Domesticity
I bought a fancy shelf today. I know that it’s fancy because I’m looking at it right now and can see space that isn’t stuffed with books or gadgets or pictures. In fact, there is one entire shelf that has nothing but a vase on it. Along with the newspaper, I think that having a shelf with only a vase on it makes me a grown up. In this entire room there isn’t one piece of furniture that was formerly someone’s garbage—this is a big deal for me. I mean, I’m looking at a shelf that holds nothing but a Pottery Barn vase, an artful jug really. And, to top it all off, I’m having a tea party tomorrow and might bake some sort of small food item. Fancy shelves, tea, small foods. I need to go play some Altered Beast or break into my bouncy ball collection before this gets out of hand.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
5.
Transportation
Today I might have run faster than I have ever run before, at least for a sustained amount of time. I ran on the rillito trial for fifty minutes without stopping and I was really running the entire time—like something was chasing me, that kind of running. I’m a shuffler, have been for years, but this afternoon I was really running.
When I was rejected from all of the running events in high school track and relegated to shot put and disc, I would watch Lisa Baker from afar. She was so tall and thin and effortlessly fast. My every movement was pained, but Lisa Baker didn’t even break a sweat. I have been running for years, consistently for a decade, and I have never stopped feeling bad about myself, the Lisa Bakers always in the back of my mind. But today I felt so good about my run that I actually threw my head back and yelled, twice, in my car as I drove home. It was weird.
As I was running, I started thinking about song teleportation. I was listening to a mixed CD I made to cheer myself up when Abe Froman got pneumonia. On the long drives to the Orange Grove Animal Clinic, I would listen to the CD (which I named “This is Me Going for Peppy”) to make myself feel better. The entire CD reminds me of the Abe trauma, but there is one song that always, no matter where I am or how many times I’ve heard it, takes me back to a really specific moment in my life.
The second I hear the Be Good Tanyas’ “Littlest Birds,” I am in my old apartment in Barrington, New Hampshire. It’s when I was between futons, so my front room only had the borrowed papasan and the big chair I found on the side of the road. It's just me and Abe at that point and he's out running around. I’ve put on my fuzzy socks and I’m dancing to the song, sliding on the hardwood floors and weaving around the chairs. Abe is alarmed by my dancing and (this is before all of the dental issues) he expresses his concern by launching himself at my feet, trying to chew on my toes. Without fail, every time I hear “Littlest Birds” I go to exactly that moment—dimly lit third story apartment, hardwood floors, Abe attacking my feet.
The best part is that after the dancing I inevitably go straight to the memory of Ab and Beej showing up on my doorstep with a brand new futon. I open the door and there they are, winded from lugging furniture up steep steps. One of many profound moments of home with them.
Today I might have run faster than I have ever run before, at least for a sustained amount of time. I ran on the rillito trial for fifty minutes without stopping and I was really running the entire time—like something was chasing me, that kind of running. I’m a shuffler, have been for years, but this afternoon I was really running.
When I was rejected from all of the running events in high school track and relegated to shot put and disc, I would watch Lisa Baker from afar. She was so tall and thin and effortlessly fast. My every movement was pained, but Lisa Baker didn’t even break a sweat. I have been running for years, consistently for a decade, and I have never stopped feeling bad about myself, the Lisa Bakers always in the back of my mind. But today I felt so good about my run that I actually threw my head back and yelled, twice, in my car as I drove home. It was weird.
As I was running, I started thinking about song teleportation. I was listening to a mixed CD I made to cheer myself up when Abe Froman got pneumonia. On the long drives to the Orange Grove Animal Clinic, I would listen to the CD (which I named “This is Me Going for Peppy”) to make myself feel better. The entire CD reminds me of the Abe trauma, but there is one song that always, no matter where I am or how many times I’ve heard it, takes me back to a really specific moment in my life.
The second I hear the Be Good Tanyas’ “Littlest Birds,” I am in my old apartment in Barrington, New Hampshire. It’s when I was between futons, so my front room only had the borrowed papasan and the big chair I found on the side of the road. It's just me and Abe at that point and he's out running around. I’ve put on my fuzzy socks and I’m dancing to the song, sliding on the hardwood floors and weaving around the chairs. Abe is alarmed by my dancing and (this is before all of the dental issues) he expresses his concern by launching himself at my feet, trying to chew on my toes. Without fail, every time I hear “Littlest Birds” I go to exactly that moment—dimly lit third story apartment, hardwood floors, Abe attacking my feet.
The best part is that after the dancing I inevitably go straight to the memory of Ab and Beej showing up on my doorstep with a brand new futon. I open the door and there they are, winded from lugging furniture up steep steps. One of many profound moments of home with them.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
4.
Jenga
Last night might have been a low point. I was eating raviolis in a really gross way and watching t.v.—nothing new there. With most raviolis, I eat them the usual way with sauce and a fork, but with the Safeway portobello mushroom raviolis, the fork and sauce just get in the way. They are perfect, especially right when they come off the stove. It hurts really badly and my fingertips are still a little numb, but the second they are afloat I dump them onto a plate and dig my hands in.
Last night, like every night, I made too many, which is always so heartbreaking because I know they’ll never return to their post-stove state of perfection. So as I was sitting there full of rav-goodness, finishing my glass of wine, I suddenly broke out into a game of ravioli Jenga. It was the only thing that made any sense at that moment. Turns out, even with the most careful precision and devoted focus, it’s Jenga! at seven Safeway portobello mushroom raviolis. Clearly there was a lot wrong with the scenario, but it was the moment when I yelled “Jenga!” out loud, making Milo twitch a little in his sleep, that I would identify as the low point.
Last night might have been a low point. I was eating raviolis in a really gross way and watching t.v.—nothing new there. With most raviolis, I eat them the usual way with sauce and a fork, but with the Safeway portobello mushroom raviolis, the fork and sauce just get in the way. They are perfect, especially right when they come off the stove. It hurts really badly and my fingertips are still a little numb, but the second they are afloat I dump them onto a plate and dig my hands in.
Last night, like every night, I made too many, which is always so heartbreaking because I know they’ll never return to their post-stove state of perfection. So as I was sitting there full of rav-goodness, finishing my glass of wine, I suddenly broke out into a game of ravioli Jenga. It was the only thing that made any sense at that moment. Turns out, even with the most careful precision and devoted focus, it’s Jenga! at seven Safeway portobello mushroom raviolis. Clearly there was a lot wrong with the scenario, but it was the moment when I yelled “Jenga!” out loud, making Milo twitch a little in his sleep, that I would identify as the low point.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
3.
Newspaper
Today marks day 4 of adulthood. I’ve been resisting it for years, refusing to let my sense of self age beyond 18. But then, four days ago, I started getting the newspaper delivered to my house. And I started reading it, cup of coffee in hand.
When I wake up in the morning and open the front blinds, it’s out there, marking my house as an adult house. This morning I tried to drink tea with the paper, but it just wasn’t right—has to be coffee, at least this first week. Sometimes I sit on the floor and spread the paper out on the coffee table. Once I sat outside, paper spread all around me, Milo playing catch with his new tuxedoed chicken squeaky toy. I haven’t really learned how to navigate the paper, mostly I’m skimming and nodding my head thoughtfully from time-to-time. With the Sacramento Bee I would go straight to the crossword (the local one, never that New York Times beast of a puzzle). But I’m not sure what to do with the Arizona Daily Star. Sure, I’m look for tidbits that will make me more conversationally interesting, and sure I’m sort of in it for the “Oh, did you see _____ in the paper this morning?” moments. But I’m also trying to find ways into Tucson, ways to live more fully in this place. I feel like I’ve had a crush on this city for a long time and haven’t done anything about it. I did a good job of living in New Hampshire, of throwing myself into that place and loving it with all my guts. I could do a better job with Tucson—I mean seriously, I live in a purple house.
The thing I might be most excited about is the fact that Abe Froman’s cage will now be lined with newspaper, which means that when I leave for the day or go to sleep at night, Abe will slip into his very small tweed coat, recline against his tunnel, and read about the day’s events, musing over foreign policy and correcting my mistakes on the crossword.
Today marks day 4 of adulthood. I’ve been resisting it for years, refusing to let my sense of self age beyond 18. But then, four days ago, I started getting the newspaper delivered to my house. And I started reading it, cup of coffee in hand.
When I wake up in the morning and open the front blinds, it’s out there, marking my house as an adult house. This morning I tried to drink tea with the paper, but it just wasn’t right—has to be coffee, at least this first week. Sometimes I sit on the floor and spread the paper out on the coffee table. Once I sat outside, paper spread all around me, Milo playing catch with his new tuxedoed chicken squeaky toy. I haven’t really learned how to navigate the paper, mostly I’m skimming and nodding my head thoughtfully from time-to-time. With the Sacramento Bee I would go straight to the crossword (the local one, never that New York Times beast of a puzzle). But I’m not sure what to do with the Arizona Daily Star. Sure, I’m look for tidbits that will make me more conversationally interesting, and sure I’m sort of in it for the “Oh, did you see _____ in the paper this morning?” moments. But I’m also trying to find ways into Tucson, ways to live more fully in this place. I feel like I’ve had a crush on this city for a long time and haven’t done anything about it. I did a good job of living in New Hampshire, of throwing myself into that place and loving it with all my guts. I could do a better job with Tucson—I mean seriously, I live in a purple house.
The thing I might be most excited about is the fact that Abe Froman’s cage will now be lined with newspaper, which means that when I leave for the day or go to sleep at night, Abe will slip into his very small tweed coat, recline against his tunnel, and read about the day’s events, musing over foreign policy and correcting my mistakes on the crossword.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
2.
Soup
I take the "shake well” instructions on food products very seriously, athletically even. I shake with my entire body, arms up and down in the air, legs kicking. I’ve done it this way for years, fueled by a strange fear of under-shaking. There’s no warm up, no lead-in, I grab the bottle or can or box and immediately throw my arms in the air. There has been some spilling, a little splashing, but overall the system has worked well for me.
So this afternoon I casually walked the short distance across my kitchen, grabbed the box of tomato and roasted red pepper soup from the fridge, and, in my systematic fit of shaking, sprayed soup all over just about every inch of the room. It must have looked amazing: a woman alone in her kitchen wildly flinging red soup across the floor, cabinets, countertop, and stove—tomato running down her arm, a little on her cheeks. I stood in the middle of it for a moment, genuinely and entirely amused. It was a great moment of disruption that stopped me, had me completely frozen. One of those moments where you give the hidden camera the "did you see that?" look, imaginary audiences laughing and shaking their heads knowingly.
I take the "shake well” instructions on food products very seriously, athletically even. I shake with my entire body, arms up and down in the air, legs kicking. I’ve done it this way for years, fueled by a strange fear of under-shaking. There’s no warm up, no lead-in, I grab the bottle or can or box and immediately throw my arms in the air. There has been some spilling, a little splashing, but overall the system has worked well for me.
So this afternoon I casually walked the short distance across my kitchen, grabbed the box of tomato and roasted red pepper soup from the fridge, and, in my systematic fit of shaking, sprayed soup all over just about every inch of the room. It must have looked amazing: a woman alone in her kitchen wildly flinging red soup across the floor, cabinets, countertop, and stove—tomato running down her arm, a little on her cheeks. I stood in the middle of it for a moment, genuinely and entirely amused. It was a great moment of disruption that stopped me, had me completely frozen. One of those moments where you give the hidden camera the "did you see that?" look, imaginary audiences laughing and shaking their heads knowingly.
Monday, March 26, 2007
1.
Moments of Suspended Hope
I live in a purple house, divided into a duplex, each side with its own red door. I have to hop over certain places in the hardwood floor so that my heels don’t get stuck between the slats. The only way that two people can function together in the kitchen is through practiced, synchronized butt-to-butt movement. The toilet and sink are so close that you don’t have to stand up to wash your hands and can even rest your head on the smooth edge of the sink during an early morning pee. My neighbor has purple tile in his kitchen, I have yellow, otherwise the sides are exactly the same. And today he bought a Porsche Boxster, convertible.
I’ve been home all day, working on my dissertation and watching him through the window. Ten minutes before the car arrived, he was pacing on our shared porch, bouncing a little each time he turned. He drove it for two hours and I could hear his music for long minutes before he arrived. He drove it on and off all day for hours at a time. When he wasn’t driving, he was either sitting on the porch staring at it or sitting in the driver’s seat staring straight ahead. It’s getting dark now and he’s sitting on the steps out front, badly sunburned, still staring.
He seems to be experiencing one of those great moments of suspended hope, a moment where he is somewhere between his real life and an imagined better life. A moment where he can see the trajectory of his life shifting, taking him to some unknown place that will somehow look and feel better.
My dad stared like that once. There was a rumor that his company’s stock was going to split, making us rich beyond our wildest dreams. That night when he got home from work he poured himself a glass of red wine, sat on the back patio, and stared into the hills for hours. As it got darker and darker outside, I made passes by the window and looked out at him, watching him sit in the dimming light, sipping wine and whispering a little to himself. A moment of suspended hope where, staring out into the distance, life looked different.
I spent a lot of my day today peeking out the window, watching my neighbor stare. There is something both wonderful and terrifying about witnessing such hope. I think there is an element of that suspended hope in this decision to write everyday. Sitting on my couch tonight, my dog at my side, I do hope that this writing will take me someplace different. That my life will transform in some small way. Tonight it seems possible.
I live in a purple house, divided into a duplex, each side with its own red door. I have to hop over certain places in the hardwood floor so that my heels don’t get stuck between the slats. The only way that two people can function together in the kitchen is through practiced, synchronized butt-to-butt movement. The toilet and sink are so close that you don’t have to stand up to wash your hands and can even rest your head on the smooth edge of the sink during an early morning pee. My neighbor has purple tile in his kitchen, I have yellow, otherwise the sides are exactly the same. And today he bought a Porsche Boxster, convertible.
I’ve been home all day, working on my dissertation and watching him through the window. Ten minutes before the car arrived, he was pacing on our shared porch, bouncing a little each time he turned. He drove it for two hours and I could hear his music for long minutes before he arrived. He drove it on and off all day for hours at a time. When he wasn’t driving, he was either sitting on the porch staring at it or sitting in the driver’s seat staring straight ahead. It’s getting dark now and he’s sitting on the steps out front, badly sunburned, still staring.
He seems to be experiencing one of those great moments of suspended hope, a moment where he is somewhere between his real life and an imagined better life. A moment where he can see the trajectory of his life shifting, taking him to some unknown place that will somehow look and feel better.
My dad stared like that once. There was a rumor that his company’s stock was going to split, making us rich beyond our wildest dreams. That night when he got home from work he poured himself a glass of red wine, sat on the back patio, and stared into the hills for hours. As it got darker and darker outside, I made passes by the window and looked out at him, watching him sit in the dimming light, sipping wine and whispering a little to himself. A moment of suspended hope where, staring out into the distance, life looked different.
I spent a lot of my day today peeking out the window, watching my neighbor stare. There is something both wonderful and terrifying about witnessing such hope. I think there is an element of that suspended hope in this decision to write everyday. Sitting on my couch tonight, my dog at my side, I do hope that this writing will take me someplace different. That my life will transform in some small way. Tonight it seems possible.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)