Right to the point on this one -- what a fuckin' week. Jesus. I can't even get into details, but here's the breakdown:
Work at Gap.
Run to Malden to attempt to educate the unfortunate youth in the minutiae of fashion design.
Run home in record time (slowest trip ever).
Realize that still have no shoes for Sunday's wedding.
Run to mall, purchase shoes.
Get sidetracked.
End up with pretty nails and two eyebrows.
Stop for a quick sit down dinner, read book.
Realize mall is closing.
Rush home to look busy for when Bil gets off work.
Attempt to re-tailor Bil's vintage 1940's suit in an hour.
Break a needle.
Give up.
Pick Bil up in selfish gesture of goodwill (and frustration).
Return home with renewed sense of purpose.
Resume attempted tailoring.
Finish at 3am.
Give up on alteration to own dress as cannot see straight.
Awake, unrefreshed, at 4am.
Yell at Bil.
Stay in bed until 4:30 to spite Bil. (Bitch).
Dash to airport at 4:45.
Wrong terminal.
Dash to other terminal.
Check in.
Attempt to peaceably get through security.
Fail.
Get bodily searched and summarily felt up by woman called "Marge."
Offer to get naked.
Declined.
Hop on mostly uneventful flight to LA.
Drool on shoulder.
Awake in LA.
Rent car.
Drive car to 'rent's house.
Get gussied up to view wedding site (ours, not theirs).
Take flowers from grocery store.
Don't pay.
Barge in on stern teacher's fifth grade class.
Apologize profusely.
Offer to get naked.
Rain check.
View site of wedding (set up for National Multiple Sclerosis Association semi-annual fundraiser).
Contemplate Multiple Sclerosis.
Leave.
View swanky red Porche.
Lick swanky red Porche.
Tastes like strawberries.
Eat mad fried chicken.
Dance the funky chicken.
Say goodni----.
Apparently pass out.
Apparently wet the bed.
Wake up refreshed.
Leave in shame.
Eat heavenly burgers from In-N-Out.
Die happy.
Go to Bil's 'rent's house.
Eat real Mexican food for first time in lives.
Die happy again.
Resurrect.
View production of Cabaret.
Not yo' mama's Cabaret.
See random people (and friends) from the past.
Get drunk.
Real drunk.
Drink more.
Awake hung over in old residence.
Eat Carl's Jr. and laugh about parties past.
Clutch heads in hung over commiseration.
Shuffle over to Tyler.
Buy rockin' Converse shoes for $15 less than they are in Boston.
Dance with joy.
Hung over joy.
Desperately buy new underwear to wear under there.
Dash to wedding in Long Beach.
Arrive really early.
Walk.
Get blisters.
Laugh.
Cry.
Dance.
Drink.
Drink more.
Hang out too late.
Get home later.
Throw out back while pooping.
Wake up an hour later.
Yell at Bil.
Rush to airport.
Get stuck in traffic on the 210.
Get stuck in traffic on the 605.
Get stuck in traffic on the 710.
Somehow totally forget where the 405 is.
Find the 405.
Get stuck in traffic on the 405.
Arrive at airport as flight is taxiing on runway.
Reschedule to flight an hour later.
Attempt to get through security.
Get red-flagged.
Get "puffed." (LAX's word, not mine).
Watch as woman called "Blanche" meticulously removes all purse flotsam, looking for explosives.
Watch her miss a forgotten lighter.
Run to gate.
Arrive as last passenger on flight.
Discover flight is to Phoenix. (Not Boston).
Discover as Phoenix-bound flight is landing that have a second ticket to Boston in envelope.
Eat pizza.
Jump on Boston-bound flight.
Attempt to reclaim rightful half of armrest from crazy single-serving friend.
Attempt is met with friendly banter.
Chat.
Awkward silence.
Return to R is for Ricochet.
Attempt to ward off hand-holding advances from single-serving surgeon.
Drift into hung over sleep.
Awake to find armrest up between lecherous single-serving surgeon and self.
Realize single-serving surgeon's hand is on thigh.
"Do you always molest your neighbors?"
"Only the ones who are cute."
Gross.
Return armrest to separating position.
Sigh in relief.
Ward off more advances.
Pretend to sleep in order to escape evil single-serving surgeon.
Realize that he is placing hand (mine) upon his thigh.
Near his.... tic tac?
EEEEEEEEEEEWWWW!
Stay awake and alert and afraid and attached to airplane wall for remainder of flight.
Score single-serving surgeon's digits. (203.506.7786, for interested parties).
Escape from plane and hide in restroom.
Run to smoking area and hide for additional 20 minutes.
Hope luggage is still at baggage claim.
Success.
Grab cab.
Listen to cabbie mutter under his breath for duration of the ride.
Escape.
Again.
That was the weekend.
Have not slept for three days.
Cannot remember these three days.
Now blogging.
Still blogging.
Wondering how to finish blog.
Cannot remember how to finish.
That is all.
8.5.05
Literary Genius
I am brilliant. I know it. I'm sure of it. BRILLIANT. Really.
There are those people who read things. Books. You know, the written word. Prose, poetry, plays, basically, whatever they can get their hands on. It's a sick fucking addiction, but somebody's got to support starving writers, you know. I am coming out and saying it: I am one of these people. I love reading. I love the feel of crisp, new pages, the smell of freshly printed words on a page, the stiff feel of a brand new paperback, where the glue is still thick and fresh in the binding. Libraries and bookshops are some of my favorite places in the world. My earliest memories (those not involving a goat in the Alps) involve playing hide-and-seek with my father in the legal library of his hoity-toity Beverly Hills law firm on Saturday afternoons as a very, very small toddler. I cannot fall asleep at night without a book in progress, and I cannot poop without the aid of one in the bathroom. I'm a simple soul.
So, after a hectic day yesterday, involving crazy kids, their parents and little league coaches, a 6:30am call an hour away in New Hampshire, not quite enough coffee, and no food whatsoever, I decided that I needed a new book. And I knew exactly which one I wanted: Watermelon by Marian Keyes. It promised to be light, funny, a bit romantic, and very Irish; I knew that I wanted to purchase it before I ever walked into my favorite independent bookshop, as I had just finished one of her other stories and enjoyed it. I've been quite busy as of late and a bit stressed out about my stupid murderous roommates and all of the jobs (count 'em -- 4) and I really wanted something light and funny -- pure escapism is the order of the day every day.
I walked into the bookshop and headed directly to the K area of the fiction section . . . and was deterred by another Marian Keyes title that also had promise: Last Chance Saloon. In my exhausted and starved state, I did what any reasonable woman in my shoes would have done: "Eeny, meeny, mieny, moe. Catch that tiger by the toe. If it hollers, let it go. Eeny, meeny, mieny, moe." Only, I didn't want to cheat, so I looked at the next shelf up, grabbed the book that fate had chosen (ok, it was Watermelon, if you must know, but I swear I didn't look -- I just remembered that it was the one on the right). I confidently strutted up to the register, laid my book on the counter, dug out my wallet, gave the sales lady a winning smile as I told her my customer appreciation program number, and handed her my card before I looked lovingly at my newest acquisition: The Swallows of Kabul.
What the fuck? The back of the book did not say, "Claire has everything she ever wanted: a husband she adores, a great apartment, a good job. Then, on the day she gives birth to their first baby, James informs her that he's leaving her. Claire is left with a newborn daughter, a broken heart, and a postpartum body that she can hardly bear to look at.
She decides to go home to Dublin. And there, sheltered by the love of a quirky family, she gets better. So much so, in fact, that when James slithers back into her life, he's in for a bit of a surprise." It did not look like this:
On the contrary, it said, "Kabul under the Taliban, a devastated city ruled by executioners and crows, where laughing in public brings down the wrath of the religious police. This is the world in which Yasmina Khadra---the psuedonym of a former officer in the Algerian army---sets his cauterizing novel of fanaticism and tenderness.
With an implacable eye, Khadra follows two couples: Mohsen and Zunaira are dispirited survivors of Afghanistan's educated middle class; Atiq is a brutish jailer bound by a debt of gratitude to his dying wife, Musarrat. One day the horrified Mohsen finds himself taking part in the stoning of a condemned prostitute, an action that will impel all four characters toward new destinies. As spare as carved bone and filled with images that explode like bombs, The Swallows of Kabul is a work of haunting power." And, not that I would judge a book by its cover, but it looked like this:
Well, fuck. That's not at all what I was looking for. I wanted light, remember. I'm sure that The Swallows of Kabul is great. But I wanted beach-read light, not rainy day dreary, damnit.
So, what could I do? I went back to the K area of the fiction section with both eyes wide open, grabbed Watermelon, went back to the register, put my stupid book on the counter, made small talk with the clerk, muttered something about buying the book for a friend with less literary tastes (damn near illiterate, that one--that sort of thing), and I paid for the book I really wanted, all the while with The Swallows of Kabul darkening my bag and my mood.
The upshot? At my second trip to the register, the thing spit out a coupon for me for being an appreciated customer (which basically means that I have spent over $150 there--again). So now, my next book purchase will be discounted $7.50. And I'll still have the exuberant and joyous Swallows of Kabul.
Go ahead and fucking laugh. You know you want to.
That, dear readers, is all.
There are those people who read things. Books. You know, the written word. Prose, poetry, plays, basically, whatever they can get their hands on. It's a sick fucking addiction, but somebody's got to support starving writers, you know. I am coming out and saying it: I am one of these people. I love reading. I love the feel of crisp, new pages, the smell of freshly printed words on a page, the stiff feel of a brand new paperback, where the glue is still thick and fresh in the binding. Libraries and bookshops are some of my favorite places in the world. My earliest memories (those not involving a goat in the Alps) involve playing hide-and-seek with my father in the legal library of his hoity-toity Beverly Hills law firm on Saturday afternoons as a very, very small toddler. I cannot fall asleep at night without a book in progress, and I cannot poop without the aid of one in the bathroom. I'm a simple soul.
So, after a hectic day yesterday, involving crazy kids, their parents and little league coaches, a 6:30am call an hour away in New Hampshire, not quite enough coffee, and no food whatsoever, I decided that I needed a new book. And I knew exactly which one I wanted: Watermelon by Marian Keyes. It promised to be light, funny, a bit romantic, and very Irish; I knew that I wanted to purchase it before I ever walked into my favorite independent bookshop, as I had just finished one of her other stories and enjoyed it. I've been quite busy as of late and a bit stressed out about my stupid murderous roommates and all of the jobs (count 'em -- 4) and I really wanted something light and funny -- pure escapism is the order of the day every day.
I walked into the bookshop and headed directly to the K area of the fiction section . . . and was deterred by another Marian Keyes title that also had promise: Last Chance Saloon. In my exhausted and starved state, I did what any reasonable woman in my shoes would have done: "Eeny, meeny, mieny, moe. Catch that tiger by the toe. If it hollers, let it go. Eeny, meeny, mieny, moe." Only, I didn't want to cheat, so I looked at the next shelf up, grabbed the book that fate had chosen (ok, it was Watermelon, if you must know, but I swear I didn't look -- I just remembered that it was the one on the right). I confidently strutted up to the register, laid my book on the counter, dug out my wallet, gave the sales lady a winning smile as I told her my customer appreciation program number, and handed her my card before I looked lovingly at my newest acquisition: The Swallows of Kabul.
What the fuck? The back of the book did not say, "Claire has everything she ever wanted: a husband she adores, a great apartment, a good job. Then, on the day she gives birth to their first baby, James informs her that he's leaving her. Claire is left with a newborn daughter, a broken heart, and a postpartum body that she can hardly bear to look at.
She decides to go home to Dublin. And there, sheltered by the love of a quirky family, she gets better. So much so, in fact, that when James slithers back into her life, he's in for a bit of a surprise." It did not look like this:
On the contrary, it said, "Kabul under the Taliban, a devastated city ruled by executioners and crows, where laughing in public brings down the wrath of the religious police. This is the world in which Yasmina Khadra---the psuedonym of a former officer in the Algerian army---sets his cauterizing novel of fanaticism and tenderness.
With an implacable eye, Khadra follows two couples: Mohsen and Zunaira are dispirited survivors of Afghanistan's educated middle class; Atiq is a brutish jailer bound by a debt of gratitude to his dying wife, Musarrat. One day the horrified Mohsen finds himself taking part in the stoning of a condemned prostitute, an action that will impel all four characters toward new destinies. As spare as carved bone and filled with images that explode like bombs, The Swallows of Kabul is a work of haunting power." And, not that I would judge a book by its cover, but it looked like this:
Well, fuck. That's not at all what I was looking for. I wanted light, remember. I'm sure that The Swallows of Kabul is great. But I wanted beach-read light, not rainy day dreary, damnit.
So, what could I do? I went back to the K area of the fiction section with both eyes wide open, grabbed Watermelon, went back to the register, put my stupid book on the counter, made small talk with the clerk, muttered something about buying the book for a friend with less literary tastes (damn near illiterate, that one--that sort of thing), and I paid for the book I really wanted, all the while with The Swallows of Kabul darkening my bag and my mood.
The upshot? At my second trip to the register, the thing spit out a coupon for me for being an appreciated customer (which basically means that I have spent over $150 there--again). So now, my next book purchase will be discounted $7.50. And I'll still have the exuberant and joyous Swallows of Kabul.
Go ahead and fucking laugh. You know you want to.
That, dear readers, is all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
