All My Friends

What does one do, think, feel, say, dream, hope, want after one's father has died? The sympathy and love of my friends is hemming me in on every side. Even a friend that I thought lost to me proved able to be there, to offer what he could when I needed it most.

People, I have this one thing to tell you. The cliches are all true. Life is too short. It [whatever grudge you're nursing] isn't worth it. You shouldn't ever go to bed angry. Love is the answer.

In all of my writing workshops I'm always counseled to avoid, at all costs, anything that smacks of an overtly redemptive moment in my poems. Redemption is not interesting enough, not when it's obvious, I suppose. This suddenly strikes me as being ridiculous. As if nothing is valid unless cloaked in irony. What has irony done for me, lately?

But my friends... oh, my friends. Well, winter, spring, summer, or fall... you know the rest.

Good-bye

We waited for hours to hear someone with some medical authority tell us what we knew in our hearts. My father is gone. But I was there to tell him that what I wanted most for him now is peace. I believe he has it at last. And I have no doubt that he loved me. I have no doubt that I loved him. By God's grace, he knows I loved him, too. Thank you God that he did not go until you had made things right between us.

From what I heard from my sister, my mother, and friends of his, the last three days of his life, he laughed so much. He was happy.

Redemption

My stepfather, the only father I know, really, has suffered a massive stroke. There has been significant internal bleeding of the brain. The doctors feel that they have done all they can. He is on life support. The last time I saw him was one month ago today at his mother's funeral. The last time I talked to him was on my birthday. He called me. I was so happy to hear from him. And the last two times I've seen him, I was truly glad to be able to hug him tight and call him daddy.

I don't know when I forgave him. It snuck up on me...happened while I was doing something else, thinking something else. I saw him at my middle sister's graduation in Vermont last May and simply realized that I loved him. After all of everything, I loved him.

This relationship with my father is the most pointed living metaphor of Christ's forgiveness that I have experienced. And through it I understand, at last, what I've heard in countless sermons. Forgiveness is not saying that what was done does not matter, that it did not happen. It's certainly not saying that what happened is okay. It does take time. It is a long, aggressive process. I did not forgive my father by accident. I prayed through the emotional trauma of his mistakes. I prayed for God's help to see my father through His eyes. And in some quiet, unchronicled moment, the answer I'd been praying to, became the truth of the situation.

To forgive is to reinstate the guilty party to a place of relationship in some instances (though not possible in all), to willfully decide that you remove the burden from yourself of trying to exact payment for what was stolen. Mercy.

When I saw past my father's anger to his soul, when I understood that he was just a man who had been dogged by fear, his own father's rage, and a crippling sense of shame all of his life, I felt compassion for him. When it was clear to me that he was... is... truly penitent, I reopened my heart to him.

This forgiveness was just as much for me as it was for him. You cannot hold someone a prisoner in bitterness without also imprisoning yourself. My mother said it best when she told me that there was a point at which, after acknowledging just how badly she and my father messed things up that I would have to decide how the rest of my life will play out.

Okay. Yes. We were wrong. I messed up, he messed up, but now it's on you. Now what are you going to do....

This is probably the wisest counsel my mother has given me in the last 10 years. Now what was I going to do, indeed?

I decided that it was too easy to choose the old, worn path of unmitigated rage.

The prognosis is not good. All medical things being equal, my father will probably not live. But I am prepared to let him go, with tears, certainly, but mostly with love. Finally.

Planned Outage

About a week and a half ago, BGE sent out a letter to all of the occupants of my building, at least, letting us know that starting at as close to 11 p.m. as possible, we would lose power for approximately 8 hours on Monday, September 25th.

In answer to this, a little celebration has been planned. A blackout party at a bar not far from where I work, actually, is being sponsored by some residents. One drink and snack, gratis. What a tremendous idea! I would be more inclined to go if I didn't have class tomorrow night... but the thought of leaving work, going to class, then heading back in that direction is completely unappealing. Normally, I'm in bed by 11 anyway... but this is the very kind of thing I've been wanting to challenge myself to do more often. To be more open to doing.

Once again this thesis class, as an idea, is annoying to me and really just taking up way too much of my emotional energy, which should be going into my thesis. I just remembered an assignment I have to do for class tomorrow night. Ugh!

I did manage to have a breakthrough with Nietzsche today. The point, for me, is to read the works that have been chosen as the focus of my Independent Study as a means of contextualizing my own work. Until today, I didn't know what the footbridge between my work and this novel/philosophical treatise could possibly be (and I was prepared for the fact that there might not be one). It actually goes back to the idea of sublimation--and Nietzsche's utter rejection of sublimation of the soul (I don't know that he would say "soul"). My poems all, in one way or another, are about the desire to reject the sublimation of motives and desire, in the context of my relationships.

It felt like a reward for hanging in there.

I had a lovely evening with V prior to Catchka's arrival (we talked on Thursday about her coming back to spend the night on Friday) last night. V and I went to the Owl Bar and both got the pecan-encrusted Mahi Mahi with banana risotto special and just caught up on the latest. C and I just hung out and watched "Something New" on DVD while snacking on M&Ms.

We got up this morning and went over to XS for breakfast then walked around Mt. Vernon for a bit. We sat in one of the dog parks and watched a Yoga Al Fresco session in progress. This guy that I had been thinking was somewhat attractive as I saw him approaching stopped and asked me in this complete stoner voice "Hey, where did you get your coffee at?" Kinda funny. Eventually Catchka and I made our way back to where her car was parked so she could push off and I could push on to my hair appointment.

I feel so much better about myself now! I'd had to cancel my last couple of appointments for one reason or another, and my tresses desperately needed some chemical treatment. It was just a bad scene that was getting worse by the minute. I am not one of those women who enjoys my hair in its natural, more "textured" state. I'll take a relaxer, thanks.

Right after a salon visit I always think about the intimacy of letting a relative stranger wash my hair. How it is a kind of intimacy, even though in the context of a service... how willingly we all submit to this. Sure, it's a necessity, part of the process, but such a gentle, tender thing. Under any other circumstance, we would never allow anyone other than a lover to touch us in such a basic, yet profound way.

Normally, my stylist washes my hair, but today her new assistant did the job. And this person, with whom I have no familiarity whatsoever, was able to communicate to me through subtle touches and shifts when it was time to raise or lower my head, or turn, slightly. I was reminded about the healing properties of human contact. Something happens when someone else handles your hair, the crown of your head. It's a vulnerable, noble time for the recipient. A ministration received. A good stylist is a shaman.

Well, it seemed like a good idea...

The Ice Cream Sandwich Diet Root Beer Float. But Catchka and I didn't quite get the ice cream sandwich to diet root beer ratio right. I think two ice cream sandwiches and regular root beer next time. It needed to be creamier.

The premiere of "Grey's Anatomy" was well done. Who's surprised? I had to do a little work to care about the bubonic plague epidemic--which now that I think of it was utterly superfluous, but other than that, bravo!

I did something I never do. I ordered a meatball sub from Subway for dinner. Now I remember why I don't prefer those.

Here's to tomorrow. Here's to a more flawless execution of ideas, both great and small.

Nietzsche by Candlelight

I made an irrevocable date with Friedrich for this evening. I've taken a new tack. Because "Zarathustra" is broken, naturally, into self-sustained sections, I removed the pressure I put on myself to read the work sequentially. I gave myself permission to jump ahead and back to sections as my interest dictates, and I've read a good bit of it as a result.

After I lit some candles, made a little cocktail, and put the TV on, I settled into a nook in the couch and read for pages and pages. I need to have a lot going on at once or I'm easily distracted. I know that sounds weird, but if I try to read to the backdrop of perfect silence, it can be disastrous.

Still pondering sex, spiritually, philosophically, etc. The desire is connected to someone in particular--even though the overall change in my ability to "deal" is a factor, it's also charged by a specific connection I feel with this person. Funny, I ended up editing a health piece on STDs for work today. That sobered me right up... well, not totally, but I also find that my ability to be honest, in this space, has helped to diffuse things a bit. I appreciated, so much, hearing from those of you who commented.

On the horizon? A hair appointment for Saturday late morning... but before that... a visit with the illustrious Catchka!

Sublimating...

Is something I've become practiced at. My faith requires it. There is nothing wrong with temperance, obviously, but what do you do when your instinctual desires outrun your ability to repurpose primitive urges? One can only go so long, perhaps, before one's humanness is simply too much of a contender for one's spiritual platitudes to hold up.

Of course, sometimes in order to redirect one overwhelming, persistent preoccupation we choose another obsession. Allow me to make this more specific. I do these things. I struggle, more and less successfully with my own will. Mostly intellectually, in the seat of my mind, where all battles begin and are lost and won.

Christ really upped the ante. He moved the concept of sinfulness from our actions to our hearts (our thought life). Believers in Christianity are exhorted to present [our] bodies as living sacrifices, to be transformed by the renewing of [our] minds, to take every thought captive. We know that we are prone to sin, but believe that Christ in us is the one who overcomes our sinful nature.

There are days when I wonder if I know Christ at all. Can I say that I know him, love him, want life on his terms more than I want them on my own? If I'm being honest, I can't say that all the time. I can't say that most of the time. Not because I don't believe the gospel, intellectually, but I see that my life does not comply with the things he said. And I see that this is my unspoken choice. How can I say I believe something if my default reaction is to privilege myself and my instincts above the precepts of my faith?

This is at once troubling to me and something I am not nearly concerned enough about. I am worried because I'm not worried. Does this make sense to anyone else?

I am posting this, not because I have some burden of guilt to confess, but because I think a light needs to be shone on the issue of a woman's sexuality and her awareness thereof, particularly after a certain age. It is hard to hold it together past a certain point. That point being the one in which your body seems to have a mind of its own--when all of your internal mechanisms seem to be conspiring against you to one end. Fulfillment.

Out of respect for the institution of marriage, out of respect for the sanctity of sex, I have refrained. At the age of 33, I am outward abstinence personified. And I'm not just talking about the letter of the law, I mean the spirit. Nothing. Nada. There have always been periods of difficulty, but they have been manageable, for the most part.

Something has shifted. I am having a greater degree of difficulty conceiving of a proverbial wedding night. I am far too pragmatic for that at my age. In the last year I've come to accept that I may be one of those people who doesn't marry--and not because I have the "gift" of celibacy, either. I have revisited several constructs I once took for granted.

This is not sour grapes. I'm not trying to prepare for the worst by saying I don't want it, or I knew it wouldn't happen. I believe it's entirely possible that I will get married. I just also understand, now, that marriage isn't the end of everything, and is by no means a safeguard for the future.

God made me a sexual being. That is supposed to give me comfort--the newfound urgency of my desires is no shock to him. Yet, he set parameters.

What I'm saying is that for as much as I respect the idea of those boundary lines, there are no longer any romantic, affected notions of piety attached to them--none that feel strong enough at present to keep me inside.

I know plenty of Christians who have not waited. For a long time I was incredulous. God's laws are so plain--so categorical--on this point, I thought. I see now that part of my success in abstaining has had less to do with the superiority of my will and more to do with the lack of a legitimate opportunity. How great a victory is it, then?

There are no answers. I'm just hanging on by a very thin thread.

Vibing

Class was better tonight, and that was in large part due to the fact that I decided it would be better. There were still moments when I felt that some of the exercises were elementary, but it bothered me less. Of course I knew I would be meeting with my advisor afterward-- a meeting I knew I would find much more liberating and engaging, artistically speaking--so perhaps it helped me to know that.

In any case, I handed off my thesis and we talked about the process in the context of my Independent Study. But we also just talked. And that was wonderful. I always feel so connected to the deepest part of myself when talking about the world through the lens of writing. We agreed about the romanticism of train travel, and when I told him that over the last year or so I had come to embrace rap and hip-hop (in the past I felt that I had to distance myself from anything ostensibly culturally black in the interest of not being pigeon-holed), he asked me for recommendations. So I'm going to burn him a few CDs.

We meet again in two weeks. So I need to plow through Thus Spake...

In a good head space...

I was able to leverage my time yesterday to achieve everything I wanted to achieve. I returned the books to the library, got some light grocery shopping done, then devoted some real time to my thesis (revisions). I definitely feel better about handing in the first draft tonight. I even managed to work through some more of Thus Spake Zarathustra, so my meeting with my advisor, who's also my Independent Study instructor, should be productive.

I need to leave soon for the office, and I don't really have a handle on what work will be like today, but I take comfort in knowing that I'm as prepared as I can be. I left the office with nothing unfinished on Friday, so I can take on a new task first thing. Hope the day flies by. I'm anxious to get to the evening. I'm going to try to be more positive about this class...

The mangoes' cloying sweetness is permeating the apartment. No matter what, I need to cut into them today. John Coltrane's "A Love Supreme" suite is the backdrop to my morning coffee and oatmeal.

Sarah and I had a pretty fun time browsing shops on Thames street yesterday. We started out with no clear agenda for hanging out, but after tossing several ideas back and forth, ended up in Fells Point (an area one might do well to avoid on a balmy Saturday, as people are always out in droves). We went to the Natty Boh Gear store and got a couple of Boh stickers (not that either of us are big consumers of the Boh; it's a Baltimore thing) and into Su Casa, a hip, eclectic furniture and home goods store; Later we got ice cream at Maggie Moo's before heading over to Sound Garden where I scored Mos Def and Talib Kweli's "Blackstar" album. The clerk actually said that it gave him a warm feeling to know that I was purchasing the second greatest Hip Hop album of all time...

Today, after I return some books to the library and do some light marketing, I hunker down with Nietzsche and try to make sense of it all. Oh, and do something more than just stare at the collection of poems that make up my thesis. I have to turn in two copies of the first draft tomorrow.

I have been conducting an experiment for the last week. I have been leaving my bed unmade in the mornings to see if my sleep would be better. It has been. I haven't left my house without at least pulling the covers up in years. Something about getting back into a rumpled bed at the end of the day was so defeatist, not to mention slovenly.

Last week I decided that my need to make the bed every day before leaving had become more an indication of how regimented and unrelenting I can be. So on Monday I got out of bed and did no pulling up of covers, no plumping of pillows, decorative or utility, and went to work without a second thought. When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I had the sensation of actually having slept (which had been elusive, in spite of having a new, more comfortable bed). Not making the bed also saved me about 5 minutes (negligible, really), so I continued this throughout the week. Every night's rest was so perfect!

But this morning, I took one look at my wrinkled covers and strewn pillows and decided that enough is enough. So the bed is made and it satisfies my desire to have everything just so, but I have discovered the object lesson, I believe.

When I didn't make the bed, I was completely willing to use the whole bed, sleep dead center, then migrate back to my preferred side, the left, as I chose to. When I do make my bed every day, I force myself to sleep in one position all night so as not to disturb the hospital corners on the other sides.

Hmmm...

Leaning Tower of Leftovers

E and I planned to meet up at Sammy's Trattoria (The place to eat in Mt. Vernon) for a plate of the delectable calamari and ended up, thanks to E's characteristic generosity, feasting on breaded chicken cutlets topped with jumbo lump crab. I ordered a glass of finely balanced, full-bodied, but divinely unassuming (yet completely consuming) Syrah. Because the calamari had been the point of our outing (catching up, a given) we put the lion's share of our energy into enjoying it. The chicken and crab came with a side of pasta (I got the penne with garlic and olive oil), most of which I have to heat up or repurpose as I choose.

Meeting with E is always a conversational feast as well. Most of her anecdotes begin with "Did I tell you about....?" In many cases "the disastrous date I had" is the phrase that takes up residence in place of those ellipses.

Am listening to June Christy sing "Something Cool." The quintessential smoky-voiced jazz vocalist was underappreciated while she lived. I think I'll put on a pot of decaf and do some more work on my thesis. I meet with my advisor on Monday after my class and it would be nice if I had actually made some more progress.

Every year, as soon as it starts to feel like Fall, I make a music mix to reflect how I'm feeling at the onset of the season. The word "leaves" is usually somewhere in the title. A couple of years ago it was Vintage Leaves (Volumes 1 and 2). But this year, as I'm right on the brink of finishing the grad program, I decided to name it after a quote by the eminently quotable Ralph Waldo Emerson. "Sometimes a sceam is better than a thesis."

So, it is the Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis: Fall Compilation. I'm pleased with myself. I managed to get, in a very seamless progression, the likes of both 50 Cent and Shawn Colvin on this playlist.

Oh So Dreamy (the one in the center)

I've mentioned my love for the man before. His new album Continuum has done nothing but substantiate my appreciation for his artistry. The song "Vultures" is my favourite so far, but the whole collection is tantamount to one incredibly sensual experience.

Just Another Wednesday Night...

I have created a character for a poem series. She is known simply as "The Hapless Spinster." I suppose she's a take-off on any number of single women in their early 30s depicted more and less successfully in literature and film. An amalgam. I understand the temptation some of you may have to think of her as me. She and I have some things in common, to be sure, but her voice is distinctly different from mine. She's much more low-brow and doesn't like to put on airs, which I have to cop to liking to put on, at least occassionally.

The Hapless Spinster would call this "just another Wednesday night." I was tempted to title this post "Negotiating Loneliness." I assure you. I am not having an identity crisis...it was just to illustrate the point.

I feel a degree of success in having even attempted a character series by way of poetry. It's one of the specific ways the cross-pollination of poetry and fiction that I have sought to privilege as part of my grad school education bears fruit in my own writing.

Anyway, when I say "loneliness," I don't want you to envision someone moping while eating chocolate with the television permanently on the Lifetime (Television for Women) channel, hoping for a better life. The picture of loneliness is far less pedantic than that. Even ironically, unlonely looking.

It's one woman (in my case) who is happy with her job, finally feels like she's coming into her own, has made as much peace as possible with her regrets... who laughs a lot these days, who has a respectful social life (though not a romantic one, specifically, at this point), who is good at her job, and has far less to apologize for than she thought she did. Loneliness is not simply the desire to have romance. It's the understanding that the Bible has it right when it says "two are better than one...if two lie down together they can keep warm, but how can one keep warm alone?"

You've heard me say this before. I like my space. a lot. But I also love the thought of someone wanting to draw near. This is a want I've learned to negotiate in the absence of fulfillment of that want. I don't feel sorry for myself, but I can acknowledge that on some Wednesday nights, here and there, I think of a scenario if which I tell someone in particular all about my day. Someone who wants to hear about it.

There are times when I am painfully aware of the help I don't have by virtue of being single. I do all the heavy lifting in my life, and while I do look forward to a consuming passion someday, sometimes it's just about wishing someone was there to help me get the groceries inside.

Downloading the latest version of iTunes and updating my iPod took significantly longer than I thought it would. All I wanted to do was redeem the iTunes gift card I received a week ago and was immediately prompted to update software. It was well worth it, but so much for getting right to the market after work and then starting some work on my thesis. I had no idea the software would automatically "analyze" my entire library for gapless playback something or other... Once I was committed though, I had to see it through to the end.

By the time my prefab "jambalaya" was ready I was ravenous, so I started eating while the food was way too hot and scalded my taste buds. It's 13 minutes till 10 and I've done no work. I always underestimate the time these techy tasks will take. How's that for alliteration?

I'm steeping a mug of tea and am finally decompressing. I can't justify going to bed until I collapse my thesis files, so I guess I should get to it.

Lest Kate Krupnik forgets...

because it's not like anecdotes about being hit on by quasi intoxicated men ever cease to be funny. So, yesterday morning while I waited at the Lightrail stop, listening to the 33rd Birthday Collage playlist I'd assembled, this man in a gold Ravens jersey motioned for me to take out my earphones. I felt slightly put out immediately, but tried not to show it.

Quasi intoxicated man [bobbing and weaving]: Good morning
Kate Krupnik [indulgently]: Good morning.

Then I replaced my earbuds.

Quasi intoxciated man: [getsturing with an inkpen and sheet of paper he'd suddenly materialized]

Kate Krupnik: [shaking her head no in polite decline of either a) giving her phone number or b) accepting his]

Quasi intoxicated man: I just wanted to tell you you're sexy. I had to give you your props.
Kate Krupnik: Thank you [replaced earphones once again].

At this point I tried to do the body language thing. You know the stance that says "this conversation is over"? Well the quasi intoxicated gentleman was not familiar. Not to be so easily deterred he went on to motion for me to remove my earphones three more times.

Quasi intoxicated man: I like your accent
Kate Krupnik [slighly more intrigued than put out at this point]: I haven an accent?
Quasi intoxicated man: Well, I can hear it-- I mean it's not Baltimore... that's all I'm saying.

So I thanked him and wondered where on earth that train could be.

Quasi intoxicated man [motioning for me to remove the music from my ears yet again]: What I'm trying to say is I like the sound [more bobbing and weaving].

Finally, the Lightrail made an appearance on the tracks. The clang-clang-clanging of its arrival interrupted what was not an altogether unpleasant event. I mean, the utter unsuitable nature of this man as a true contender for my heart aside, I immediately started thinking about the blog post I would write. Not bad for a Monday Morning.

Well, well, well... what have we here?

Hornet's nest? maybe. So I'm not quite sure what all is going to be kicked up in light of recent events (and those in the know, know, and that's that), but I have a feeling there will be, um, how do you say... implications....

Or. maybe I'm just a drama queen afterall.

Now then. moving on. I went to the first meeting of the thesis class. Hmmm... how do you say waste of time? Okay. my attitude sucks. I'm too punchy, and I'm feeling all "Mary, Mary quite contrary" about it. It seems that we will be rehearsing our selections for the end of the semester reading. Something about this just screams 11th grade AP English. Or. no. more like tryouts for a grammar school play.

Okay. Do I even need to mention that we have four things to do for next week? I'm starting to feel overwhelmed. Someone get me a paperbag. I seriously need to hyperventilate.

In other news, I left my keys at work. Because I went right to class afterward, I didn't notice till about 9 tonight when I was standing in the lobby of my building desperately, frantically searching my bag, hoping against hope for the sound of that familiar jingle. On the upside, the property manager lives onsite, so I was tucked safely in my place inside of three minutes after I called her.

Well, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of homework to do suddenly...

Commemoration /Acknowledgment

I know how important today is... to remember. To think on. To not let myself become hardened toward or forgetful about. And I do. I acknowledge all of it. I remember it all. But I also wanted to wish my younger sister a happy 23rd birthday, to acknowledge her, publicly. This day should also be about every moment of life and I am so glad that she's here, alive, with me.

Lighting

The buying frenzy continues. Ever go through a period during which you need several core items all at once and also happen to have the means to procure these things? That particular twain hardly ever meets in my life, but courtesy of another birthday gift card I was able to get two more lamps for my apartment today. My place, being significantly old (um, I meant "vintage") doesn't have much in the way of overhead lights--which is fine with me, but it does mean that I have to invest in other, ambient light sources. Fortunately, I caught some great clearance items. Exciting, I know.

Sarah and I attempted to have a "working coffee" this afternoon, but I was too hyped up on caffeine to really focus on Neitzsche--and kept distracting her from her reading with inane questions and "observations," so we cut it short and went out for a late lunch of crepes at Sofia's on Charles Street.

Now, being back in my nest, I'm rushing about doing laundry, getting in some much-needed e-mailing, setting up lamps, and obsessing about what I need to do at work tomorrow. That 4th cup of joe really sent me over the edge, I think.

At some point, if I ever calm down, I'll post something meaningful. These pedantic updates are getting tired, even for me...

Anonymity...

is only rewarding when someone is actually trying to find out who you are. I'm not the first writer to conceive of herself as a character in the unfolding events of her life. Philip Roth comes to mind as one contemporary who has done this far more successfully than I could ever do.

This blog began because I wanted to tell the truth of my life without fear of that truth being found out. Something of a cross purpose, wouldn't you say? I loved, but wanted to hide that love under a bushel because I knew it could not, would not be returned. Or later, because I was enamored of the concept of a me that had splintered off from my primary personage, who was me, yet also something more, something different.

How successful is a literary construct once the lid has been lifted? It depends, I guess.

Unrelated. I named the iPod. It's a boy, I feel. His name is Kafka. I am so predictable.

I've started reading Thus Spake Zarathustra...

and i'm not quite sure how I feel about it. I mean, I'm only a page in, so reserving judgment is probably for the best. Now at least I know the context of that oft-referenced Nietzche quote "God is dead." I'm reading this work as part of my Independent Study--the goal of which is to contextualize and inform my own poetry.

Next Monday night is the first meeting of my Thesis class. I wonder what that will be like. I'm not sure what there is to discuss, since I'll be being advised apart from those meetings. Guess I'll find out.

All these heady concerns aside, can I tell you, I'm mostly preoccupied with getting the iPod. One half of my amazon shipment came today, so the little beauty can't be far behind...

I bought the iPod this morning. I also got some books for my Independent Study, all courtesy of amazon.com. Everything has already shipped (I sprang for the two-day delivery), so I should have it by Friday (I'm having it sent to me at work).

I went marketing this evening shortly after getting home. Now I feel all settled because I have food for the next week or so--including my favourite yogurt, plenty of instant oatmeal for breakfasts, a corpulent salmon filet, and other creature comforts. And what is more, the new bed is like a dream, I have a hair appointment for Saturday morning, and a few new fall purchases in the closet. Ah, but this flukey weather. It's going to be 83 tomorrow and in the near 90s the rest of the week and weekend. September is a strange month. It's summer hanging on for dear life, but fall crouching at the door.

33 so far...

What a gorgeous, sunny day out. I'm at Sarah's; I've had pizza and coffee for breakfast (my choice); I've opened presents; I've talked to my beloved Catchka; Last night I went to Target and bought a lovely lamp with a friend's generous gift card present; later I'm going to Kohl's to buy a handbag (they have the best selection); and I'll round out the day at the bonefish grille with my mom, Sarah, and my mom's friend. Not bad.

But this week. Oh, this week... I buy the iPod. That's my present to myself.

Is this what it means to be a woman of a certain age...

That I can't sleep without doing the dishes from the small fete in my apartment? After a planned dinner out, I had a few friends over to my place for coffee and dessert. In the spirit of fun and letting my hair down I tried to leave the coffee mugs, plates, and forks in the sink. But at almost 2 a.m. I could not sleep, so I got up and did the dishes. It felt great. Now maybe I can grab some shut eye.

Rainy Saturday

It has been raining for more than 24 hours. The whole city is bathed in grey. I used to have an unhealthy preference for rain over sunshine. I can't explain it, but sunny days worried me. I saw them as a bad omen. Gloomy days were a talisman against disappointment. I guess it was some kind of ironic distancing mechanism or inverted expectations thing for me. In recent years, I have grown out of my melancholic disposition, but you know, I still love a good rainy day, under the right circumstances.

I wish that the fiends that I've enlisted to help me with the couch didn't have to deal with the rain in light of their errand, but that practical matter aside, I love being tucked up in my sweet, spacious apartment, listening to jazz, drinking coffee, and cleaning up in anticpation of my plans tonight.

More later...

Working at Home

To accommodate the delivery of my new bed, I worked from home today. I mean I really worked. With only small breaks for food (and letting in the deliverymen), I cranked out everything I intended to in order to best position myself for next week's deadlines.

I started dinner at about 6:15--I made turkey meatballs baked in sweet basil tomato sauce (Classico) with parboiled, then roasted red potatoes, and spinach. It all turned out very well.

The next big thing is waking up tomorrow and getting some cleaning in before the couch arrives. This is the couch I got from my friend specifically to warm my office up some. I still have the same livingroom stuff, but I really wanted to round out my work/writing space. Next I need more lamps and a few area rugs.

These are my preoccupations a few days out from my 33rd. It feels good to be so centered, to know what I want, to be pleased with how things are turning out.

Tomorrow the dinner party, then Sunday I hang out with my sisters for part of the day, then with Sarah. And then Monday. The big day, which I hope to spend relaxing before meeting up with my mom for dinner.

Happy Holiday Weekend, everyone!