Keeping in touch

Two emails from my dad today.

Just had a scratching contest with greta and won.

Oh, I actually beat greta because she had to pee.

Not even lying, it's just like being at home again.

-- 06:05 PM

Post-SAD

Oh, what's that, Wacky Weatherman? You'd like to ruin my mood with a full on week of rain? I'd like to see you try. BEHOLD THE GIVING TREE.

It's just not going to happen. You're not going to bring me down, motherfucker. I don't care if I did kind of wish for a scarf walking home tonight, because it was my light scarf I was thinking of, which I totally intend to wear on summer nights anyway. This is the time of year when things come to life and I realize that there are always new things I want to learn.

I didn't play saxophone this year. This is the first time since the fourth grade that I haven't played it--that's eleven years! I haven't been able to figure out why I wasn't interested in it this year, because my excuses that "band's not fun" and "I'm afraid of being bad" and "I'm too busy" have always been big problems with me, but I've kept at it anyway. A friend of mine from high school that goes here kept insisting that I join something--marching, pep, symphonic, wind ensemble, anything--but it wasn't in me. Music has forever been an intricate part of my life, but not only have I had to describe myself as "between musics" for the past four years, I don't even want to play it anymore.

Fortunately, the annual Arts Festival has been going on here for the past two days, and for lack of a better word, I have found my inspiration. No one joined me at any of the shows I went to; I just wandered around O'Neill Plaza all day with my camera, enjoying the things that I knew other people would insist we not watch. There's still a day left, but in the meantime I've taken away a beautiful ceramic bowl, the faintest of farmer's burns, and the goal to learn the tin whistle.

The day I get home, I am going to buy a whistle and learn to play that thing like no other. And I don't care that that's sort of ridiculous and odd and does not help my Loner Awkward Maybe Gay image that I seem to give off wherever I go. The flowers are out and I don't care. There are so many things that I am interested in that none of my friends are interested in, and this is the time of year where I decide that I will not let other people stop me from pursuing things that I like. I like the Internet and making websites and following blogs and pursuing social networking that encourages creativity, I like going around with my camera however big it is and taking pictures when you're not looking, I like home design and the magazines and style guides that come with it, I like learning new crafts to do with my hands and working on them by myself, I like teaching myself things that no one else will teach me, I like being alone and accomplishing things because if there's one thing people do too much, it's wait for someone else to say, yes, that's normal, you may proceed.

-- 12:23 AM

And I said yes!

Addie proposed to me in a most unusual way.

She told me she was drawing the wedding gowns of all her friends so I said I wanted in. And then I realized that I have never in my life imagined what my wedding dress would look like. I've always jumped ahead to what things would be like afterwards--I wrote an essay long ago that outlined how I met my husband, what his name was, and what problems we faced (it got me sent to my high school psychologist, though we were good friends and he wasn't surprised to see me), and I've had my top three children's names for both genders picked out since at least tenth grade (although now that I think of it, I have not updated that list in a while, and some of the names have fallen out of favor). I've just never thought about the day itself. All of my friends have apparently been piecing together magazine clippings since the beginning of time, so I don't know where I missed that boat. At any rate, thanks and good job to Addie.

By the way, that's my three-year-old daughter who I had out of wedlock. I'm telling her to talk to the hand and get out of my shot because this is my big day and she better not fuck it up or I'll knock her block off with my broomstick.

Anyone need a babysitter?

-- 12:11 PM

"What You Want to Do Fine"

This is one of my favorite passages from my favorite story in Lorrie Moore's Birds of America.

"All you sighted people are alike. You think we're Mr. Magoo! You think I'm not as aware as some guy who paints water towers and's got cysts on his dick?"

Mack shakes his head. He sits up and starts to put his shoes back on. "You really go for the juggler, don't you?" he says.

"Juggler?" Quilty howls. "Juggler? No, obviously, I go for the clowns."

Mack is puzzled. Quilty's head is tilted in that hyperalert way that says nothing in the room will get past him. "Juggler," Mack says. "Isn't that the word? What is the word?"

"A juggler," says Quilty, slowly for the jury, "is someone who juggles."

-- 02:15 PM

Accepted

I am going to Ireland next year. I've "known" it for a while (partly because I believe in myself, partly because the people around me didn't seem to doubt it at all, and partly because I went around to every single advisor and intern in the Hovey House and asked their opinion), but nothing was ever official. Now, my inbox will be holding that special little email for quite some time.

In actuality, it doesn't feel real yet. I still feel like I'm only saying words and living in a pipedream. I have absolutely no clue what it's going to be like, because it is rare that nine consecutive months ever feel the same, never mind nine consecutive months in a place I only wanted to spend a week in. I have some vague ideas about things I would like to do: pictures pictures everywhere, Designer and Book Marts on the weekends, going to pubs and feeling comfortable and maybe not being pressured to drink but rather to talk, talking with people, bah bah bah. It is very foggy.

Nine months is an awfully long time for anyone, not just someone who can scarcely go three weeks without needing to go home to snorgle her dog. Sometimes I think I am out of my fucking tree to go for this long (for example: it is ALWAYS overcast so I will ALWAYS have headaches). But I will not have to worry about that for a while. In the meantime, I will just bask in the "we're so proud of you" remarks and keep my fingers crossed that Ireland will make me more interesting.

-- 06:01 PM

Surpreyes, surpreyes

No, there was not much improvement with my eyes today, but thanks for asking. My eyes look healthy and fine to her; my only instructions are to stop using Clear Eyes and instead use a morning drop and a moistening drop, and hopefully they will stop appearing so disgusting. As for my headaches, she suspects they may be reading related. I now own reading glasses from CVS, which means I am now old. This was funny and heartening this morning, because I've got no problem lubricating my eyes and wearing specs to read, but at exactly three o'clock this afternoon, I was just plain mad. I had not read a single word all day, we had just been looking at dresses in the bridal boutique, and it happened like a truck accident. I've taken Tylenol and removed my contacts and put in my eye drops and the only other solution is going to sleep now.

Sleep is the only response my body has to these daily headaches, and sleep is the only thing I can't do right now. I've only got a few weeks left, which means it's time to get back to work. I wrote a paper last night, and I've got another tonight, plus 130 pages of Evelina, plus some extra readings. I am not going to get any of that done this weekend. The headaches are officially interfering with my regular activities, because as soon as one hits my whole body feels fatigued and shuts down. I am always short of breath. I am really, really tired and impatient and I want to cry.

-- 05:23 PM

Idol Taketh Away

I am trusting American Idol less and less. Reason the first, they had their big Idol Gives Back night this week, and I went online to give $20, the most a college kid can afford these days. I got an error message. Whoopsadaisy, let me go back and make sure I put in the right expiration date. Error message. Fortunately, at this point I got suspicious and checked my online banking statement, to find that I am $40 down when I cannot afford to be $40 down. I care about children in Africa, but SERIOUSLY, SEACREST? I'VE BEEN ROBBED.

Reason the second, Jesus H. Christ, I cannot believe Michael Johns is gone. This is EGREGIOUS. America, don't you understand? This man is a star. The best looking star on that stage, so how DARE you rob me of that beautiful, classic rock, bluesy sight to instead stare at those dreadful dreadlocks of Castro. I remember back in the Top 24 when Johns closed the show with "Light My Fire," then opened the next show with "Go Your Own Way," and my brother demanded to know why he wasn't closing the show again. "He should ALWAYS close the show," he said. That's because his songs were worth waiting for, he was just always awesome. The judges claimed to like him but did not give him enough credit; they can seriously shut the fuck up about his "Across the Universe" and "Day in the Life," those were fine, and "Dream On"? HOW is that not the right song choice? Johns belongs firmly in the 70s and 80s. For shame.

I will now proceed to berate (and occasionally praise) the rest of the Idols, and everyone else can go to hell.

David "Archie" Archuleta: OVERRATED AND UNDERAGE. His nervousness was endearing at first, and his big voice was pleasantly surprising, but it's played out now. There is no way I would ever attend an Archie concert, because I would be bored to death. As my brother has said, he has an unnerving home-schooled-Scientology air to him; what the heck is going on in his stage-father-manipulated mind? If he ever gets beyond his giggles, he's spewing something about inspiration and the duty of a singer to spread peace. I realize he will not be leaving until the final two and will likely be the Idol, but I do not see what everyone else sees in him. I've seen cuter kids than that.

Carly Smithson: UNDERRATED! Why is she always in the bottom three? She has the best voice of the girls by a long shot. I will say that she does look angry, often, but at least her smile doesn't make me throw up like Brooke's does (more later). She's a very nice, genuine Irish gal who does really awesome song covers--"Come Together" and "I Drove All Night" were phenomenal. Would I go out and buy her album? Probably not, which is why she won't be The Idol, but she should not be in the bottom 3 this often. The problem is, Randy and Simon are cruel to her--one says she's always pitchy (because she's one of the only girls who actually GOES for big notes) and one keeps telling her she's fat (inconsequential). But I like her voice very much.

Jason Castro: UNCREATIVE. People. What has happened to you?! This jerk does the EXACT SAME THING EVERY WEEK, AND YOU CALL IT ORIGINAL. No! He's not! Don't you see? Every week, he will get on stage with a guitar and totally dismiss the mighty powers of Shredder in order to warble and make doofus faces. I acknowledge that I am the only person my age who does not like Jack Johnson, and the sorts of people who vote for him are the ones who want to lie on a beach with their toes in the sand smoking pot and laughing and living life in the moment, but that does not make this kid any sort of Idol. I don't understand how the judges can say that David Cook is predictable and not say so to Castro , when I can literally tell you what he is going to do every single time. Also? He can't sing. Sorry. He cuts out on the higher notes, which you might call a style, but I call a cop out. His presence in the competition doesn't totally offend me, because I know he will be weeded out soon, but people give him wayyy too much credit.

Syesha Mercado: UNOFFENSIVE. I don't mind Syesha being around, I like her well enough. She is absolutely gorgeous and has one of the best voices, second to Carly. I was so afraid of who would do "Yesterday" during Beatles week, but her rendition was just awesome. The only thing I would personally hold against her is that she constantly changes the gender in her songs ("Me and Mr. Jones," "why he had to go"). On any occasion, I don't like this tactic (particularly in AIM profiles), I think it's a little too self-preserving, but that's mighty nit-picky. But anyway, she'll probably go soon.

Brooke White: SELF-IMPRESSED CHATTY CATHY. She was endearing at first--the sweet, married, bohemian, soulful girl with one of those voices that most people like, with GREAT hair. And then. And then. She opened her mouth, and instead of singing, she wouldn't SHUT THE FUCK UP. Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap, would you cram it and let the judges have their piece? And also? Are you seriously crying before your even finish your songs? Your "Let It Be" was pretty good, but it really wasn't THAT good, and I wish Simon had said that to you instead of to David Cook (much more on this later). You even said at one point during the next week when your "Here Comes the Sun" didn't really hit home, "Well, after a week like last week, how could it get any better?" It seriously wasn't that good, Brooke, so stop driving yourself to tears with how emotional you are. And stop making that face. You know the one.

Kristy Lee Cook: ZOMG, SHE'S STILL HERE? The whole world should be in agreement that this broad needs to go, and needs to get her eyebrows taken care of, and needs to stop wearing sparkly tank tops and white pants, but they are not, and I don't understand it. She just keeps sticking around. It was funny at first, but now this is just ridiculous. Country music is awful and offensive to the ears, end of story. She didn't even sing country music at the beginning, it was Simon who put it in her head that she should, and now she will never leave. But she must. She must! No way in fucking hell should Michael "I'm Perfect" Johns have left before her. She must be stopped. I am taking out my rage of this week on her.

David Cook: THE ANSWER!!! This guy, right here, deserves to be the Idol, but shouldn't be. Why? Because he needs to go the Chris Daughtry route and go before the industry really gets its claws into him. It will come down to him and Archie, and Archie will take the gold, but Cook will be laaaaughing and laughing because he knows Hollywood will eat Archie alive. He, on the other hand, is just overall strong. I've loved him since his Bon Jovi audition (minus the faux hawk), and every week he has blown it out of the park. He constantly does new arrangements of songs you would never expect--Lionel Richie? Michael Jackson? How does he do it? And oh my god, HE BROUGHT OUT THE TALK BOX. That was incredible! And Simon had the gall to say it was predictable? Are you serious? Because my head exploded, that was such a good performance. He has every right to be smug, because he is handsome (love the new haircut) and creative and his voice is terrific. I will just pretend that he didn't pretentiously write "give back" on his hand, and I will trust him to represent the real rock stars like Johns for the rest of the competition.

-- 12:21 PM

Does this look infected?

Folks, I may be a blind person some day soon. If this becomes the case, you may have my many mirrors, but you leave me my dignity.

These instruments of sight, which I once described in an English class as "yellow golfballs," thereby affirming myself as the least creative dimwit on the planet, have always been troublesome. I was in fourth grade when I realized I couldn't read clocks or chalkboards, and I was in fourth grade when I got the biggest pair of glasses they sold. Fifth grade I switched to contacts, and because that was in my developmental stage, that was when I realized that my eyes were enormous, thanks to the charming commentary of Dan V., who told me to "shut up, bug eyes." Years of facial self-consciousness: commence.

There was the rapidly declining vision and the constant need for red eye drops, which made my dad think that his 8th grade daughter smoked pot at the mall. There was the sty in 10th grade, irritated by the sand on the football fields, which then got stuck in the goop I put under my lids every morning. There were the ocular migraines, which freaked me the fuck out in junior and senior year and I went a while without telling anyone that I was seeing Jesus Christ in the foreground of everywhere I looked. Then there were the actual migraines caused by extreme photophobia, particularly on grey days.

Now, we are dealing with something else. My eyes don't want anything to do with anything. This started back on February 29th, which I remember because it was the day I had my interview and I got mad at Moses for making fun of the way I looked. Since that day that my eye went a little red, I was afraid that I had conjunctivitis, was told that it was actually keratitis, used steroid drops for a week, tried my contacts again, said fuck no look at my eye, switched to very different contact brands, and got the internship I interviewed for.

AND MY EYES STILL LOOK LIKE THIS.

I'm just about ready to dig them out. These new fancy contacts are supposed to be mad breathable and healthier, and I've been so diligent about not wearing them for too long, and really cleaning them, and making sure nothing is caught under the vast tents of my eyelids before putting them in. For the most part, I feel fine the entire day (aside from the headaches, which creep up around eleven in the morning and peak at seven at night). They'll look a little red or yellowy, but that's always been the case with me. But when the headaches become too much and I take them out, it's all over--my corneas explode. For whatever reason, taking them out feels like I'm taking a layer of skin with me. For all I know, I might be. I don't know. You could tell me any crackpot theory about why my eyes are like this and I'd probably believe it, as long as your explanation came with steroid drops.

I go back for my fourth consultation this Saturday. What if I have simply outgrown contacts? I would have to get the Lasik surgery then, although I have never wanted to. I fall asleep so much better when my eyes can't distinguish or focus on anything. On the other hand, I also fall asleep better when a giant isn't pounding his fist into my retinas, so I guess I just don't know. My body has really hit the fucking fan this year. It needs to get its head in the game--we are 20 years old, we are supposed to be at the height of our health, and this is no time to be bitching out.

-- 05:38 PM

Up for grabs

The more my plans come together for this summer, the more up in the air everything feels. For a while there, I was content knowing that I had an easy, steady job and some evenings of fun ahead of me, before riding off into the sunset in late September. Then I had to go muddle it up for myself by saying, yes, I will take that magazine internship, because ten hours a week is easy-peasy.

My problem arises in its location: Watertown. If gas were made of sunflowers and baby power and cost a nickel for a gallon, I would not feel so terrible, but it's the hippies. Those damn hippies have ruined us with their acid-laced guilt trips, and now all I can think about is that when I burp I am poisoning the universe with the processed foods I ate an hour ago. They make me worry that if I do not take public transportation, then the polar bears will swim downstream and eat my kittens, and then the nuclear radiation from the terrorists attacks on Plymouth's power plant (provoked by the oil crisis that I perpetuate with my automobile) will give those bears an intellectual edge over the humans, and the food chain will get all tangled, and on top of it all, my acne will come back.

So, now that I've once again proven that I can find pretty much any way to blame hippies, I am forced to address the issue of the commute. It will take something like two or two-and-a-half hours to get to the office by MBTA, and I do not want to get up at some ridiculous hour to get to Watertown. Over the course of Mondays and Tuesdays, I need to cover ten hours. I do not want to lose more than one day of (paid!) work at the cafe if I can avoid it. So the flimsy plan is: sleep somewhere near Boston on Sunday night; work 9-5 (7/8 hours) at the office on Monday; sleep somewhere near Boston on Monday night; work 9-12 (2-3 hours) at the office on Tuesday; take the train home; be home in time for a 5-10 shift at the cafe.

The up in the air part is where I will stay. I may or may not have a friend's house in Watertown, and I may or may not have a family's house in Newton (though I have not even called the latter to see if that would be acceptable). I worry about being a burden to someone else, and the money I will have to spend on the train, the T, and the bus. I am also up in the air about how fun it will be to work seven days a week for another three months. It is doable--I have done it before. And one thing my dad has always said is that the biggest shock leaving college will be the fact that summer vacations no longer exist, so in a way I am preparing myself. On the other hand, when I told him I was thinking of accepting the internship, he wrote, "Make sure you do what YOU want to do, not what you think Mom and Dad want you to do." I'm not really sure what I'm doing it for. Maybe it's because I think it will impress someone, someday.

Whatever the reason, I have already accepted, so there's no going back. The only thing I can do at this point is try to make this workworkwork a bit more bearable. I will read books, solve crosswords, and take pictures. I will hunt ghosts, watch Batman, and ride bikes. I will see my friends from college, see my friends from home, and see my family at least one morning and one night a week. I will pack lunches, wear jackets, and pet the dogs I walk past. I will drink water, take walks along the Charles River, and give good advice.

Whether I take it or not remains to be seen.

-- 01:33 AM