And Good Riddance...

I have never been so pleased to see the end of a year arrive. 2006 can only be better. 2005, I hardly knew ye... and so what?

So much for not having much time to blog...

Sarah got off after half a day yesterday so she came downtown to my job to have lunch with me. Then, after some gentle cajoling on my part, she spent the next 2.5 hours sitting in my cube, just hanging out, waiting until I could leave so she could give me a ride home. Shortly after she dropped me off at my place, Catherine arrived. we amused ourselves with anecdotes and stories, then headed out to dinner at the Rocky Run Cafe. Before heading back to my apartment, we picked up marshmallows for cocoa from the neighborhood grocery store in Charles Village.

Once back at home, C and I got into our pajamas and exchanged presents. She got me a book I'd been eyeing at the used book store in Boston the last time I was there, but hadn't purchased, and also two framed reprints of A. Aubrey Bodine photos (Baltimore Pictorialist). I gave her a green and brown striped square shaped bowl that reads (on the inside bottom) "if it ain't chocolate it ain't breakfast" and a complimentary square shaped plate that says "promise me anything, but give me chocolate." I also gave her two chocolate mint scented candles and a fun pair of flowery trouser socks.

My sister and mom and Jim were in Hampden for the Christmas Lights Extravaganza, and after they grabbed dinner at Cafe Hon, Caryl was set to come to my place. Once she arrived we made decadent latte mugs full of hot chocolate with whipped cream (whipped cream and marshmallows in Caryl's case) and settled in to watch "Elf," which we'd all seen before but found charming.

Since Catherine had to get going by about 8:45 this morning, I got up when she did and started on breakfast (turkey bacon, oven toast, eggs, and mango sauce on the side). Now Caryl and I are just bumming around slowly easing into the day...

Holiday

Today is the last day, for the next 8 business days, that I will report to work. I've moved some mountains to get my assignments to a point of completion (or at least reasonable progress) before the new year. I've given cards to coworkers, arranged a small lunch for the subset of work people with whom I'm reasonably close, and pretty much have emptied the kitchenette fridge of anything of mine that could possibly spoil while I'm away from the office.

So I'll find some more loose ends to tie up, but mostly I'll wander from cube to cube, talking to cronies, listen to each of the 8 CDs I'm taking in, some of them Christmas-related, some not. And while I'm editing the Chess strategies manual, I'll listen to the 80s Broadway "Chess," which of course features some Russians and an American and all this drama about defecting and being "nobody's child." The story wouldn't work now in this post-Cold War era, but some of the songs are just stellar.

And then tonight both Catchka and my sister Caryl are coming over. For the next few days, I'll do last minute shopping for my mom and Sarah's parents, whom I expect to see over the break, and drink hot chocolate, and watch silly movies, and make merry, and all that jazz.

I'm sure that between being out of pocket myself and the fact that most of you will be busy yourselves, that activity on this blog will be limited. I hope your days are merry and bright, whatever days you do or do not commemorate.

We'll resume this discourse full-force in 2006!

The Metaphoric Vehicle Makes All Stops

Tonight was the final Voice in Modern Fiction class. Well, it was the optional additional week. More than half of us didn't bother to show, but for those of us who did, it was rewarding. Lovely red wine, eggnog & bourbon, a delectable cheese with a very nutty taste that complimented the wine nicely.

My professor commented favourably upon my last iteration of the story I'd been working on over the course of the semester. Reading over his comments on the hard copy once I got home was satisfying, to say the least. I managed to make the narrative engaging, at last. It was challenging--the most vulnerable I've had to be, where my writing is concerned, in a long time. I felt outclassed by the other students, who are all fiction concentration (whereas I'm a poetry concentration)--I likened it to being a boxer whose dominant hand has been taped and wrapped--forced to use the least comfortable "paw" until she's able to do so fluidly and gracefully.

I checked my grade report online today. The instructor has yet to submit, but my poetry professor has weighed in. I got an A. We'll see if I continue on my straight-A-streak.

I'm off classes until January 25th, on which date I will begin my last semester before Thesis. Fall of 2006 here I come.

A prospective client (freelance editing business client) tried to issue me an ultimatum this morning, so I told him to take his manuscript elsewhere. Now he's all "I'm willing to work on your schedule." I wasn't trying to play games or be coy. I wanted him to do what he needed to do to get his editorial needs met. Seems that he was just bluffing.

Object lesson: The position of detachment (or lack of investment) is the position of power. Obviously I already knew this, but I'm still pleasantly surprised when it rings true, and I'm the one in the position of power, of course...

I finally watched the Roman Polanski psychological thriller "Repulsion" that Mr. Arthouse Cinema lent to me last week. I wonder what point the director was making about female madness and sexuality (and the repression, thereof).

This past weekend I went to the Holiday Party of my coworker and her husband. They have a lovely home in North Baltimore County. A few other people from work came and of course it was a matter of minutes before we all started talking about the office. Some people don't want to talk about work outside of the job, but I have to say, it's comforting to me to be able to kvetch with others who feel my pain.

I think my cell phone is on the fritz. If it's idle for too long, it turns itself off. Now that it's my only phone, this is actually a big problem...

Wanna Split a Cab?

The temperature had dropped by the time I left the salon. I knew there was no way I'd be willing to wait for the bus, so I stopped off at the ATM, withdrawing a 20 for cab fare. I planted myself on what is arguably the best corner in Baltimore city to get a taxi. While I waited, shivering a bit, I noticed a gentleman that I assumed was waiting for the MTA (this auspicious corner is also a bus stop). I quickly sized him up as being attractive. Of course he was smoking (I always, much to my chagrin, find a nice-looking man with a cigarette to be even more attractive). At one point we made eye contact, and he started talking. He really needed the next cab he said.

"Oh, you're waiting for a cab, too?" (I'd never had competition for a cab on this corner, and by rights, he was there first).

He asked me where I was going and it turns out that he was heading in the same direction, so he asked "Wanna split a cab?"

I indicated that I did, so he got a little more chatty. I learned the better part of his life story. He really really needed to make it to the construction site where he worked to pick up his check, esp. since he's quitting that crew to work elsewhere. He really needed to deposit the check, he said more than once.
He'd been in Europe for the last five years, working as a chef.

"Were you a bohemian artist type?"
"There's nothing bohemian about me; I like expensive things too much...I mean I'm not saying I'm a capitalist or anything, it's not all about money, but I don't mind money."
"So you're a capitalist," I said.
"Not really. I can't be bought."
"I'm a capitalist," I told him.

He asked where I was from and when I answered that I was born in Washington, DC he replied "You didn't make it too fah."

"And you're from Boston," I said.
"Oh, you guessed."

Okay, gentle reader, so here is where I tell you that a couple of things were obvious to me in this moment:

He smelled of alcohol (he said he'd already had a few drinks, but before he mentioned it, I smelled the evidence) and he was not the kind of man with whom a woman should make any sort of emotional entanglement. You don't want to hitch your wagon to his star, believe me.

But he is incredibly charming and personable, and the accent... well, if you're like me, you've got a thing for the boston accent. It slays me! And it was also abundantly clear to me that he'd probably broken a lot of promises and a lot of hearts in his time.

Finally, an unoccupied cab happened by and we both hopped in.

"So, how are we going to work out the fare? I never done this before, I just always see people in movies spllitting cabs." I told him that since my apartment was just a few blocks over from his stop that he should pay 3/4 of whatever the fare would be when he got out and I would take care of the rest.

He gave me a five.

"I'm Matthew," he told me, extending his hand.
"Kate."

We were soon at 33rd and Charles. I opened the door and got out first so he wouldn't have to open the door on his side into oncoming traffic.

"Well, see you later Kelly."
"Kate."
"Right, Kate."

Thaw

I was very concerned about the ice/wintry mix blitz that was forecasted for yesterday. Thank God the temperature stayed above freezing, because while there were slick spots here and there, it was nothing like it could have been. The sleet ultimately turned to rain, which did a nice job of melting the thin veneer of frost.
This morning it is a balmy 44 degrees which means we are in the clear for the foreseeable future. All in all, a non-event.

My poetry group was supposed to meet last night, but the threat of bad weather and the busy-ness of the season led us to the conclusion that we should cancel it for this month. One of the members, Cheryl, and I still met up for dinner, though. The proximity of the One World Cafe, and the fact that C is a vegetarian made it the obvious choice.

I don't have a ton of money for presents this year, but I did make Cheryl a "Writing Poetry" mix as a gift. I bought and downloaded some stuff by the Flaming Lips, the Orange Peels,and Rachel Yamagata to include with a lot of Beth Orton (Cheryl has seen her live, so that was cool. I didn't know if she'd be familiar with her or not) thrown in. Bjork, the Be Good Tanyas, Alison Krauss and Union Station, and Karrin Allyson rounded things out. By and large, it's a very contemplative compilation--perfect for writing. Try as I might for another "vibe" my mixes tend to always be that way. Slow, a little melancholy.

Back home by about quarter till 9, I started and finished Adam Rapp's very short, but on point piece, Nocturne.
We are discussing it next week in the final (optional additional) Voice in Modern Fiction class. There promises to be a great variety of spirits and libations, which is why I'm psyched to attend an extra week of class. I can discuss literature a whole lot better after a few drinks.

So it seems that my [middle] sister, Crystal, is talking to me again. She says that she was never not talking to me. Funny how that period of silence (including not returning calls I made to her, Instant Messages I sent her while she was online,and e-mails, by and large) followed a conversation we had about two weeks ago in which we disagreed, fervently, about the family dynamic in our house during our growing up years.

It is not uncommon for siblings to have varying perceptions about the experience of growing up in the same house, I know, but it bears mentioning that my middle sib and I are 10 years apart, so that further extends the disconnect and adds texture and nuance to the situation. Then again, my youngest sister and I are 12 years apart, and she and I see things very similarly...

In any case, Crystal and my mother share the Revisionist Historian gene. They both need to minimize and undermine the violence and abuse that was so prevalent in our house because they perceive it to be disloyal...or something...to acknowledge what our father was capable of. But, more than that, I don't think either of them can bear to perceive the situation for what it was, because of what it would suggest about them to themselves.

Or maybe I am just arrogant. Who's to say that my perception is the absolutely correct one?

Essentially, we've called a truce (I never saw our argument as anything but an airing of views, not a relationship deal-breaker, anyway). She simply wants to avoid certain topics. I see it this way. She's 22. And when I was 22 I couldn't imagine ever feeling any differently about anything than I did then. My opinions were fixed and solid and had been reached through critical reasoning and extensive analysis. I had things figured out and was simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

As the eldest child of a fragmented family the greatest service I can provide for my sisters is to be an anchor for them. To be the one waiting at the end when they come out on the other side of their difficulties, their folly, their madness.

And I'm strong enough to have one or both of them ignore me in anger for a time if it comes to that, because I want so much to be the one who always tells them the truth, even if it cuts them to the quick at first. I'm not just speaking about the truth about our family, according to me.

Sometimes my sisters, being 20 and 22, make awful choices--do things I wish they wouldn't, and I want to save them from humiliation, from pain, from getting taken in by sheisters. I beg them to listen to me because I know, because I've made all those errors myself. I want to tell them that from 32 some things that you do in your 20s will still haunt you. Oh, but at their ages, and long beyond, I'm afraid, I was hellbent on having my own way, and I've come out all right.

So I'm working on trusting God with their lives,knowing that he cares for them so much more than I do, loves them more violently than I ever could.

I've just returned from my last poetry workshop of the semester. As these things usually are, it was anticlimactic. A few people brought foodstuffs (the brie was tremendous), but other than the crackers, cheese, cupcakes, and diet Coke, it was like any other class. We each (12 of us) had our final offerings discussed and dissected. My "The Hapless Spinster" piece was a big hit. It was an experiment in writing, explicitly, in a voice other than my own. All in all, one absentminded professor aside, not too bad. I even managed to eek out a poem about raccoons for crap's sake, how bad could it have been?

this was inevitable...this was inevitable...this was inevitable...

It's so cold outside I felt like I might be about to lose my mind as I stood there waiting for the bus. And when it did arrive, insult to injury, gentle reader! I board, getting ready to swipe my day pass, when the bastard driver pulls forward all kamikaze-like, and I end up flat on my back with my granny boots in the air. I couldn't even front, I was like "EXCUSE ME!"

Still listening to Beth Orton. I finally moved away from "Central Reservation," and am now on the "Daybreaker" album, specifically the song "Paris Train." The haunting refrains "sometimes...sometimes...this was inevitable...this was inevitable" reverberating through the caverns of my ears.

Some things won't be redeemed. Not that they cannot be, but they won't be, not to our satisfaction, anyway. As a Christian, I believe that God can make all things new, that ultimately, he always will... but in terms of the practical applications of redemption in the here and now, well, sometimes (often) we don't get back lost opportunities and relationships, we can't take back the mistakes... I don't intend to be a downer, but I've been pondering this idea for a few days now. In any case, it seems fitting to me that some things are irretrievably lost if they are lost at all. It underscores the significance of them.

Thanks to Paste Music, I have discovered Beth Orton and a host of other appealing musicians. In the next few weeks, I'll be purchasing from iTunes quite a bit... but, thanks to BMG which is still occasionally helpful, I got three Orton CDs for a very reasonable price.

Breakfast this morning is an unhealthy cherry turover with unsweetened tea. I was out on Friday and to my surprise, there isn't much in the way of work crowding my desk. I'm going to take advantage of the small pile and get some much-needed momentum.

Catherine and me at her cousin's wedding

Prickly!

Nothing like waiting more than half an hour for a connection bus in freezing temperatures. Makes one suscpetible to being in a crap mood. I'll admit it. Sometimes I am downright prickly. This is one of those times.

I am bummed, in addition, because I will be doing homework tonight instead of attending the office party--and I'm finaly in a place where I truly and genuinely like everyone with whom I work closely. They're fun and the closest I've come to that tight knit group scenario in years. It just seems categorically wrong that I won't be there. But I have to do what I must. Grad school is my priority and that should be reflected in all the choices that I make.

So, blogging community, I have a challenge for you. I have decided that I really want to meet the guy for me in 2006. Help me out. I am willing to be set up. So there. I've said it.

Also:

Mackenzie Astin, who continues to frequent the One World, is grasping at straws. He is clearly disenfranchised. After the movie last night C and I went there (I hadn't eaten; I ordered a grilled tomato and cheese and a hot chocolate), and there he was. yet again. He's struck up an apparent flirtation with one of the waitresses. He seems, by turn, to amuse her and annoy her.

On this particular sighting his father, John Astin, came in and joined him. They seem to have a sweet relationship. But Mack was like a little boy in some ways. He was wearing his desperation like a sweater.

It's clear to me whenever I see him that he feels like he's supposed to know me, but can't quite figure out how. I, along with Sarah and another friend of mine (also named Sarah) had a very pleasant encounter with him at the One World about a month ago...

What is up with Keira Knightley's Mouth,Anyway?

C and I drove through pleasantly snowy conditions to the Charles yesterday evening, arriving at about quarter till 7 for the showing of Pride and Prejudice. Having so recently read the book,the plot was fresh in my mind, and it was readily apparent what was condensed, what was omitted, etc. Not yet having seen the version (BBC) that made Colin Firth famous, I have to say that I appreciated this one very much. C is going to lend me the miniseries version on Wednesday. Perhaps I will have a clear favourite after I've viewed that one. In any case, I thought that the casting of Jane in this fresh, more compact depiction was on point. Keira Knightley did a credible job, for the most part, but I did wonder about the sporadic giggling outbursts, and also she has a weird mouth. Other than that, I wasn't terribly bothered by her performance.

Now then. On other points. The best way to mitigate an impractical crush is to tell yourself that the object has a significant other whom you have met and very much like, even if this is not the case.

As is usually the case on Sunday evenings, I had trouble falling asleep last night. To ensure that I had something to do other than laying in the dark stressing myself out thinking about how restless I was, I decided to watch Mr. Arthouse Cinema's latest offering, City of Lost Children. It was surreal, weird, fun, and touching. I also finished McCauley's True Enough. The film ended at about 1:40 a.m., but I was still wide awake. I turned out the lights and tossed and turned for at least another hour.

I did begin work on the final version of my short story for the Modern Fiction class yesterday evening, but it's a long way from being finished. Have decided not to go to the office party this Thursday night. Need the time to revise poems, final assignments, etc. I've had a coworker tell me that he's not sure he'll go now since tales of my inebriated escapades from last year are why he was so psyched to attend this year. :) Fortunately, another coworker is throwing a party that some of us can attend, so I hope that one will be excellent (in that the people I'd most want to spend time with will choose to attend).

Had an excellent workout yesterday and was looking forward to going again tonight but just remembered that I have an engagement. Am going to see the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice with a fellow Janeophile at the Charles.

Got together with E last night. Did an art gallery "walk" in Fells Point. We only did two of the spots on the tour (free wine, sangria, and heavy hors d'oeuvres) then headed over to Little Italy for Fried Calamari.

Mr. Arthouse Cinema (my young coworker) gave me another film assignment. I'll try to watch that tomorrow once I'm back at home. I'm hanging out with Sarah and a friend of hers today. I am also determined to revise poems for my portfolio tomorrow, which means I'll have to tear myself away from this.

More substantive posts coming, I promise...

I've done no Christmas shopping of any kind...

Not that I don't plan on it, mind you, because I do... plan on it. Sometime around December 15th. The payment/distribution of my income toward bills won't really allow me to start much before then most years. The difference this year is that most of my friends and family are getting gift cards from me. So there won't be any kamikaze trips to the mall that are rife with pushing, shoving morons indiscriminantly grabbing up anything in a shrinkwrapped basket. I can't bear it. And for those for whom I am not getting gift cards, I really want to support local shops in Hampden, Fells Point, and the East quadrant of the Harbor area near my job by finding suitable treasures in those places.

December promises to be frenetic. I have a poetry portfolio to put together and a final short story to write before I can bid this semester a fond adieu. So somewhere between forays to the cinema, holiday parties (not Christmas parties mind you. Everyone throws "holiday parties" now. I would be so impressed if anyone had the moxie to be like "I'm having a Christmas party. Wanna come?"), and visits with friends I have to get cracking. Those things are both due week after next. Maybe tonight after this function I'm attending (free wine) I can do some late night writing.

I told you he would get even more annoying...

Bad Hair Day

I had a truly schmada day yesterday. Schmada. Frotzy. The synapses of my collective attempts to look reasonably put together not firing. Between the tropical temps here in the mid-Atlantic making it impossible to coif my hair (hello frizz, how ya been?) and the fact that I overslept by nearly 2 hours, it was lacklustre to say the least. So, this morning, having awakened at the correct time (5 a.m.), the rains gone, and my hair done, I see a little more of what I'm used to emerging.

I'm taking the time to note all of this because for years I was content to be schmada except on rare occasions. Now I'm doing this thing where I believe I'm worth a little effort in the morning. To be clear. I am still not one of those women who can get up 2 hours earlier than necessary for the sake of beauty. My routine is down to the minute and very basic, but when I leave in the morning I feel good and I'm projecting something good into the world because of it. Yesterday was a little too like the past for me.

I call that look "Post Holiday Craptastic." May I escape it after Christmas.

For those of you who may be wondering...

I did have jury duty. This guy also had jury duty that day.

Me, Caryl, and Babygirl on Thanksgiving!

Stopping Criminals of love in their tracks!

In honour of Catchka's brief visit (and thanks to Sarah for being the photog who lovingly documented our silliness), I offer these incriminating shots.

In true super sleuth fashion I donned my chocolate trench and headed out into the late evening deluge to get a small coffee at quarter till 11 tonight. Why? because I had to make change for the bus tomorrow, sweethearts. That's hardcore. And no. I in no way take myself seriously...

Super Sleuths!

I had a fairly uneventful weekend with BG. My mom and Jim came to collect her last night after their weekend trip (as part of a community service organization)concluded. The unbridled, unquestioning affection of dogs is sometimes heartbreaking. I think it would be addictive to have someone be so happy to see you every time you return.

I took the day off on Friday so that I would not have to abandon her for long periods of time in my apartment. Wanting to be sensitive to any sense of displacement she might have, aside from a hair appointment, I made myself available to sit with her, or just to be around doing chores while she lazed about.

The young coworker I mentioned some entries back lent me Jean Cocteau's 1947 Beauty and the Beast (la Belle et la Bete)--I had it for about two weeks and really needed to make good on my promise to watch it and talk about it with him. We chatted briefly about it this morning, and in the context of this discussion it came out that I am a poet (apparently Cocteau considered himself a poet, not a filmaker). He expressed an interest in seeing some of my work, so I'll bring some in tomorrow. I have been very blessed with several seminal associations with fellow artists. Good creative energy. Nice vibing, etc.

Am finally nearing the end of Northanger Abbey. I got emotionally distracted for a bit--also the book went through a boring, "too descriptive" phase that wearied me. Now that we've come out on the other end of that I am back at home in the narrative. When it's done, I will be on hiatus from JA, and will read Sue Monk Kidd's The Mermaid Chair for the December's book club.

Other points of interest:

Catchka will drive into town early to accompany me to class tomorrow night, then she'll stay over. A little pre-Thanksgiving fun. And the next day it's entirely possible that I'll have to report for Jury Duty. I won't know until after 5 p.m. on Tuesday what my fate will be.

Sadly, this was too big for the sidebar, but I want to give The Baltimore Chronicles the benefit of displaying Catchka's lovely photo.

one of her favourite things to do

In Honour of BabyGirl's Weekend Visit


in her sweater

In Spades...

Diamond-shaped Clubs You scored 66 clubs, 66 diamonds, 42 hearts, and 50 spades!

You're a combination of Clubs and Diamonds. This reflects balance: you're spiritual and devoted, but also rational and sensible. Some people may find you boring, but others know better and appreciate your devotion and reliability.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 94% on clubs You scored higher than 93% on diamonds You scored higher than 26% on hearts You scored higher than 59% on spades

Link: The Which suit of cards are you Test written by Narry on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

I had a dream that my mother had finagled a wedding for me by telling my intended that I was carrying his child--which was not true for one, and furthermore: this person and I had never known each other, in the biblical sense, but this was a dream, and in a dream you can be carrying someone's child under such circumstances.

In an effort to do the right thing, G had agreed to marry me, but his heart was otherwise engaged. I had agreed to the marriage not knowing, initially, that he'd been duped--and once I caught on, it was too late, too awkward to tell the truth.

My mother drove me to the ceremony in my ill-fitting dress; I got there only to realize I'd left my veil at home, and was, instead, wearing a sombrero. I talked to G on the phone and apologized that "we were in this mess," and he said "well just think of the funny stories we'll all have to tell each other when we live together." By "all" I knew he meant him, me, and the baby.

My mother was "too busy" to go and get my veil, so I asked a coworker to retrieve it for me. The time for the ceremony was approaching, but G was still not there, though everyone was waiting. I understood that he fully intended to show up, but that his indifference toward me had made him unmindful of the time. So, I got on a bus and went to his apartment to intervene. He had just gotten out of the shower when I arrived, still in my ill-fitting wedding dress. I told him the truth--that I'd thought about going through with the wedding anyway, but that I knew his heart wasn't in it--that he loved someone else.

He was so completely relieved that he didn't even hold my mother's trickery against me.

When I woke up I realized that the "me" in the dream was not me as I am now, but as I was--in terms of weight and appearance--the last time he saw me.

Unintentionally stiffing a cabbie

Today is payday. And just in time, too. As is sometimes the case, I took a cab to work this morning, because I did not have bus fare, but owing to the miracle of direct deposit, my wage is all snug in my bank account. I just needed a way to get to it. None of the establishments that are within walking distance of my apartment, that also have ATMs inside, open until well after I'm already supposed to be at the office, so I hailed a taxi. There is a 24-hour bank machine right next to the building where I work. So easy. The cab takes me to my destination, I hop out to get him some cash, and everyone is happy.

This particular ATM lets one withdraw money in increments of 10 dollars, which I appreciate. So I withdrew 30.00, thinking that after my cab fare plus tip, I'd have plenty leftover with which to eat today and to ride the bus back home this evening. I asked for my change, the driver exulted at my generosity. I told him that I believed in tipping well, to think nothing of it... so he drove off.

And I realized, too late (though I did try running after him) that I'd given him the wrong bill. The 10, not the 20. So my "cab fare" after he handed me back over a five, per my request, was about five dollars. Even thought it was a complete accident, I feel like a complete heel.

I just hope that this man, who was a wonderful driver, who didn't try to take advantange of me by going a longer, more circuitous route, knows this was unintentional when he realizes what happened. And I hope God sends him a tremendous amount of well-tipping riders to more than make up for my gaffe.

Saturday at the Cafe


Autumn is calling...

Seattle's Best, indeed

Reading Northanger Abbey

feet under table

Lovely Stranger

Bookstore Cafe at approximately 7:45 p.m.

He walked in.

I was just chillin' mindin' my business with Sarah--the first frothy sips of my (skim)green tea latte made me smile on the inside,deep down. I wrote some preliminary notes for my upcoming class presentation. S was telling me the story of her new, duplicitous coworker.

I looked up just in time to see a dark haired guy with cream-milk skin and this amazing, intellectual energy walk in and assume a seat at a nearby wooden table.

"Stop the presses...."
Sarah smiled, even though my comment interrupted her flow of conversation. She'd noticed him too.

I've seen passably attractive men out and about before, but it isn't often that a stranger preoccupies me the way this dreamboat did.

In a spirit of happy conspiracy Sarah asked me to go to the counter to get a cup of water for her. I did so, careful to put myself right in his line of vision, should he look up. When he did, I mouthed "hello." He returned the lip-synched greeting, and I walked back to my seat, seriously debating an acceptable and witty conversation starter.

Eventually Sarah's friend and coworker (not Ms. Duplicity), with whom we had dinner plans, joined us. After pleasantries we got up to leave, and that was that...

Or so I thought.

On the way out of the store, S's friend decided she wanted to find a book. She walked off and I said to Sarah "I'm seriously considering going back there and telling that man how beautiful he is."

"So do it."

Possessed of an alien confidence, I strode back there, with full presence of mind and walked up to his table.

"Excuse me. I don't mean to interrupt you, but I wanted to tell you this before I leave. You are so beautiful."

He looked up from his book, smiled, revealing a slight gap between his two front teeth that can only be described as dead sexy (not usually a fan of the gap, but the man was working it like a 9 to 5)...

"wow... {he waited a judicious beat}thank you..."

"you're welcome; good night."

And I walked away, leaving him to ponder that.

Hallelujah!

The dead mouse has been removed. I was told that my apartment is being scheduled for an emergency visit from the exterminator. I'm so glad to know that I won't have to deal with that rodent corpse when I get home.

I am so not going to class tonight. I need a mental health break. workshopping a poem about which I feel supremely ambivalent is not a good way to pass the time. Instead, I'm going to a bookstore with Sarah for one of our reading dates. I am so into Northanger Abbey. It may well wind up being my favourite.

I'm starting to get nervous...

I have known for months that I will not be renewing the lease on my current apartment come the spring, but when I arrived at home last night and found a dead mouse in my kitchen, it eliminated any potential doubt.

When it's time to move I always get nervous about the details. the location of my current apartment is ideal; I need to find something equally convenient to the university and my job, that I can afford, that is bigger, that does not have mice.
Oh, and I need to scrounge around for people to help me move. That's always the sucky part.

Next semester is going to be made more difficult by virtue of my having a class in DC; it will be an adventure in some ways, and will hopefully yield access to a friend that I never get to see under normal circumstances, but will be tiring and expensive. My commute on that one day of the week will be roughly 21 dollars round trip (11 for the MARC; about 3 for the metro from Union station; about 7 for a cab ride back to my place from Penn Station when I get back to the Baltimore stop at about 11:30 at night). My Whole Foods habit is going to need to be curbed significantly in order to accommodate this venture.

And wish though I might that someone other than this one prof I always take was teaching a class I might want to take, no one is, so it's him again. I hope he doesn't think that I'm stalking him at this point; I'm so not. Bah! Had a disconcerting exchange with him last night in which he asked me a question (I think) about the story I handed in last week...I wasn't sure what he was getting at at first, and it made me feel strange. I have this crippling nervousness around men who's intellect I respect. I can't explain it, but I felt like I was being judged. And when I feel that I am being judged, I shut down, become super formal. impenetrable.

In other news, I'm pretty much broke until Tuesday.

Reorienting

Save for a few hours on Friday night, I spent the entire weekend away from my little city apartment. On Friday night, Catchka came to collect me to spend the night with her at her parents' place in Westminster. Saturday was to be a family wedding (her family) in PA, and I was invited as her guest. Her mom made the wedding cake and I was allowed to help out with small finishing touches (and I was on hand to eat spare frosting--hey! someone had to). The highlight of the reception for me was seeing C dance with her cousin (a tremendous dancer)in the most carefree,gorgeous way. I love to see people really enjoying themselves in a non self-conscious way--the way one moves when one has lost any notion of what anyone else may be thinking. Distilled beauty, etc.

Catherine was good enough to drop me at Sarah's after the reception. S and I watched about an hour of the "What's Happening!!" marathon on TVLand before heading off to bed. This morning we ran some work-related errands (for Sarah), ate out, and spent time at Borders Bookstore in the county, reading. I purchased the next book on my Austen Reading List--Northanger Abbey--because my time with Emma was drawing to a close.

After going out to dinner we wrapped up our evening at a coffee shoppe to do some more reading (it was here that I finished Emma), afterwhich Sarah brought me home. I immediately set to tidying up my place, which I left in a state of disrepair from a busy week. After a while S called to tell me I'd left my new shoes (the ones I bought for and wore to the wedding) in her car.

My allergies are killing me! I've been sneezing something terrible. No doubt the dust I kicked up during my cleaning frenzy didn't help matters.

I've made a discovery. I don't have the constitution that is necessary for online dating. For the last few weeks I've had an active profile on a leading (and reputable) Internet dating site, and it has yielded only small interest (both on my side and the part of available men), and the reception I have received has led me to the following conclusion: I have a target audience and I am not reaching them. The men who made efforts to contact me are not ones with whom I would be interested in even conversing, by and large. But more than anything else, it just doesn't feel natural to me. I really would just like a more organic context (or an actual context)in which to meet someone. To that end I've cancelled my unremarkable membership (which was only at the most basic level--I never paid a dime for all the bells and whistles--it was just a preliminary experiment). I've removed my profile and made myself unviewable to the other members of the lonelyhearts club. I'm glad I did it though. It was a helpful exercise in many ways.

Seinfeld was right. 98% of the population is undatable!

Doing the Thing I Said I Would Never Do...

I'm taking a class [in my program] on the DC campus next semester. In order to do the Thesis and Publication in the Fall of 2006, I need to have all my reqs out of the way by the start of that term. I need one more Poetry Workshop, and that's not offered in Baltimore in the spring. I'm taking another class as well, but that one will be on my home turf.

I have one friend in particular who might find this of interest. Devika, my class is on Thursday nights from 6:00-8:30, and from what I understand, the building where said class will be held is very near the Dupont Circle Metro stop.

The MARC train and I are about to get super familiar again. Good thing I am partial to train travel. Am trying to get it worked out such that I can work from home, as a rule, on Thursdays to make it a less frenetic undertaking.

Okay, so you might as well know...

I've eaten 6 pieces of candy today! Six! Count them... 1-2-3-4-5-6! Please pray for me. All these people and their evil, surplus halloween candy are going to be the end of me...

Everything I Needed to Know About Relationships I Learned from Jane Austen:

In the midst of truths universally acknowledged, platitudes on decorum and elegance, and the importance of a woman's complexion in securing a worthy mate, I find much to amuse and delight as well as to provoke reflection on the fact that not a lot has changed.

In Austen's day you mated and married on your level, period, and no one would be so boorish or uncivilized as to presume that he or she had the right to let his or her affections meander across class lines. And where they occasionally did, to be sure, some beauty or excellence in the woman made the match allowable. Oh, and the gentleman was probably already supremely rich and not looking for a woman's inheritance to support him for the rest of his life.

It's a charming world where the words amiable and affable are the highest praise, and calling on visitors to the neighborhood in a timely fashion is of utmost importance.

I interrupted my reading of Emma to accomodate McEwan's Atonement (for bookclub) and was delighted to see that he is much inspired by Ms. Austen. Her impact is more considerable that I'd realized. In any case, I am back with our well-meaning, but obtuse heroine (Emma Woodhouse), and was delighted on my morning commute by her latest assertion:

"...it is not every man's fate to marry the woman who loves him best.."

Highlights

My stylist and I had discussed me getting highlights during my appointment this morning. Two weeks ago this seemed like a great idea. But one critical look at my checkbook dictated a revision. So I decided I would just get a shampoo and style today. But, when I told her that the highlights were just too extravagant, financially, she looked at me earnestly and said "I'll do them for you if you want them...." I asked her if I should plan to roll in the cost of them at my next sitting. "If you want to," she said, then set about mixing some dark blonde coloring for me.

I've never had highlights before. I can tell you with 100% certainty they are what I've been missing all my life.

Mental Health Day

I took one yesterday and it did me a world of good. I read a sizeable chunk of Ian McEwan's Atonement for the bookclub meeting on Sunday and tidied up my bedroom (after returning from the gym). I made some butternut squash soup from a basic puree bought from Williams-Sonoma-- by adding chicken stock, seasonings, and sauteed onions, portabella mushrooms, zucchini, and scallions. It was therapeutic.

Sarah came over after work and we hung out at the One World for a couple of hours. It was a reading date. I really started getting into the book. I ended up staying awake till about 11:30, still turning the pages, until my eyelids got too heavy to go on.

Professor Genteel vexed me something terrible on Wednesday evening. The man talks and thinks in elliptical clauses. That's fine, except for the fact that he expects us to explicitly meet his inexplicit instructions regarding assignments. Linear progression is not high on this man's priority list, so his preoccupation with specificity (selective preoccupation) is an insult.

I sent him an e-mail after class asking him to clarify our latest assignment (to be turned in next Wednesday).

Any guesses as to whether or not he's gotten back to me?

I'll spare you the suspense. No, Inexplicitly Inexpliciterson has not. I'm sure he forgot.

Literary Criticism

Toni Morrison, as a woman and an African American, belongs to a marginalized sect twice over. However, as one who has demonstrated excellence at her craft, one of the greatest compliments she can be paid, in my estimation, is that her work be subjected to the same critical eye as that of her male counterparts. And by male counterpart, I mean white male authors, specifically.

From what I've read of Ms. Morrison's philosophies on literature, in general, and her own in particular, she is not afraid of being panned by a critic. She is affronted when praised or criticized on false premises. If the critic doesn't apprehend the basis or errand of her work correctly, she is offended by any ensuing commentary stemming from that false premise, period.

She has posited in interviews that the main problem with literature is the criticism of literature.

With that being said, Toni Morrison does not need me or anyone else to defend her legitimacy as an author. Her Pulitzer and Nobel prizes attest to her acceptance in the Pantheon of great writers. As such, she can take a hit or two from my Voice in Modern Fiction class and be none the worse for wear...

But something different was in place in our discussion tonight.

I heard overt criticism from the instructor about the work. None of his usual objective language that is careful to ask questions more than to make statements. For as much as he praised certain constructs and techniques, I heard equal amounts of dissent. Phrases like "unsuccessful," "poorly chosen," etc., in categorizing certain passages in Beloved.

Beyond this insult to an author I respect, I was further disconcerted because the professor and I have always been simpatico in our readings of a given text--even if not in perfect agreement, then our sensibilities, at least, matched. We had the same take, in general, on the questions to be asked, the errand of the work, itself.

Now, with not even an hour's distance from the scene, I realize that what bothered me was the apparent arrogance with which he seemed to be approaching this text. The feeling that he had the unquestionable right to make unqualified statements about what is working or not in this body of work. And I just had the sense that he, and others, perhaps, felt that this text could be held up for that kind of inspection, not because the author is venerated, but because she is black.

This is not about a person not having the right to prefer a given author's style or not. It's about the misappropriation of labels, the cocky belief that one has the right to label what one does not truly understand.

I will admit that I am protective of Toni Morrison, and therefore may not have been objective about how I read things tonight... but I tend to trust my visceral interpretations of moments more than the objectified, rationalized versions of the same events.

Toni Morrison is still a black woman. And as such she still has to enter the conversation first proving that she has the right to be in it.

Post-Workout Smoothie...

i'm about to have one...

Other Stuff That's Going On...

Having lunch with coworker who lent me "Dead Man," which I loved, on Friday to discuss... He's all of 20, and thinks I'm cool enough to talk about film. Just when I was starting to feel like a fuddy-duddy...

Embarrassed To Admit...

that I had a compromising dream about Eminem last night. I have been not so secretly attracted to him for years...

I'm excited to spend the day at my undergrad alma mater tomorrow. The college is honouring its first African American woman graduate, so the minority alumni association is making an appropriate to do about it. Even more important to me than that is the chance to see my sister.

Caryl apparently got her nose pierced last night (she has been wanting to for at least 2 years now), so it'll be interesting to see the end result. Not everyone can carry that off. I have a feeling it will suit her.

M hosted poetry group last night. She laid out quite a lovely spread of Indian food. My contribution was pumpkin bread; I figured the subtle spice of it would complement the flavours in the main dishes. It worked out well. A new person joined us last night (a coworker of M's) and she fit right in with the group's dynamic.

I am so proud of myself. I actually took the time to cook myself something so I could bring in lunch today instead of buying out. I got some stuffed chicken thighs from Whole Foods a few days ago, so I made those, and to accompany, I made some spinach and corn. Just finished a bowl of Kashi Good Friends cereal (the name utterly baffles me). It's the box that features a Southeast Asian looking older man and a White woman. They seem happy to know each other. Maybe Kashi is suggesting that more people bond over healthy cereal?

"The Granny Boots" mix I compiled a few days ago is the soundtrack of the morning. I've started reading Emma, which is entertaining, but it's no Pride And Prejudice.

A coworker lent me Jarmusch's "Dead Man" starring Johnny Depp. It may be the one Jarmusch film I haven't seen. I've heard it's the best one...

My Very Educated Mother Just Showed Us Nine Planets...

So, I am woefully out of the loop, but I just heard that Pluto hasn't been considered a planet since about 1993? What the heck?! So, how will we finish the mnemonic statement now?

I was in bed by 9:40 last night. Obviously, this is what I need to do every night. This morning was the first in several that I awakened feeling ready to get out of bed, or indeed, that it was even a reasonable possibility.

Classes sucked this week. I presented an excerpt from a story on Tuesday night in my Voice in Modern Fiction class. The experience left me feeling wretched. Last night in Poetry Workshop wasn't much better. Everyone was pretty unimpressed by the poem I submitted the week before... as welll they should have been.

What a disappointing couple of days.

Teeth Set On Edge

I feel marvellously disconcerted. Offcenter. What do you all do when you need to get your emotional and social equilibrium back? Hints? Tips? Advice? Fire away.

"Kanye West has the potential to be a [musical] genius, if only he weren't so annoying."
--My sister, Caryl

I couldn't agree more. However...

The afore-mentioned artist's "Diamonds from Sierra Leone" is reverberating in my bedroom as I type. The repeating, sampled refrain "diamonds are forever" haunts the rapper's overlayed lyrics about his former state of socioeconomic disenfranchisement and his ongoing battle for artistic validation (e.g., he alludes to his temper tantrum at the American Music Awards a year and a half ago when he didn't win anything).

My foray into rap music has given me a real appreciation for the lyrical construct its empresarios have erected--to wit, that they are emporers, ambassadors, scribes, the urban clergy of the church of the streets, feudal lords of the fifedom. They fully consider their collective flow to be part of a dynasty, the stuff of legend, the veritable smackdown that will stop any foe. I have to admit. Sometimes I get caught up in the hype.

This past winter when my grief was its most accute, rap was the only music that could speak to me. This is because beneath the bravado there is real pathos, the need for vigilante justice, the fear that the lyricist will be overtaken by his own past, his own insecurity. A line that resonated for me deeply at that time was Jay-Z's lyric "What? you gon' box me homie? I can dodge a jab."

The anger intrigues me, because it's sadness flipped inside out. The stuff of Russian tragedies.

There was a bird trapped on the bus. I handled it remarkably well, considering that few things unnerve me like birds (or insects, especially moths) flying around in enclosed spaces. Several passengers opened windows to give it a way to escape. I'm not sure, but I think it may have ultimately gone out the front door.

After my hair appointment on Friday night, I came home and got a very late (for me) carryout dinner from the One World (Baked Enchilada Rojas w/Chipotle vegetables) and watched a bit of tv while I read a few chapters in Pride And Prejudice.

On Saturday, since the gym was closed, I went out for a half-hour or so power walk, then came home to do laundry, and to write a poem and work on my short story for classes this week. Later, I accompanied Sarah to Williams-Sonoma to pick up some items for a coworker's wedding present. After that we went to Crate & Barrell, which, I have to say is more reasonably priced than W-S. I got some round candles and a cocktail shaker Christmas ornament.
While we were out Sarah got a call from a coworker who invited us over to hang out at her place. I enjoyed all the attention I got from this woman's dog, who at one point, put her huge paws on my neck, and licked me full in the face for about a good minute. Apparently, this is the dog's version of a hug and kiss.

On Sunday I was able to enjoy breakfast with Sarah and another coworker of hers... afterward we retired to this person's house and talked for about an hour or so. While there, something truly kismet happened.

I was admiring the papasan chair in the corner (I have wanted one forever), and just as I was pondering how I might acquire one, our hostess said "I have a quandry." The basic gist of the story is that she was wondering if we knew anyone who wanted one, because she was looking to get rid of hers, and its companion piece ottoman. So I scored an almost new papasan without even trying for a mere fraction of a fraction of what it would have cost at Pier 1, where she originally got it. I'm picking it up today!

After the gym yesterday I spent the better part of the day moving the bookshelf from my bedroom into the entry way, and getting rid of the pink easychair rocker I received gratis a year or so ago... all to make room for the new papasan, which will be a nice addition to my spare bedroom. The creamy cushion of the chair will offset the deep red of my bedding and curtains.

Life and All The Ways It's Weird...

I had made my peace with the fact that my hairstylist had broken up with me [my hair], so to speak. It was one of those breakups where the other party starts acting distant and non-commital, all the while assuring you that everything is fine, and that of course they still love you very much. You are left to deduce that you've been dumped by adding up the clues of his unreturned phone calls, his palpable absence from the routine of your life, his sudden inability to make it to anything that is even remotely important to you...

She'd simply stopped calling me back to set up appointments. After about 8 attempts (I am nothing if not dogged), I gave up and tried to be philosophical about it all, my hair becoming increasingly wretched for the lack of care.

There were a few issues:

1. Who could style and cut my hair like her? No one, that's who. Maybe I just wouldn't get my hair done ever again, I decided. I'd be one of those self-sufficient types who just goes it alone.

Nevermind that this tactic has NEVER once worked for me. My hair, left to its own devices, will dreadlock. Nothing against dreads, but it's different when it's unintentional...

2. If I wanted to find a new stylist, where would I start? Just randomly pick someone out of the phonebook and hope for the best? Go on a blind salon appointment? How desperate was I, anyway?

3. How could I ever trust another stylist to not ultimately reject me and my hair the way we had just been summarily dissed? I didn't think we were strong enough to handle that again.

In recent weeks I started to get desperate. The kerchief has become my best friend, covering a multitude of sins. But it's a fine line between being chic with it and it just becoming a ghetto crutch for having bad, bad tresses.

I was wearing one of said kerchiefs on Wednesday when I ran into Connie in the parking lot at Whole Foods. She recognized me first.

"Kate? You look really good; really good."

I smiled ambiguously, not sure what I should say in response.

"I haven't seen you in a long time!" She exclaimed.

"I tried to call you at least 8 times, " I said. "You never called me back." I'm sure I sounded bitter.

Once the look of incredulilty left her face, she said:

"And you left messages?"

I assured her that I had.

The long and short of it? I have an appointment this evening at 5:30.

I wonder how many relationships have ended because both people were under the impression that the other one no longer cared.

Regrouping

Tuesday and Wednesday were these lovely days during which I was not at work (I extended my vacation through this morning), and over the course of which I have realized that my current job, despite its many advantages, gets on my freaking nerves.

Fortunately, my manager, who has been passive-aggressively demonstrating hostility lately, is out today, tomorrow, and Monday. So vacation part II for me. I had actually liked this particular manager, but like her predecessor, she's lost it. My plan was not to avoid her so much as not to pander to the awkwardness. She may just be preoccupied or something.

Even though I've been resting much better lately, I find that I am often tired. More than likely this is an issue of diet. I've really been pushing the water today, and will continue to do that. I'm sure I need to detox after my weekend of indulgence in Boston.

I may leave a bit early today. A nap before the women's prayer meeting I'm attending might do me good.

Please Come to Boston Reprise

A little over two years ago I set out to visit Catherine in Boston. Two years. A very long time ago, and also not that long ago. This visit was enhanced by Sarah's presence. We drove, and I must tell you that the 8 hour drive to MA was less stressful and felt like it took less time than our drive to Philadelphia a little over a week ago.

We pulled away from Sarah's apartment building at 5 a.m., and were on the NJ turnpike by 6:15 (to which I said: "how in the heck are we in New Jersey Already?!"), and were pulling up to Catherine's door by 1:00 p.m. Thanks to S's creativity, we were treated to her recently compiled "Please Come to Boston" cd mixes (volumes I and II), and when not grooving to that, we cracked up listening to David Sedaris's Dress Your Family in Denim and Corduroy on cd (ready by the author).

When we walked into Catchka's sunny apartment, we were greeted by the warm sweet scent of pumpking loaves (which our dear C enhanced by including chocolate chips!). Big hugs all around, and then...

We began our weekend adventure at Louisa May Alcott's house in Concord. We took the tour of the actual property with 80% of the Alcotts' actual furnishings and artifacts. I have to cop to never having read Little Women, and yes, I do consider this a failing on my part. I am familiar with the premise, I saw the movie, but did not have the great fortune of having my girlhood influenced by the wonderful book. Louisa May Alcott was always most noteworthy to me because she knew Emerson (and Thoreau), whom I consider to be one of the most quotable thinkers/public figures, second only to maybe Churchill. I knew that she and her family were transcendentalists, but that was about it.

After walking in and out of their rooms, seeing her desk, her handwritten pages, and in some cases, the clothing she (or her sisters) wore, she became very real to me, and I was charmed by her writerly life.

Also, the intrigue of this: She totally had a thing for Emerson!

On Saturday, The rain poured, but it did not, it could not dampen our spirits. After a delectable sushi lunch at a shopping plaza, I accompanied Catherine into the Gap to pick up some sandalwood perfume, and we both came out with chocolate trench coats and matching corduroy hats. I cut quite a nice figure in that ensemble with my new boots. I had just been lamenting my lack of a fall coat, and this purchase was truly serendipitous because the trench was marked down about 55%.

Sarah ventured over to an Asian art store where she got a lovely ceramic bowl with a painting of bamboo in the center of the dish.

At Pier 1, where they were having another tremendous sale, I got wooden salad spoon& fork servers, pumpkin bread room fragrance, and deep red olive oil bottle (Catherine got the same one!)

I had been craving a skim pumpkin latte from the coffee monopoly (Starbucks) for more than 24 hours at that point, so we took shelter from the downpour inside the spacious cafe in Davis Square, took impromptu photos, and ate yummy desserts (S and C both got Chinese pastries at the shopping plaza; I got us a chocolate peanutbutter stack to share from Starbucks).

Once we were again ready to brave the elements, we headed across the street to the Used Book Store, where we easily spent an hour or more, poring over the thousands of titles. I added to my Jane Austen collection by picking up Emma; not wanting to leave out Toni Morrison, I picked up the never-read-by-moi Sula; Kafka reasserted himself, so I grabbed a volume of his short stories; A totally spontaneous purchase chosen both for the title and the first line, Stephen McCauley's True Enough rounded out my purchases (along with about 6 black and white photograph post cards).

You'd think we were done, but we weren't. Another hour in CD Spins, where I got a used copy of the Jude Law remake of "Alfie," Craig David's (British R& B) "Born to do it," and Erykah Badu's cd single of her song "Tyrone," which tickled me to no end about 8 years ago whenever I heard it.

Rounding out the night at a local BBQ joint, I felt tremendously tired, but also very satisfied to be with two people I love so dearly, knowing we had another full day to explore (and drop more cash).

Sidebar: I must say for the record that Boston has more truly attractive men per city block than any other city I've visited. I probably noticed that on some level two years ago, but I was otherwise engaged where that sort of thing is concerned then, so I wasn't aware of it in the same way I was this time.

It was poignant and significant that we were able to eat ice cream at the shoppe where Sarah and her cousin, the summer she was 13, went (often? a few times?). Her aunt and uncle used to live in a rather large house in Arlington Heights (not very far from C's place in Somerville), which were also able to find and drive by, just up the hill from the ice cream parlor.

On Sunday, the weather that had been tropical the day before, turned bitter and cold. The air snapped and the little rain that did fall was more like hard pellets. After breakfast with a childhood friend of Sarah's (and her husband and baby), Catherine pointed her car in the direction of Rockport, where we knew we would find incredible chowdah. It was somewhat miserable to walk about, but we managed to visit quite a few shops, and posed for several pictures in front of the whitecapped surf (love those Rocky New England beaches).

Sarah was kind enough to buy me some fig & ginger jam at one of the quaint stores. She and Catherine both got these lovely handbags at a place called "Oriental Pearl." I would have purchased one, but I was getting low on dispensible cash by then.

At Ellen's, we each got a bowl of clam chowder and half a blt (I added my leftover zucchini muffin from breakfast to the table for us all to try). We got hot cocoa to go. It scalded, but the heat was comforting in the bitter cold. Sarah finally got her coveted silver claddagh ring.

This morning at 5:30 we rose with our alarms, and made quick work of leaving Catherine's house and Boston under the cover our darkness. And save for several stops to use the bathroom, our trip was uneventful and completely devoid of traffic. We were back in baltimore by 2 p.m., just about 8 hours exactly from when we left.

Why do I feel like Tom Cruise is going to be even more of a pain in the collective ass of the world now that he's procreated with Katie Holmes?

There is a girl in my Tuesday night class who is decidedly awkward. She never speaks unless absolutely necessary. That is to say, I had never once heard her speak until she had to read her short story aloud last night. It was truly funny and finely crafted--and I'm relieved, because I had no indication, one way or the other, about her sensibilities. I thought it possible that an utter lack of sensibillity might be the motivation for her dogged silence.

Oddly enough, those who shared last night were given the option of having someone else read the work. The prof gave her the same option, but she simply said "I prefer to read it." Maybe she just refuses to be complicit, no matter what is at stake.

In any case, she, every week, wears exactly the same thing (0r so it seems). And she holds her long, spindly arms close to her body, which appears to be crooked in the seat. Her fingers are also incredibly long and tapered, the nails clean and manicured. Her glasses are of the thick variety. I have a sense that something horrible happened to this woman, the way she's shut up so tight inside herself, reminding me of gangly bird with twisted wings. A very palpable feeling of disturbance seems to hover over her, but not because of her, but more because of something she's seen or experienced.

She isn't simply reticent. Every ounce of her energy is concentrated on not stirring, not moving a muscle. Having grown up in a household with its own emotional and physical trauma, I recognize that look on another person.

In any case, it will be my turn to share in a couple of weeks (I was going to go next week, but since I'll just be getting back into town, the instructor said I could submit a week or so after that), and I feel woefully outclassed. As a poet, my short stories and vignettes are decidedly weak. And I don't have many to choose from, anyway. Talk about a painful experience for everyone!

Who Can See Me?

I went out to the bus stop at 5:50, as per usual on a Tuesday (or Wednesday) morning. I waited for the 6:00 a.m. bus (that usually doesn't come until 6:04) until about 6:12 before I gave up and went back inside to take a cat nap until it would be time to come out for the next one.

At 6:35 I ventured back outside to wait. It is still more dark than light at that hour, but signs of the city's wakefulness were prevalent. People were out running and jogging, others were walking to their cars, steeling themselves for a frustrating commute. And the garbage truck that services the grand apartment building on the corner was out in all of its maloderous glory. I took my place at the stop.

After a few minutes I noticed one of the garbage men making his way across the street. 'Is he coming to talk to me?' I wondered. He stopped in front of me, and said, without preamble, "What did you do to lose weight?"

Instead of answering him right away, I asked "how do you know I lost weight?" He simply said "I know."

So I told him.

You may recall that I've written before on this type of interaction with my mailman. The main thrust of my comment [in that post] was that he didn't have any hangups about addressing anything as potentially sensitive as weight (with a woman), and that because he and I had a predetermined level of friendliness between us, I wasn't offended. Beyond that, though, I should assert that there are different sets of cultural norms in play, depending upon the person (or people) with whom you are interacting.

The garbage man from this morning and my mailman are both black. Being an overweight woman does not mean the same thing in African American culture that it means in other cultures, not totally. Body image is very differently conceived, though that is not to say that black women are any less negatively affected by the predominant images of beauty.

Anyway. I say all of that to say that these two men, one of whom I know marginally, the other not at all, both felt confident in his right to comment on the evolution of my body. Not in a proprietary or demeaning way. Not in a sexual way. But in an objective, almost fraternal way. I would have assumed that I was invisible to both of these men, who are by and large invisible to me. I assume that I am invisible to most men, not that I even think of it. It hasn't been that conscious until this morning. Most people don't see anything unless they have a reason to see, unless something is pointed out to them.

As the garbage man was making his way back over to his truck, I thought about the mailman, and the bus driver from some months ago who complimented me very specifically and substantively. His appreciation, too, was encouraging, not shaming. Thinking about the bus driver led me to recall the bakery truck driver who waves to me every morning when I'm crossing the street to get to my office...

All of my life, I have wanted a certain type of man to see me, to no avail. But these men, all of them black, all of them service professionals, all of them between the ages of 35 and 55, have no trouble picking me out of a crowd, and noting how I change and when.

I am feeling especially reflective about personal and collective invisibility just now. Having been steeped in Conversations with Toni Morrison, in which that theme keeps repeating.

And lately I have begun to worry that I am going to die old and alone, with no one to see me for who I really am. No one to take note... not "no one." No man, more like.

What does it say, then, that I am seen, but not by the kind of man I want to see me? Is it time to simply go where I am accepted and acceptable?

I've recently decided upon my wintertime reading project. I am going to read the canon of Jane Austen's work, beginning with Pride and Prejudice, which I purchased last night. I've never read any of the books before, and with the exception of "Emma" (and "Clueless"), I've never watched any of the film adaptions. I guess you can count "The Diary of Bridget Jones," since it is based on P&P, but still...

The weekend was characterized by emotional upheaval and busy-ness. I got into bed at about 3:00 a.m. on Saturday morning (the drive back from Philadelphia was lengthened by about 2 hours because of late night traffic). I woke up at 6:45 for Race for the Cure, and all things considered, I was remarkably clearheaded, and my energy was up for the 5k walk. Afterward,
E and I went to the Broadway Diner in Highlandtown, where several other racers were also gathered. Clearly, everyone had the same idea.

(On Friday evening, I had a doozy of an existential crisis. I did not expect it, but I crumbled thinking about Saturday, what was to come...)

Once back home, I slept, albeit a very shallow sleep. At about 2:45 Sarah and I rejoined to hit the mall. I stocked up on the new Bath & Body Works Brown Sugar and Fig fragrance (in body wash, lotion, and spray perfume), and got some hand soaps and pumpkin lotion, too. After that I went to the Naturalizer shoe store to pick up some vintage style granny boots that I'd spied on Thursday when E and I went there prior to the Os game...

I have always loved the school marmish granny boots--loved the severe bun, high collared blouses, and long skirts with ruffles such marms wore. Of course, I wore mine (yesterday) with flare-legged jeans and a black sweater, but it thrills me that I finally have an approximation of these classic shoes. I got them in brown, because brown is the new black. I have that on very good authority.

(I tried bubble tea for the first time. Not quite sure how I feel about it.)

I slept like the dead on Saturday night (stayed over at Sarah's place), but had a disturbing dream in which I lived back in the highrise apartment I occupied when I first moved back to Baltimore 3 years ago.

On Sunday there was the play (a musical) which was quite good, but was difficult for Sarah, because of its theme of recent heartbreak. I thought it would have more of a comedic bent. Comedy and tragedy are only a hair apart, but it's a definitive hair, I suppose.

Take me out to the ball game (again)...

E e-mailed me yesterday afternoon with a crisis. 4 free tickets to the last Os game of the season and her friends had bailed. Was I interested?

After traveling with her to Owings Mills to pick up our Race For The Cure T-shirts for Saturday's race, we made our way back down to Camden Yards to see our beloved birds play the Yankees. As was the case with the Red Sox game last Friday night, there were more New Yorkers (or at least New York fans) than Baltimoreans. The section I sat in was easily 90% Blue and White (as opposed to Orange and Black)...

sidebar: These days, of course, you can get your team's isignia on hats and shirts of any colour or design, so you can't always take the colour-recogntion at face value.

I had been fairly warned that Yankees fans are, by and large, a problematic, unpleasant group. I'm happy to say that the people around me were good-natured. In no way obnoxious. It was beautiful, people, to see Os fans and Yankees supporters engaging in light banter. Up to the right of me, there was a truly obnoxious baltimoron all decked out in Os paraphenalia that was suffered gladly by the enclave Yankee fans near him.

Which is not to say that there weren't problems. At one point about 12 cops came into the stands (to the far left of where I was) and escorted some less than exemplary stadium goers out of the place.

All things considered, I preferred this crowd to the Bostonians from last week. It's all about where you sit, though. The toxic, rabid nature of the fans near me last Friday night produced some nasty vibes, even though nothing unpleasant happened, I was keenly aware of that.

The highlight for me:

Getting a pink Os cap on my way into the ballpark for 5 bucks!

"...it's gonna be so great; it's gonna be just like my wedding day..." (Rosie Thomas)

Prologue: Random day in 1986

At the age of 13, I looked at a calendar to pick the date of my future wedding. Having 365 days at my disposal, I scanned the months and settled on the one that smells like smoky apples, sweet wood, bread baking and honey & spices... the month of longing and fulfillment.
I had a perverse need to flout the trappings of convention, too, so no weekend wedding for me. October 1st, 2001. A Monday.

October 1st, 2001:

Sarah and I were on the Bar Harbor Whale Watch tour. Every single person on the boat heaved over the railings, blue from the cold. Most of us missed the one whale who made an appearance. At the height of my personal misery, I remembered that I should be doing something else that day... what was it? My 13-year old-self whispered to me "Today's the day you were going to get married." "Oh yeah," I nodded. "sorry I let you down, kid; I know this isn't what you had in mind."

October 1st, 2003:

A dear friend of mine and her intended marry. It strikes me again, the possibility that exists on the first day of the month, the strength of beginning a venture right at the beginning.

Late September, 2005:

This year I expected to be robbed of the fall, just a bit. Another wedding, I know, is to take place. The last I heard, "sometime in November." And of all that is painful about this wedding, the blows were somewhat dulled by November, the mere vestiges of Autumn... things begin to take on graying shades. It is the first of the bleak months.

I am haunted by so much...I have always envisioned being a fall bride, walking on a carpet of rain-slicked leaves toward him, inherently certain of my footing...

When the unfortunate news of this wedding broke, the 13 year-old I used to be was silent, defeated. So I reasoned with her irrational silence. For God's sake, we don't own the fall, do we? Anyone can get married anytime they want...

Yesterday, through convoluted circumstances, I stumbled upon a vague piece of intelligence. I turned it over in my mind, knowing what it meant, but choosing to refrain from apprehending, fully, the knowledge of it.

I believe in fate. I knew, as I have known so many other disastrous truths, that it would find me out if it was indeed what I believed it was.

Tonight at the gym (I nearly talked myself out of going), I saw reflected in the glass Gordon's former roommate. I suppose I could have averted my eyes, not made eye contact with him, maybe he would have missed me (life always comes down to split second events, have you noticed?)... but I know I willed him to look at me. In the narrative of my life, I know operatives, foreshadowing (I saw this guy last week, too, but that night he stayed outside the gym and did not enter, just suddenly pivoted, deciding on a dime not to come in. I was on the same elliptical machine then that I chose tonight.), and irony when I see them. I knew what he was doing there.

"So are you going on Saturday?"

I asked him to repeat himself to stall for time.

"What are you doing on Saturday?"

"Race for the Cure."

"Oh, I thought you'd be going to Gordon's wedding."

"No. I'm not."

"So, Race for the cure, huh? That's great..."

The familiar heat of grief rose to the surface of my skin. I wondered how it is that everything I chose for myself, even before I knew Gordon, could be stolen this way.

It's as though I live in a house that was burglarized, thoroughly decimated, and then the thief came back to see me standing there surveying the damage, saying, almost apologetically, "whoops, I almost forgot this!" smiling in relief as he picks up the one item I thought had been spared.

So I gave myself one option. Stay on this machine. Do not get off until your 50 minutes are up; you are not slinking off anywhere in despair. Run on. See what the end will be.

I'm right here!

I've not abandoned you, pumpkins! Just been buried under a mound of reading and editing... and when I've not been doing that, I've been cavorting with the Sarah-one. Our stop at Normal's on Sunday yielded me this treasure for a mere 4 dollars. Having recently finished The Jane Austen Book Club, I started it immediately, and it has done more to fuel my imagination, and has fired more of the coals in my fingers for writing and artistic expression than anything else has in a very long time. I love listening to or reading about an artist's thoughts on her work. I have some thoughts percolating that I'll talk about later (they're too new and tenuous to go into just now), but I can tell you this: My life's work is going to be revolutionized.

The non-stop/gotta-go parade continues. On Friday, I'm heading up to Philly with Sarah to see this lady, on Saturday morning, I will be Racing for the Cure, and on Sunday, a matinee at the Everyman Theatre. Between those two things, on Saturday evening, a nice family dinner with Sarah and her parents in DC. They are always so great about letting me tag along on their family outings to shwanky restaurants.

What a great morning! I'm listening to india.arie's debut, Acoustic Soul, enjoying the Hopperesque light of this hour.

I have never seen so many bostonians outside of boston as I did last night at Camden Yards. Accents aside, it was just clear from the cold-weathered skin, the demeanor, the affect of 90% of the people around me that I was sitting in enemy territory on home turf.

The Red Sox gave us a beating (the hits just keep coming for the Os on and off the field), no doubt, and I know Bo Sox fans are still on the high from their landmark series win last year, so there was no competing with their momentum.

The highlight of the game for me is when I turned around and engaged a guy and his buddies on the Sox/Yankees rancor. He was taken slightly aback to have to actually give a reason for this deep-seated, inherited hatred. He said (goodnaturedly) "What? the Os don't have a rival?" I assured him that we did (the Yankees, actually, are our rival, but they so far outdistance us, that it's an insult to them for us to say that). In any case, this kid, God bless him, has no reason for hating the Yanks so much. They're just "an evil empire." It was fun, I have to admit, to say to him "...but it goes so deep, can you talk to me about that?"

I'm just going to state it right now for the record. I in no way hate the Yankees. I have mad love for that ball club, because they are good, and the very fact that they inspire such unadulterated hatred says better than anything else just how much a threat people perceive them to be. But you are reading the girl who, once in 1998, wore a Yankees hat to an Os home game. Just my way of shaking things up a bit.... The irony of this? I'm not even a baseball woman. If I had to pick a sport, It'd be football all the way.

I'm on my way out to a women's prayer brunch. If there are anecdotes from this event, I'll share them!

The Week In Review

Monday: I don't remember, except that I went to the gym. Wore a shirt to work that is reminiscent of a mixed berry smoothie. Oh! wait! My bedding arrived.

Tuesday: The Jolt!

Wednesday: A poor showing from Professor Genteel (PG, hereafter) who made comments on my poem all based on a misreading of its intention. Admittedly by him, not my fault, but due to his own poor reading. I still like his manner, but he's a loose cannon. His syllabus, finally given to us on the third week of class, is a paragraph long. He's obviously an INFP.

Thursday: At work, I lent my voice to the recording of some more of our online lessons. After work, a Graduate Christian Fellowship Dinner. The hosts sent everyone home with leftovers. I went to the gym afterward. They live on Pastel row, apparently the most photographed street in Baltimore. Why didn't I know this?

Friday: Am wearing a new sweater (the black one) that can only be described as sexy. More recording of lessons. The young gentleman engineer in our, um, "studio," may have a little thing for me... or for the sweater. It's hard to tell. This thing is so flattering even other women are commenting, but they don't know what it is... "did you get a new lipstick or something?" No, dahlings. It's the sweater!

Friday night: An Os game.... I'll post about that later, if I get the chance. I will be stone occupado all weekend!

Exquisite

I finished Beloved this morning. I know this from reading The Bluest Eye, Song of Solomon, and Love, but it must be said again for the record. Toni Morrison's prose employs such a staggering, masterful overtone of the best lyrical poetry there is...anywhere.

I am very much looking forward to exploring her technique(s) for affecting a distinct voice in her narrative in class.

My new lamp and bedding arrived yesterday! Remarkable, since they shipped on Friday afternoon. Now I'm waiting for a few various and sundries, of which these two are the only fun things (I also got an additional sheet set and some new sleeping pillows).

Oh, I also got new curtains from Pier 1 on Saturday afternoon....for 9 dollars, total! They were having a major "Bedroom Sale." While there, I couldn't resist their seasonal candles. I got a pillar, a huge round, some votives, and tea lights all in the pumpkin bread scent (so that I have a cohesive olfactory autumn theme going in the house).

Thanks to Sarah's mother's generosity, I am wearing a new ribbed sweater--I'm having a hard time deciding what the blue is--it is light, but somewhat electric. Definitely not pale blue. Anyway, it suits me. She found it, never worn, in her closet, and thought I might like it. It's not one of the hues on my personal palette, but it works. Cut and texture often have a lot to do with these things...

Am more than half way through "Beloved." It's actually the third or fourth book on the syllabus for class, but I want to keep the momentum I have going. Am really anxious to start "The Jane Austen Book Club," which Sarah bought at a White Elephant sale (at her job).

On the horizon: An Os game on Friday; A Chile party on Saturday!

Reclaiming the Apartment

The weekend was productive. That is to say, I dropped some cash... on necessary things like food and clothes (either washing them or purchasing them). Friday night, I did four loads of laundry (including towels and linen), but since all of the machines in my building were available, time-wise, it was the equivalent of one load.

Saturday was a big grocery shopping day for both Sarah and myself. She stayed with me through last night, but in preparation for reclaiming her own living space, she decided to stock up on food stuffs. A new Trader Joe's opened in her neck of the woods. We headed there after buying a few basics at Whole Foods. I will shop at almost any grocery store, but I'm finding more and more that I have developed brand loyalty to many items that I can only find at specialty stores like the ones I mentioned. I'm also accustomed to produce that isn't bruised and old-looking. Having shopped a bit mid-week, I didn't buy much in the way of food-food on Saturday, but I stocked up on things like balsamic vinegar and spices.

During the afternoon, A long-time friend of Sarah's met us over at Sarah's apartment. We had a light snack with her, Sarah caught her up on the latest, and we eventually made our way back to my place so that I could walk Babygirl, who had been alone for several hours by that point. My guilt and anxiety were pretty intense because I knew she was perplexed and upset at us being gone for such a long stretch like that. It was quadrupled b/c I knew that after her walk, I'd be leaving her again for an evening outing.

Just as her days with me were drawing to a close, she started to get used to the people in my building. She's been barking to a significantly lesser degree lately, which has eased my stress about being out with her. Anyway, Sarah and her friend waited at the One World while Baby and I ran the paces and bonded a bit.

Then, after another delicious meal at the OW, the three of us headed over to see these guys (thanks to Sarah's impetus). It was a tremendously fun evening. Once back at home, I cuddled and kissed Bg within an inch of her life. She reveled.

On Sunday morning, I woke at 6 (per the usual on weekends) and took Babygirl out for a very leisurely walk (40 minutes!) to commemorate her last morning with me. Because it was early enough, and no other dog walkers were out and about, we trekked over to campus, and celebrated our time together by tromping through new grass and really doing it up right.

About two hours later, Sarah and I had a quick breakfast, then headed out to Lane Bryant (the place where I will soon be unable to shop) to buy some necessities (like more shirts/sweaters) because I had hella coupons from them, and If I didn't use them, it would be the equivalent of losing 100 dollars' worth of free stuff/savings.

First we stopped at Sarah's place and dropped off the lion's share of the things she'd had with her at my place, then over to the store where I got two new shirts, two new sweaters, etc. I learned from my mother that morning that she didn't have any ready cash to buy the doggie any food, so I stopped off at the store to get our little Bg a mammoth bag of Kibbles 'N Bits, then back home to do one little "etc." load of laundry, and to bond with Baby for a few more hours while Sarah worked on a freelance project (I wanted her on hand to say goodbye to Bg, who has come to adore her).

My mom and her friend showed up at about 4:45. Bg about had a conniption, so excited was she to see the two of them. Fortunately, we'd already had our second, and final walk together, so it wasn't too jarring for me when they corralled her things and her into the car (after visiting for about an hour, I guess). She was confused, I could tell, about why I was not getting in the car with her...

I later learned from my mom that she whimpered for me for a significant bit of the ride home, but I know she was torn. My mother is really her home, and as soon as she got inside my mom's townhouse, she immediately knew where she was, and seemed happy.

I spent the evening dusting, polishing furniture, and sweeping up mounds of dog hair. I'll probably get the last of it right in time for Bg to visit me for the weekend in late November when my mom next goes out of town...

I went to collect Minas's painting Memory Lapse, and to give him the money for this abstract piece that reminds me of a series of grenades exploding. A kind of chaotic order. I think I've found a place for it.

Stopping in at Atomic Books (see their linked blog under the "Strictly Baltimore" section on the right), I also procured this beauty. Next, I may get her companion action figure. But... I passed him on this go round because I got this instead.

After our Hampden jaunt, Sarah and I met up with a friend and coworker of hers at the illustrious One World Cafe. I had garlic risotto cakes with zucchini and green tea (later, though, I was so chilly that I ordered a hot chai). Sarah's friend J was feeling brave enough to meet BabyG, so we took her up to the apartment. It took all of about 30 seconds for BG to decide that she loved, loved, loved this new visitor.

Just before bedtime, I got online and ordered new bedding and other accoutrements from target.com. I didn't remember curtains, but it's just as well. It's not the end of the world, and it may be better to pick those out in person (I'd already seen the bed-in-a-bag that I purchased at the store, so I know I like it) anyway.