Better than fruit salad

On a lighter note.

A while back I made little jam tarts. They were good. There was that last one though that sat there just a hair longer than it needed to, and eventually it made it into the trash with empty tuna cans, wads of greasy paper and the rest of it.

Yesterday I noticed a squirrel having a terrible time getting up the pole, out of the dumpster. It would go a few inches, then stop. Then go, then hang upside-down a moment to rest it’s neck. It took me a second to realize why, and it took me another minute or two to find my camera.

Here we can see a normal telephone pole, with a seemingly normal squirrel perched at the very top.

Do not bother to strain yourself, I have provided graphic enhancement, courtesy of my photo editing software:

That, folks, is the ENTIRE TART in the clutches of our little furry friend. She ripped through two hefty plastic bags to get to it. It is face-down here so that you cannot see the cross-hatched top, which made it look very surreal, as though I had baked a tiny pie solely for the small furry one’s benefit.

She continued along to the tree, and I was able to follow along due to my handy upstairs windows and the fact that she couldn’t move very fast.

I have reason to believe this is the same squirrel who, you may remember, scored a vial bagel half a few months ago. Truly hardcore.

The truth is some day I know this has to get better. There will be a time when I will have the money to go out to the zoo when I want to, or to try that new recipe NOW instead of on the 15th when my commission check comes in. I’m trying not to be afraid of the fact that I won’t be getting it anymore. My new hourly reflects the commission I keep telling myself.

There has to be a day waiting for me that won’t be like these mornings. Mornings that, instead of waking slowly and contentedly with a cup of coffee and gazing at the birdies, I wander around wondering what I could sell.

I could write some poems or short pieces if I got my act together. If I had more time I could flesh out that children’s book idea more cohesively. If I had more recent art laying around I could even do an eBay auction. I could submit something to McSweeney’s. But I haven’t had the energy, I don’t have the supplies to produce, and I don’t have the luxury of time. I don’t really have any luxuries except what I already have, which may or may not have gotten me here in the first place.

It makes it all the more bitter knowing I am nothing if not privileged. I live in America. I live in a decent part of town. I am attending college, which my parents are paying for. Both gas and rent are essentially covered. And I still managed to fall behind. Very behind. And short of asking my beneficiaries to bend even farther to pull my sniveling ungrateful self out of the water I don’t know what else to do. Sell an ovum. Sell some talents. Pawn my laptop. Pawn the guitar I love but never play. The options are there but jumping into them means admitting something I’m not comfortable with: I need.

The truth is I’m worried I’ll never be out of this. That my stubbornness will keep me here forever. I am helped considerably and I am still here, at the bottom.
 
Pawn the guitar, pawn the guitar…

Now it’s a mantra in my head. There’s no escaping it, no use in chasing something that isn’t mine. I’m afraid to play one last melancholy “Step by Step” because it will remind me  of what Fr. Hannifen said when my grandpa died. There were several orphaned guitars, the one in question was a 12 string. He said take it with you, Maggie. Learn to play it beautifully, I can think of no higher complement…way to honor him…something I’ve already blocked out because I already knew the truth then. I’m not continuing the line and there is no music in my house. And short of my singing over a full sink of dishes or muffled by the stream of water in the shower, there never will be.

I’m sure there’s a knack to finding the right place, but I think I’d just take it to the first one I can find. I think there’s one a few blocks North on 8th St. I’d like to imagine breaking down and the shop owner giving me a sympathetic hug, but the truth is the whole thing will be unglamorous and routine, painful, and probably not enough.

I was mulling over all of this today when I heard some kids in my Eng 441 class talking about what kind of milk they like to drink.

I am currently finishing up my first Manhattan.

And I don’t mean first as in “first of the evening” (though it may turn into that, depending on what kind of night it is,) but I mean my first ever.

Note the coffee mug and diet dr. pepper can there in the background. I am becoming better acquainted with wine (though alcohol by it’s very nature can never truly replace or even stand beside my one true love, caffeine,) but Manhattans have always had this special sort of resonance in my family because that was Grandpa’s drink of choice. And I figured if I bird watch, sing old songs to myself and prefer to walk, Manhattans may be something else he was right on about. So far my verdict is: not bad. The Angostura bitters makes for an aftertaste which is oddly compelling, but as I’m not well versed in alcohol I’m not sure how this rates to other things. As far as my Overall Drink Scale Of All Time, (which is rough continuum, loosely mapped between:

BEST: High-end espresso, fresh squeezed orange juice

EXACTLY SO-SO: Water, Apple juice, Low-quality tea

WORST: The Horrible, Diet Pepsi, any of the beers I have ever tasted.)

then it is less good than Diet Coke (which, for the purpose of this scale, you need to know that I like moderately well, and unblinkingly order it at restaurants in place of my beloved Diet Dr. Pepper,) and better than certain white wines.

The Horrible, for those of you that don’t know, was a drink special at the Acoustic Coffee Lounge; steamed milk, espresso, caramel syrup and root-beer flavoring. A Root-beer caramel latte. The thing about The Horrible was that it wasn’t strictly foul — that would have been too simple — there was something intriguing about it. And every so often POK would decide it was time, and he would order one and we’d all pass it around taking miniscule sips and thinking, what IS this that I am tasting? And why am I subjecting myself to this, again? The thing that made The Horrible horrible was your inability to stop reaching for a sip whenever POK got one. It was akin to lime-shrimp ramen.

Please note that I am drinking this Manhattan out of the fruitiest glass possible. I don’t think my picture picks up all the floral detail etched into the glass, but just know it’s there. That was a lovely gem picked up last weekend at a used bookstore of all places, more or less with a Manhattan in mind. It holds about 2-4 ounces — an ideal cocktail glass really.

This nostalgia surrounding Grandpa was mostly sparked by my folklore class. Every other morning at 8am I walk to room 280 where we discuss things that make a people unique, and unofficial aspects of aesthetics of both the culture and everyday life. We have hinted at the family as being one of the most predominate sources of your own personal folklore, traditions and customs, and because I like them so much and because now the people I consider the center of my familial traditions are dead I’ve been thinking a lot about cuckoo clocks and bells and balsa wood airplanes and all the smells from my past. I don’t have a big field to fly a kite, nor do I have a big dirt road to walk down (and if I did I don’t have the weather for it, anyway,) so I mixed up this cocktail at happy hour instead.

UPSOLD!

Due to a series of boring work-related things I have been more or less promoted from Classified Ad sales rep to Legal Notice Assistant, which basically means instead of sitting on the phone and talking to disgruntled farmers about their $87 “Sm alfalfa hay bales” ads, I sit at a computer and format documents from the Public Trustee, proofread the copy and build the actual page for the graphic artists. It’s way cooler than my old job, I get to stop doing all the things I hate about my current job (i.e., peddling the alphabet and talking to people on the phone,) and I get to make more money. I am stoked. The training is somewhat daunting since I have to work with three new systems and have essentially two days to learn it, but two of those are very similar to things I’ve used before, and I am apparently surprising everyone at how quickly I am catching on.

One very bad thing about all of this is that I will have to move to a desk closer to the Legal Notice Executive, who is really awesome but who does not sit next to the two people I currently sit next to, who are my favorite part of the job in that during the downtime we have created more inside jokes and double entendres than I have with anyone in a while. There is always laughter when the three of us are together, and now of course there will be laughter but I will not to be an immediate part of it, which makes me sad. I do hang out with one of those people infrequently at this point so it’s not as though I am loosing friends by moving my desk, but there will be no constant yuk-fests in my workday like there have been in, which sucks in an abstract kind of way. But then of course there’s email, and there’s the fact that I will be a mere row behind them, and of course the whole factor of higher pay, less customers, more complex and interesting duties thing going for it. So you know.

I may have done some subtle-yet-permanent damage to my knee during the ski trip, because now it pops like Brad’s used to when I straighten or bend it after it‘s been in one position for an extended period of time. “Right knee” is yet another thing that belongs on the ever-growing list of joints on my body that pop or crack frequently throughout the day. I keep meaning to join some sort of low-impact yoga class or something that will keep me bendy and flexible instead of brittle and cracky like I am now, but I have yet to summon the courage. I’m afraid that if I wait too long I’ll have the myriad of joint problems my Mom now has, despite the fact that I get an adequate amount of calcium and things — so it’s not my bones but evidently the cartilage in the joints. Or something. I have bunions and complicated blood-sugar issues already, so I could at least psyche myself into some joint-love. Perhaps my university offers something that would be convenient. And cheap.

It’s time I said goodbye.
It chills the very marrow to say it.

Recently I made a step to find you. It was a feeble step — the very words I typed were meek, lost — but in doing this something very important is happening and because of this I have to say goodbye to you. The you that is dead.
Dead to me.
Or maybe just dead.

When I killed you it was because I had no other choice. You were my brother, you were my secret, you were the external manifestation of my inner self, you were my greatest friend. You never really turned on me, exactly, you just stopped being the green glimmer of light in my soul. The sparkle in your eyes were all the things unsaid, kept hidden, not a simple happiness like it had been before.

This may not sound familiar, but trust me when I tell you. It was during your purple haze of weed, the aftermath of bedlam, the betrayal of some deep-held truths. I watched as you sank further, with everyone. Your words became corrosive. Your hands became sharp. You began to grow spines. One day it exploded and snagged all of my venerable pieces of skin and ripped me apart like nothing ever had. And then it happened again. And again. Each day I was killed to see it, and it opened up wounds I could never have prepared myself for. So I had to kill you, out of self defense.

It’s been a battle. To convince one’s self so strongly of something so profoundly and obviously false is something extraordinary. There were even times that I wanted to talk to you about it, because it’s something we could have talked about before. There are entire months of Senior year that I have no memory of, so cleanly had I wiped you from my reality.

I saw you twice after all of this and I had to somehow resurrect you. Sitting in your parent’s new house helped, but the entire thing was very surreal. I apologize in hindsight for reacting so formally, being such a stick in your house. Years of metaphor and inner-narrative and eventual recovery had left me in a comfortable state of Separate. After I had killed you in my mind I was unaware you were ever going to show up happy to see me. I never counted on you calling my name, arms out stretched, standing in line after POK and el-Jordo, old alliances reunited. I couldn’t deny you the same affection as the other two, as it was clear they had forgiven. I forgave, but I was not resigned. Not convinced.

You never saw me fall
you never saw me at all.

I said that a lot.

Tonight I learned that one of them would have given up heterosexuality to be with you. Maybe he still would. Your personal magnetism continues its vice-like grip around people’s throats. It seems like some things never change.

Recently I was told that I’ve changed. I must say it came sort of as a shock. You wouldn’t notice since you’ve not been around and really you’ve changed more than the rest of us. What with dying and the marriage and all. But I’ve also spent time with someone who thinks the same things as me and the same times I do, and she’s never convinced herself that she was crazy, so apparently I still have a lot to learn.

This is it, Épine. This is the end.
You aren’t dead to me, not any more.

Your cells are moving and you are waking, blinking in the sunlight, and all the hope left in me also imagines you pulling yourself from that tired mess of warmth, sheets and smell to bring your addict’s hands to the machine that percolates our juice of life. And maybe soon we can again congregate in front of it, as we once did so often, and talk carelessly about all things.
I miss you.
And I will be looking for you.

Peace,

Maggie.

I am back from my Great Trek West — my first participation in the annual ski/snowboard extravaganza. Half-assers we are not. The trip is about a week long, with free lift tickets for every day. A vacation condo is rented, wine is consumed, movies are watched, mountains (or hills, depending on your skill level,) are ridden. While I come from a family that made a yearly trip to the slopes we never did it for several days at a time, and while my knee is saying otherwise it is truly the way to go about that sort of thing. There is a certain amount of skill you re-learn when you are out there again for the first time in a few years, and being able to practice and improve every single day is really awesome. It is a much more leisurely way to go about it as well — no pressure to excel and hit the hardest things immediately. You want to spend a day working on toe-turns? Fine. You want to spend a day in the bowls doing freestyle double black diamonds? That’s fine too. You want to chill on the couch or at a coffee shop and read all day, it is VACATION after all? No big deal. While there was a certain frenzied mentality around some of the better skiers I never felt pressured to be as enthusiastic when I didn’t want to be. I woke up when I was good and ready, met up with all of the other snowboarders in our group who stuck with the greens, and we had a terrific time.

BUNNIES, FOR A SECOND

This is truly great if just for the title: FAT GERMAN RABBITS TO FEED POOR: Monster Bunnies For North Korea. Honestly, truly inspiring — I think all people who have obvious excess should spread the goods around, particularly when there is such an obvious need. A big gold star goes to Karl Szmolinsky for being awesome. That being said, you have to admit. This is bizarre and more than a little funny. Which joke train will you board? I can think of two obvious ones right off the bat:

and,

LESS BUNNY-LIKE AND A LITTLE MORE WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH

I was listening to the local segment on NPR re: Mexican immigrant workers. This is sort of common place here, considering this post-Shift plant raid and the population density. And it’s fine, I guess, but tire of the novelty aspect of the rhetoric on these “news” items. Mexican workers are actually quite capable employees! And they work their way up from the washroom to the waitstaff! How quaint! The next thing you know they’ll be looking out the window and calling their friends on a telephone! Or driving a car! Or going home on their lunch hour to feed the cat! You know, just like any human does. How droll. How novel. How tiresome. If there is ever a great invasion from our neighbors to the South, I could imagine it being largely for this reason. Apparently I missed the memo about how “browns” are the new “darkies”.

IF I MAY REMAIN IRRITATED FOR A SECOND

I received the following message via some public internet forum from an acquaintance in high school:

Hey Maggie. I heard that you are living in an apartment, and I’m looking for one too. I was wondering where it is that you are living, cause I’d like to take a look and see if its a place I’d like to live. Thanks! [phone number]

Now. Maybe she just means she wants to see what’s out there, and live somewhere based on what she finds. However, worded this way it sounds an awful lot like Hi, I’m looking to live all up in your space whether you like it or not. And if you know me at all, this would be a big hell to the no, regardless of who you are. I have turned down people that I hang out with every day. I do like people — far be it from me to give off the impression that I’m a total recluse — but part of the reason I like people so much is that at the end of the day I can get the hell away from everyone. Babies need diapers, Maggies need coffee and her SPACE. Deal?

More later perhaps.