On the eve of my mother's departure to Growing State for a business trip, I had tucked Pie in and was telling her an absurd bedtime story that involved my sister and the band One Direction working together to defeat a sorceress named Evileeni.
"And then," she interjected. "After we break the spell, Kelly Clarkson should fall off the stadium and be like, 'Hey, y'all, I broke my leg!'"
She dissolved into giggles and nuzzled her face into the pillow. She's small for nine but can make uncannily adult observations. It's a trait I like.
"BB, after this I'm going to go and get into Mommy's bed."
"You are not, Ding Bat. You're sleeping in your own bed tonight."
"But it's my last night with her!"
"Yeah, for one night," I rejoined. "Nice try, bum."
She sighed.
"There's no way I'm going to survive with only Dad here."
I restrained a smile.
"Pie, it's only for one day. And you know, Dad's not so bad."
The truth, of course, is that Dad is so bad, but I wasn't about to tell her something she'd figure out within a few years anyway.
"Yeah, well, I think he has like, problems."
I straightened up.
"What kind of problems?"
I didn't want to dismiss what she was saying but didn't want to suggest anything, either. I let her talk.
"Like, he just doesn't know how to take care of certain things."
"Like what?"
Her face screwed up in the expression of faux alarm that only a nine-year-old can manage.
"Like, a child!"
Monday, January 14, 2013
Monday, January 7, 2013
The First Morning of the New Year
I stumbled into the kitchen at a little past 9:30 in the morning, but for how tired I was it might as well have been dawn. I nodded in the general direction of False Hungarian.
"Hey," I croaked.
I call her False Hungarian, by the way, not because she is a Hungarian but because, with her creamy complexion and long brown hair, she looks like one. In a house full of the people of the moo-cow, that can be confusing.
She looked down at the grime-covered tile floor, on which a beach ball improbably rested, then at the tubs of wine and broken shot glasses that filled the sink.
"My house..." she whimpered. "What happened to my house?"
Our eyes met and and laughter roiled unbidden from our chests.
I'm not really sure why half of what happened that night happened. I'm not sure why the television was covered with Silly String or the bathroom with crime scene tape or the floor with people, many of whom were inexplicably passed out next to empty couches. As they woke up and staggered to their feet, they marveled with us at the wanton destruction visited upon False Hungarian's place of residence by a group of people who claimed to be her friends.
"There's glitter stuck to this table," White Mexican muttered. "I need something to pry it off."
"Here." I handed her a stainless steep spatula.
"Where'd you get this?"
"I don't know."
She began to scrape at the surface of the table, whereupon one of the legs promptly fell off.
"Um, False Hungarian..."
Our hostess turned a corner and started cackling with something that, I suspected, bordered on desperation.
"It's okay," she insisted. "If I just look at the ceiling then everything is clean! Everything is...wait a minute. Is that a fucking footprint?"
If one thing's clear it's that fun was had. Maybe a bit too much fun, if we're being honest about it.
"Listen, False Hungarian," I said. "I'm sorry, but I think I broke into your roommate's room."
"Oh, I bet he loved that."
"Not really. He told me to get the fuck out and I said, 'Why? Are you hiding sex slaves in here?'"
"BB, we really need to hang out more."
Elegant Girl, looking immaculate even though she'd just woken up still drunk, joined us around noon and with characteristic grace pronounced, "Please tell me I didn't have sex with anyone last night."
"No," False Hungarian reassured her. "You actually slept with me and BB."
"Yeah, and you're the worst bed-hog ever," I said. "You like, beat the shit out of me."
Elegant Girl is about five feet tall, with a slender carriage and a diminutive smile.
"Oh, I'm sure I didn't do that."
"You did, though. You kicked me in the back. And when I complained about it you said, and I quote, 'It's okay. Just move the fuck over.'"
She was a picture of innocence as she covered her giggling mouth, but something about the glint in her eyes told me I wasn't her first victim.
As we continued cleaning the devastated home we found the kinds of gems that can only be discovered after a rocking New Year's Eve party. Among the more noteworthy finds were several unopened bottles of champagne--"There's literally enough here for another party," False Hungarian noted--and a few lost memories that would have done better to remain forgotten.
"Hey, man, I'm sorry that I burst into your room last night," I said when False Hungarian's roommate came up.
"Yeah," he said. "You came back."
"What?"
"You came back. You tried to steal my pillows and said you needed them to 'stop the Muslim invasion.'"
"Well, now you're just being silly."
Every now and again it's nice to just have a blow-out wherein you release everything that's been pent up. My worries, my frustrations, my loneliness, all went away for a bit. And in the company of friends I was reminded that, whenever I pull myself out of whatever it is I'm in, I'll have something waiting for me on the other side.
That's good to know.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
A New Year It Is
Last year may not have been the greatest, but I don't think I could have rung this one in any better way. It was a night of glitter and disco balls, of Belgians and wine shots and slanderous infamy.
The absurdity that was this party needs (and will have) its own post, but the gist of it is that I began 2013 with old friends who are growing dearer and new acquaintances who are becoming something more.
All in all, not too bad.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Hopefully, An End
I used to be one for sugarcoating. Back then, when I was a teenager, unhappy truths weren't so difficult to face if I could insert a note of optimism in on the side.
That's not really something I go for anymore. Isn't it easier to resolve a problem if you just, you know, call it for what it is?
That's not really something I go for anymore. Isn't it easier to resolve a problem if you just, you know, call it for what it is?
So let's be honest.
2012 was not the best time for me. Between the employment woes, the bouts of only moderately funny madness, and the whole attempted murder thing (which happened, by the way, on my birthday) it's been a year that's worn me down in a lot of ways. And if something doesn't break, I really don't know what I'll do.
So here's to 2013.
I'll be blessed enough to begin it in the Goldlands with some friends. If there's been one bright spot to this year, it was them.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Some Days
"You were a very strong candidate, but in the end we decided to go with someone who had a little bit more experience. If anything else opens up you'll be at the top of our list."
"Oh, great. Thanks."
Some days you just have to keep pushing ahead.
Today is one of them.
"Oh, great. Thanks."
Some days you just have to keep pushing ahead.
Today is one of them.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
And Now We Wait
Being a literary agent is fun. But it's also, when you get paid on commission and haven't sold any books yet, financially taxing, so about two weeks ago I decided I would start looking for full-time work. I'm not putting the agenting career away, mind you; I just can't keep living without a paycheck.
The newspaper seeking a reporter was located about fifty miles south of Mountain Town, and for that reason it was among the first I applied to. I sent them my resumé, not expecting to hear much back, but about two days later writing and editing tests were sitting in my in-box.
"You'll have two hours from the time you begin, but most people don't need that long," the editor informed me in his accompanying message. "Good luck."
I hastily composed what I hoped was a coherent news story from the incomplete sample notes I'd been provided, agonizing all the while that I was omitting something important or mangling what should have been a straightforward sentence.
I can't do this, I thought in one wild moment. I can't do this job.What if--oh, God--what if I've forgotten how to be a reporter?
That gem was laughable a second after it popped into my head; I am, as it would happen, already a reporter with another newspaper.
So I slapped together the important parts of the story, fixed the disastrous grammar and AP as well as I could, and made a tentative click of the send button.
I just hope I didn't fuck that up too hardcore.
Less than three hours later I had a reply.
"Mr. Our Family, well done," the editor said. "A few errors, but better than the vast majority of applicants. We'd like to invite you to come in on Thursday for an interview."
And so I did.
From the beginning the thing went well. The editor and I struck up a friendly rapport that remained undimmed the three or so hours we were together, and about thirty minutes in he asked, "By the way, do you know Blouse Girl? She thought she recognized your name."
Blouse Girl, previously known on the blog as Chief, was the editor-in-chief on my university newspaper and even managed to put in an appearance at my lively twenty-second birthday party.
"Yeah! You know, she told me about a year ago that she was working at a paper down this way and when I applied I wondered if this was it."
"Well, let's go say hi."
Our reunion hug was accompanied by laughter which, to my dismay, continued as the editor reviewed the current-events-and-basic-knowledge test I'd just finished.
"Please tell me you're not laughing at what I wrote down," I put forward with a nervous giggle.
"No, it's not that," he said. "You just wouldn't believe how many people come in here and know nothing about the country they live in. Ah! I think you're the first person under thirty who knew what 'ICBM' meant. And you can spell! What a pleasant surprise. I'm pretty sure all of the spelling ones are right. By the way, the capital of New Mexico is Santa Fe, not Albuquerque."
"Damn it."
The editor then took me out for a late lunch in University City, where our casual chatter over burgers and fries soon turned to politics. This might seem like a no-no, but I count it as a bonus because the editor not only got to hear me speak coherently on complex policy issues but also, by the time the grease was cleared off our plates, felt comfortable enough to curse in my presence (the Republicans' tax philosophy is, evidently, "bullshit").
"You know, I got to interview President Clinton in '97," he confided. "In Martha's Vineyard, of all places."
My eyes widened.
"That must have been wild. What was he like?"
"Very charming, as you can imagine," he said. "But a little too charming after a while. You could start to see the snake-oil salesman come out. And you know, it was funny, the first thing I noticed about him. I went to shake his hand--"
"Stop. I already know what you're going to say."
"What?"
"You couldn't believe how soft his hands were."
Now it was his eyes that went big.
"How did you know that?"
"Okay, this is the weirdest thing ever. I've accidentally bumped into President Obama twice, both times on staircases. Random. But when I shook his hand, I was like, 'What moisturizer does this guy use?'"
"I know!" he exclaimed. "That has to be it! They must use moisturizer!"
So all in all it went well. The editor was clearly impressed with me, but there are three people, hopefully all imbeciles and incompetents, who have yet to be interviewed. I should have my answer by some time next week.
Fingers crossed, people. Fingers crossed.
The newspaper seeking a reporter was located about fifty miles south of Mountain Town, and for that reason it was among the first I applied to. I sent them my resumé, not expecting to hear much back, but about two days later writing and editing tests were sitting in my in-box.
"You'll have two hours from the time you begin, but most people don't need that long," the editor informed me in his accompanying message. "Good luck."
I hastily composed what I hoped was a coherent news story from the incomplete sample notes I'd been provided, agonizing all the while that I was omitting something important or mangling what should have been a straightforward sentence.
I can't do this, I thought in one wild moment. I can't do this job.What if--oh, God--what if I've forgotten how to be a reporter?
That gem was laughable a second after it popped into my head; I am, as it would happen, already a reporter with another newspaper.
So I slapped together the important parts of the story, fixed the disastrous grammar and AP as well as I could, and made a tentative click of the send button.
I just hope I didn't fuck that up too hardcore.
Less than three hours later I had a reply.
"Mr. Our Family, well done," the editor said. "A few errors, but better than the vast majority of applicants. We'd like to invite you to come in on Thursday for an interview."
And so I did.
From the beginning the thing went well. The editor and I struck up a friendly rapport that remained undimmed the three or so hours we were together, and about thirty minutes in he asked, "By the way, do you know Blouse Girl? She thought she recognized your name."
Blouse Girl, previously known on the blog as Chief, was the editor-in-chief on my university newspaper and even managed to put in an appearance at my lively twenty-second birthday party.
"Yeah! You know, she told me about a year ago that she was working at a paper down this way and when I applied I wondered if this was it."
"Well, let's go say hi."
Our reunion hug was accompanied by laughter which, to my dismay, continued as the editor reviewed the current-events-and-basic-knowledge test I'd just finished.
"Please tell me you're not laughing at what I wrote down," I put forward with a nervous giggle.
"No, it's not that," he said. "You just wouldn't believe how many people come in here and know nothing about the country they live in. Ah! I think you're the first person under thirty who knew what 'ICBM' meant. And you can spell! What a pleasant surprise. I'm pretty sure all of the spelling ones are right. By the way, the capital of New Mexico is Santa Fe, not Albuquerque."
"Damn it."
The editor then took me out for a late lunch in University City, where our casual chatter over burgers and fries soon turned to politics. This might seem like a no-no, but I count it as a bonus because the editor not only got to hear me speak coherently on complex policy issues but also, by the time the grease was cleared off our plates, felt comfortable enough to curse in my presence (the Republicans' tax philosophy is, evidently, "bullshit").
"You know, I got to interview President Clinton in '97," he confided. "In Martha's Vineyard, of all places."
My eyes widened.
"That must have been wild. What was he like?"
"Very charming, as you can imagine," he said. "But a little too charming after a while. You could start to see the snake-oil salesman come out. And you know, it was funny, the first thing I noticed about him. I went to shake his hand--"
"Stop. I already know what you're going to say."
"What?"
"You couldn't believe how soft his hands were."
Now it was his eyes that went big.
"How did you know that?"
"Okay, this is the weirdest thing ever. I've accidentally bumped into President Obama twice, both times on staircases. Random. But when I shook his hand, I was like, 'What moisturizer does this guy use?'"
"I know!" he exclaimed. "That has to be it! They must use moisturizer!"
So all in all it went well. The editor was clearly impressed with me, but there are three people, hopefully all imbeciles and incompetents, who have yet to be interviewed. I should have my answer by some time next week.
Fingers crossed, people. Fingers crossed.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
The Red Number
The numbers are red
Like passion
Like lust
Like flesh inflamed with desire
The numbers are red
Like hatred
Like grief
Like a molten spear piercing my chest
The numbers are red
Like Rage
Like a divine missive
Whose scarlet words mandate what I must be
When they command it
I'm a god
A ruby
A rose
A bloom of endless power and brightness and bounty
A rising violet light who heralds the dawn
And when they command it
I'm a waste
A garnet
A rotted cherry
A used-up piece of gum abandoned to a dingy bus seat
A pool of fuchsia vomit; an odor of decay
The numbers are red
Like war
Like vengeance
Like indignity
Like me
Like passion
Like lust
Like flesh inflamed with desire
The numbers are red
Like hatred
Like grief
Like a molten spear piercing my chest
The numbers are red
Like Rage
Like a divine missive
Whose scarlet words mandate what I must be
When they command it
I'm a god
A ruby
A rose
A bloom of endless power and brightness and bounty
A rising violet light who heralds the dawn
And when they command it
I'm a waste
A garnet
A rotted cherry
A used-up piece of gum abandoned to a dingy bus seat
A pool of fuchsia vomit; an odor of decay
The numbers are red
Like war
Like vengeance
Like indignity
Like me
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