did manage to make significant changes to every poem for my portfolio, but in some cases, I feel that I made changes that pander to someone else's take on poetry. I'm something of an aberrant poet in that I don't usually revise. Well, I revise as I go--minimally. I don't normally have 15 drafts of something. I am too easily bored for all that. In any case, I do think many of the pieces are better for the work I did today, and I didn't compromise on anything I truly felt passionate about. Mostly I cut things out... so that's done, then.

Otherwise, I had an attack of missing Gordon, and wanted to e-mail him to tell him I overreacted. But I'm not going to do that, because I didn't overreact, and if I say that I'll never be able to expect anything more from him. I do want him in my life, but I have to be someone he can respect. It feels like we may never speak again, and the thought of that makes me want to do something to make this right... but I always make things right between us, and the only hope I have for equanimity is holding my ground...this time.

So it's going to be me and the *NSYNC Christmas Album Again This Year...

In a twist of Poetic Irony, I am not going to the ill-fated [for me] poetry reading this evening. I am still quite run down from the malaise that staked its claim on Monday night. When I woke up this morning, I felt awful,and though I seemed to get it together enough to come to work, it's clear to me that my body is still under siege. I don't know that a brisk 15 minute walk to and from the reading is what I need right now. I missed the reading on Wednesday night, too. C'est la vie.

Speaking of Wednesday nights, next semester my class with Professor Love meets that night, so I've invested in a vhs tape for Smallville, but I may abandon it altogether as a relic of a defunct friendship (I only started watching b/c of the artiste). This past week's episode left me feeling nothing much, so it may be a good time to break with the geeks in Kansas, superpowers and all...

Which leads me to the now defunct *NSYNC's 1998 Christmas album. It's still a favourite! It's jazzy (in some cases a cappella) traditional stuff along with some R&B flavoured ballads about wanting to get busy under the tree. I think I'll listen to them tonight while I put finishing touches on my own artificial Roosevelt Fir.

This weekend is all about homework. I'll be working on my portfolio for the poetry workshop class, and beginning my paper for 20th Century World Lit. This gives me an incredible sense of purpose.

Non Strep Pharyngitis

Sarah and I had a marathon shopping day on Monday, and near the end of the race, over dinner, I noticed that the right side of my throat felt "weird." I assumed that my glands were swollen because I was run down. I expected to be better by morning.

I didn't feel better yesterday morning, but I didn't feel worse, either. Once at work, I went to whole foods to buy a box of Echinacea tea and some orange juice. at 3:40 I was feeling poorly enough to leave work, and to write my professor letting him know that I would not be attending class. Somewhere between work and home, I started to feel remarkably better. So much better, in fact, that I went to class. I love the collection of short stories we are reading right now, and other than last night, there is only one more class. Even though my professor is mine to enjoy next semester as well, I wanted to see him. He wrote back to my note saying I wouldn't be there that he was "sorry to lose [me] for the night."

(Sidebar: last night I dreamed that I saw my estranged friend and she told me that she was not "mad at all..." then we chatted about what motherhood is like for her. I was conspicuously avoiding the topic of the artiste, when she said "so, you haven't told me if you have any love interests..." I knew that was her way of asking about g, so I said "No, I don't... but my professor may be in love with me.")

Surprisingly, I felt terrific and enlivened for the entire class period--something I can't always boast when I'm fine.

I expected to make it in to the office today, though I did tell my manager yesterday afternoon that it was possible I would still be feeling poorly come Wednesday. When I was conscious enough to know how I was feeling this morning, the verdict was not good. I called in, and continued to sleep until about 10:30. By 11:30 it was clear to me that I did not want to continue to be in agony every time I swallowed, so a visit to the doctor was in order. All of my pain was still localized to the right side of my throat only. I did not want it to spread. The last time I tried to "tough out" a sore throat, it was toncillitis and my body did not fight it off with rest and over the counter remedies.

The people at PatientFirst were efficient, warm, and helpful. The throat swab test was negative for strep, but I was given a script for amoxicillin (and was even able to have it filled there), and sent on my way. I took the first dose with lunch and started to experience relief on contact. I am and have always been very pro antibiotic. I never experience any negative side effects, and my system almost always responds right away.

So now I am wondering if it's foolhardy to attend this poetry reading on campus tonight... I want to go, and I've just had a long nap. I'll let you know what I decided.