A ROAD TRIP CHRISTMAS

I have returned from misery, and by that I mean the state of misery. You know, the one that shares the Mississippi River with Illinois? The state that has its geographical boot shoved up the butt of Arkansas. I think Arkansas likes it though. Sick, sick Arkansas.

During the eleven hour drive home, my dad and I bonded over Utah Phillips lyrics:

"Oh, why don’t you save

All the money you earn?

If I did not eat

I’d have money to burn.

Hallelujah, I’m a bum!

Hallelujah, bum again!

Hallelujah, give us a handout

To revive us again."

DAY THIRTY-TWO

The high today is zero degrees. Fahrenheit. The only thing I really had to ‘do’ was walk to the YWCA and run for forty minutes. This morning I read two short stories and made coffee and swept my apartment and did everything I could think of to procrastinate going out into the cold. I even resorted to dancing faux-ballet in a red camisole, but that ended promptly in fits of giggles. That was when I realized I had exhausted all tactics. I left and the run was good.

Today also marks the thirty second day of consecutive writing. Hip, hip! Hip, hip!* I am proud that I did what I said I would do and the results are just as I had hoped. That is, I feel more comfortable clicking away at these black keys and more comfortable tapping the send button. My creative brain feels more oiled, less stagnant, and to celebrate, I am going to take a week off. I’m spending Christmas with my parents and my paternal grandparents in Missouri. Rock the smock.

One more thing. This afternoon while folding laundry, I saw an old man walking down the street in a very loud orange hat. This sight inspired me to sing a song while pointing at him in an over exaggerated fashion. It is meant to be sung in a falsetto voice and repeated as many times as you feel necessary. It goes like this, “Orange hat! Orange hat! It makes your head look like a puuuuuushpin! Orange hat!”

* What does this mean?

DAY THIRTY-ONE

“Huh? Yea, I feel very talkative today, very talkative and when I’m alone and don’t have anyone to talk to, I talk to the cat, and when I can’t think of anything more to say, do you know what I do? I sing.”

My mother, ladies and gentlemen. She was diagnosed with bipolar disorder about four years ago. You would be surprised how much family tension can be relieved by simply naming her erratic behavior. It is as though the extreme ends of her personality are now viewed as curious garnishes that frame her true personality. As a result of her condition, she has experimented with a sick amount of drugs, probably more than my brother and I combined. Anyways, we have all lived with her long enough to recognize the waxing and waning of her manic - depressive phases. While speaking to her on the phone yesterday I realized, it’s been a long time (more than a year) since I have seen her manic like this.

DAY THIRTY

I wrote yesterday's entry at RS's house. He was up north for the weekend and needed someone to keep his cat and his roommate's cat from feuding to the death. Once finished online, I cleared the URL history and picked off the cookies I inadvertently collected like burrs on my socks. You see, he does not know where this website is and I would like to keep it that way. Anyways, while in the 'cookie jar' I noticed some curious website names, recently visited: Back-seat-bangers.com and Herfirstcock.com. I can say with near certainty that it is my lovely boyfriend who visited these sites because A. his roommate does not strike me as porn fiend, and B. she has been in Mexico for the past two months. Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed. Not because he was looking at pornography, but because it was such poorly made, cliche stuff. I hate to be so judgmental, but where does he get off (pun completely intended) viewing such main stream, predictable, banal, garbage? I mean, it's the kind of thing Fox TV would produce if Fox TV produced such a thing: "Oh come here you big beefy man, fuck me like an animal and then come all over my face!"

*Yawn*

DAY TWENTY-NINE

I just finished reading the second part of Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. I'm enjoying the story, it is 'capital.' Only, I can't help but feel like my subconscious is being dragged back to the mess she made in the house, rapped on the nose with a magazine, and told how bad she is.

Furthermore, my husband was not so cold as Alexey Alexandrovich and his ears certainly didn't stick out quite so much. I thought about him a great deal last night. I thought about all the amazing things we did together. The most difficult memories are the most recent ones. The ones where we were together, but I was a million miles away.

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT

Today is day three of seventeen that I have off of work. Ironically, my first day off was spent dealing with an anxiety attack. I was worried about squandering my precious vacation. Do you think I'm a total nutter? You should. Last night, one of my windows opened on its own will. I bet you didn't know windows had a will. They do. Anyway, the wintry air seeped in through the crack and turned the water in the cells of my staghorn fern to ice. It's all brown and sad and wilty now. Curse you Jack Frost! And that silly tart, Susie Snowflake! You killed my staghorn fern! Vengeance! Vengeance!

*Cough! Cough! Cough!*

Ack, too much shouting.

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN

I just spent most of the afternoon writing and addressing Christmas cards to friends and family. I was feeling very sincere as I composed these holiday greetings. I felt like I was really speaking from the heart. Only, it came out sounding really fucking cheesy. Is sincerity forever doomed to sound like a huge hulking salty block of Velveeta?

Also.

Let’s say I had children, and these hypothetical children complained about what they did or didn't receive for Christmas. The next Christmas Eve would be the memorable one we would all spent at the Family Dollar. That ought to shut them up right quick.

DAY TWENTY-SIX

I just had the most trying experience at work yesterday. First, my environmental science class was bad, bad, bad. Did I mention the badness? Hardly anyone did the assigned reading and then they proceeded to hand in some half-assed homework garnished with excuses and laziness. But then. As I walked back to my office after class, I heard someone shouting 'hey' down the hall. I'm pretty sure it was somebody trying to get my attention, but you know, my name isn't 'hey,' so I kept walking. So this person decides to whistle at me. It was like he was trying to get the attention of a fucking dog. I turned around, looked him straight in the eye and said, “My name is Wren.” He replied with, “mesldfoihsdoishdf.” I’m not fluent in Neanderthal Speak, but I think it roughly translates to “a thousand apologies for being such an imbecile, my brain has the mass and complexity of a coco puff.”

I dated a few Cro-Magnon in college.

DAY TWENTY-FIVE

What's my motherfucking problem? Earlier in the week, I was presented with an opportunity to go up north for the weekend, and all week I said: no, no, no, no, no. That is, until 11:00 p.m. last night. Due to the change in plans, I was scrambling about my shoebox at 6:00 a.m. this morning crying about not having clean underwear and flailing myself around the room like I'm the star of apocalypse now. The star of apocalypse now in pajama pants.

Whatever.

I bet you didn't know my laundered garments were the linchpins of to the fucking universe, did you? Ah, you simple minded fools!

DAY TWENTY-FOUR

Today, RS and I signed a twelve month lease on a one bedroom apartment a few blocks from my current dwelling. I’m excited about this, but also pensive. What, can’t I be both? It’s just that I had made plans earlier in the year to move to the west coast this summer. And although I have been cognizant of the fact that I will most likely not be moving west for another two years (because RS just started trade school) it really hit me when Bjorn, the guy who was showing the space, said the words "one" and "year" and "lease."

DAY TWENTY-THREE

This past weekend I successfully broke a cherished drinking glass, a not so cherished coffee mug, and singed a good 10 to 15 percent of my eyebrows while lighting the pilot in the oven. What a terrible streak of misfortune, eh? It was almost as if I couldn't make myself small enough, insignificant enough, for the universe to just leave me alone.

DAY TWENTY-TWO

I'm eating a large tub of homemade applesauce and it looks like brains. BRAINS! BRAINS! Mmmmm, yummy brains. There's a problem though. Fruit makes me really gassy, especially grapes, raisins, plums, prunes, mangoes, papaya, oranges and apples. Pity my afternoon math class.

This weekend I swapped some things up in my apartment and now I feel like I'm living in a brand new space. I wish I were there right now.

DAY TWENTY-ONE

Last Thursday:

RS: "Pinch me."
W: --
RS: "No, harder."
W: "How's that?"
RS: "No, really pinch me."
W: "I'm sorry, I can't do it!"

W: --
W: "How about a snake bite?"

DAY TWENTY

A man tried to hit me up for a cigarette on my way to the SA this afternoon. I told him, sorry, I only brought the one (which was true). Then he tells me that he ran out of gas and could I help him out with a couple bucks. I’m thinking, man, if you're serious about this shtick, you had better commit yourself to the role a little more. I mean, it’s all in the delivery, you know? Go home, practice it in front of the mirror a couple times, and then come see me. I said, no, sorry, and started walking. Finally, he asks me if he could have a drag of my cigarette. Kier-ist. I rolled my eyes, pushed the smoke into his hand and walked away.

DAY NINETEEN

Every night, about two weeks before Christmas, my city holds a parade down Nickel Avenue. Yesterday, I was biking back from the Y just in time to see the last float cruise by. It was the Santa Clause float. And instead of wearing a red suit with white trim, he had on a red and white Target Patterned Suit. I didn’t know Target owned Santa Clause.

Anyways. Nickel Avenue is a two way street and the northbound lane was packed with cars that were waiting for the last float to move, so they could reclaim the road. I was headed south and apparently, I was the only one headed south as my lane was empty. In the middle of the block, someone in a big, black SUV decided his time was too important to waste in line. Before I knew it, there were two large headlights coming right at me, going THE WRONG WAY in my lane. So I raised a hand in gesture. It was the universal signal for “are you on steroids or have you gone completely mental?” The driver met my gesture with a comment as I passed his vehicle. “Get a car!” Oh, good one. Yeah. That’s my problem. I’m going the right way in the right lane on a bike. Beg your pardon, dipshit. I retorted with, “Fuck you!” And I was laughing when I said it, because hey, I want to keep things light, it being the holidays and all.

DAY EIGHTEEN

Here are three books on my xmas wish list:

The Complete Short Novels -- Anton Chekhov
Brothers Karamazov -- Fyodor Dostoevsky
Anna Karenina -- Leo Tolstoy

This is an extremely lame entry, I know.
I just don't have time to write anything.

DAY SEVENTEEN

I didn't have any real groceries yesterday. With the new quarter starting, I also didn't have time to shop for real groceries. This forced me to be creative for dinner. I ended up roasting what was left of a bulb of garlic, mashed it together with the contents of a tin of sardines that I found in a drawer and then added mustard and lemon juice. I spread this on two slices of bread (toast) that I dug out of the back my freezer.

DAY SIXTEEN

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity, fuck.

DAY FIFTEEN

My grandmother is in the hospital. She was experiencing shortness of breath and tightness of chest. I remember staying with my grandparents once when I was nine. I woke up in the middle of the night crying because I had dreamt my grandma died. Upon hearing me, she came into the guest room, the one with cherry sheets, and comforted me in true, stoic, Eastern European form. During my most recent visit, I was surprised to learn that English was not her first language. I was also surprised to discover that she does not spell her name EMILY, but rather, EMILIE

Never make assumptions.

DAY FOURTEEN

Here are two exclamations made a little too frequently by me last night:

1. "Arggmmmph, god I'm so drunk."
2. "Imgonnagetsummoresunchips."

DAY THIRTEEN

Yesterday morning I met my husband at the city courthouse. He was cleanly shaven, wearing a brand new black jacket. He looked very neat. I mean, his appearance was very organized, clean. We signed and dated the divorce papers in the company of an ornery notary. Before parting, we hugged. Instead of apologizing, I thanked him. He said it was for the best. I find so much peace and closure in that.

DAY TWELVE

I wanted a diaphragm, because you know, I had heard good things. So I went to Planned Parenthood for a fitting. I will skip the f-ed up circus monkey business leading up to this appointment because it holds no entertainment value whatsoever. In fact, I’m vexed just thinking about it.

I'd never seen a diaphragm before, so naturally I had many questions for the nurse. She gave me the run down on cleaning, caring and feeding my new pink rubber pet. I asked her if it was dishwasher safe, thinking that was pretty cute, but she didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. In fact, she reprimanded me for taking contraception so lightly by making me take a diaphragm pop quiz, where I had to take one of the samples and insert/remove it all by myself. After a bit of wrestling, I managed to complete both tasks. I was quite proud of my accomplishment, but the nurse didn’t make a big show about it. She didn’t even give me a sticker or a superball or anything like that. The whole ordeal, mandatory exam, fitting, lab fees, etc ended up costing me about $350.

Bugger. Me.

No seriously, bugger me, and do it well because I've got to make this all worthwhile.

DAY ELEVEN

Destroyed Boy Jeans
Manhattan Ballet Flats
Wellesley Cables
Gallery Coat
Charlotte Shirt
Pencil Skirt

I hate J. Crew. "Um, have you seen my Stratton Shearling Tie Boots? Dahhling? Do let's wear our matching Hampton Cashmere Sweaters this evening. Look at us! Aren't we so pretty? We prance about in Houndstooth Sportcoats, toting our Waxwear Messenger Bags without even so much as breaking a sweat!" Oh, but my favorite are the Aly Patchwork Boy Jeans. Cotton denim. Washed and aged to perfection with authentic hand drilled markings and colorful fabric patches. How cutting-edge. How deliciously gauche. And this unique style, this custom look is available now for the low, low price of $300.

Ahem.

DAY TEN

I recently bought a membership at the YWCA. I absolutely love it. It is such a different place from the university gym that I was apart of for three consecutive years. The people that work out at the Y are somehow more diverse, more real looking than university students. The men and women are old, young, fat, thin, pale, dark, beautiful and grotesque. And the people in the weight room don't make some big grunty show like they're birthing dumbbells sideways. Oh how I loathe the grunting.

So yeah, I'm going to go swim some laps now.