Archive for July, 2001

July 27th, 2001

» soapbox kitty

I was just going through some old email and I found one I wrote my sister last fall. I had slept through my alarm for the second time, and I woke up thinking “I am the Sim from hell.” The only other person who thought this was funny was Mel. Oh well.

I was going to write about my plane ride yesterday — Pat took Mel, Leah, and me up in a little four-seater — but my mom just came in and told me they killed the tiger, and now I’m pissed. (I was also going to title this entry “i am the sim from hell,” but it’s too late.)

Background: this little brat-ass seven year old (or something like that) girl went up to a white Siberian tiger at some zoo and it bit her. There was about a billion to one chance that this tiger had rabies, but her parents (and if you ask me this was her parents’ fault in the first place — you don’t let your kid get near enough to a tiger to get bitten, HELLO) pitched a fit about having her get the series of rabies shots. Turns out about twenty percent of the people who get them have a reaction to them; it’s not fatal, but Heaven Forfend dear little princess should experience any more discomfort. So you know what they did instead? Instead of giving her the shots or extracting a bit of brain tissue from the tiger through a surgery that would not take the tiger’s life, they decided to cut the tiger’s head off. Yeah, that’s right.

Let me recap. We cage beautiful, extremely rare tiger. Parents allow girl way too fucking close to cage. Tiger acts on instinct, bites brat. Parents throw hissy fit. We cut severely endangered tiger’s head off to send tiny sample of brain tissue to a lab to determine if tiger has rabies. Even though the odds are astronomically against it.

This makes me so sick I could just vomit. It’s disgusting. And you know what? No, I don’t know the parents’ side of the story. I don’t even want to know. I could not care less about what they might have to say for themselves. I can’t think of one single excuse they could come up with for not having their kid get the shots. I hate people so much. I hope they have nightmares about the tiger’s murder for the rest of their lives.

July 23rd, 2001

» you never know who’s still awake

“Perhaps I am a miscreation
No one knows the truth, there is no future here
And you’re the DJ speaks to my insomnia
And laughs at all I have to fear
Laughs at all I have to fear
You always play the madmen poets
Vinyl vision grungy bands
You never know who’s still awake
You never know who understands and

Are you out there, can you hear this?”
Dar Williams, “Are You Out There”

No one says it quite like Dar Williams. Before I forget (again): I have a new guestbook. This is excellent news, and I thank Bryce very very much for not only setting it up for me but also letting me be very particular about how I want things displayed. And putting up with my eccentric way of htmling. Please do sign it, as many times as you’d like. I have two tips on how to make your entry the most beautiful: leave your email address or your name won’t show up, and leave a website or there will be funny empty brackets next to your name. And I’m going to send Bryce to you in the event of either situation, because he’s the one who has to go in and fix it.

I have two packages that I should be mailing right now, but it’s ninety-something outside and our air conditioning is now fixed, so inside is much better. That and I haven’t found a box that’s the right size for Sarah’s, although I stumbled across a nice padded envelope that’s only a bit too big for Kim’s. Katie (who you can all blame for this entry) was going to get a letter, but I talked to the cat last night instead. (I’m making myself sound kind of crazy, I know. I actually went upstairs to read around midnight and the cat climbed into my lap. If you have cats you know how difficult it is to dissuade them if they have their mind set on something.)

I think I’ve hit the post-vacation doldrums or something. One minute I’ll think everything’s great, I’ll be going along just fine, and the next I’ve sort of slumped back down into a state that can most adequately be described as Blah. The other night I talked to my sister for like two hours about this and that, and when she left I was feeling great and I went to bed. When I woke up it was back to the stupor of nothingness. I think I need to go back to school or something.

I had a dream about school last night. I’ve had a dream about practically everything in the past few nights: after the little dry spell I’ve fallen back to dreaming with a vengeance. (Or remembering my dreams, anyway.) It went through my whole move-in and the first few days and all sorts of stuff, and other than the fact that it was very every-day and it was, after all, school, it was nice. It was nice to be back there for a bit.

I can’t think of a better way to articulate this. I’m on the verge of spewing Dar Williams lyrics everywhere (“Well, laugh!”), because today I am so many of her songs. One day at school last year I started a list of everything I miss, and for lack of anything to say I’m going to put it up now. It’s very short because when I am away I cannot let myself think of too many things at one time.

  • Denny’s
  • Calhoun Square
  • Cyber X
  • the Mississippi
  • the SA
  • Border’s
  • Ragstock
  • the Weisman
  • the Art Institute
  • the giant chicken
  • the Cathedral
  • Fuzzy Duck Studios
  • Lund’s
  • B. Dalton
  • the sane lane
  • the Mall of America
  • lakes
  • trees
  • Wayzata at 4 a.m.

Well, there you go. Everything else in my real written-down journal that I haven’t already put up is too sad to say right now. I had lunch with Erin and Mel at Ruby Tuesdays today and that was good. I also got a new plant: Coffee Arabica, though I don’t like coffee. She’s very pretty, and I’m taking name suggestions. She’s in Liam’s old pot because he got a nice big new one so he can stretch his roots. Here’s hoping he’ll like it, and the part I cut off of him will root so I can replant it.

“I am calling, can you hear this?
I was out here listening all the time
And I will write this down
and then I will not be alone again, yeah
I was out here listening”

July 20th, 2001

» exit I-35 via ramp to I-80 and go west for 1048 miles

Yesterday was National Hump Day and I had grand plans to write an entry all about it. I was going to tell you about the slogan: “Because on National Hump Day, everything is harder!”, the mascot: :-O, and the rules: you have to say “hump” three times in normal conversation. (That’s the hard part, believe me. I mean, how do you slip “hump” into normal conversation? Take this example. “So I humped on down to the store to get some milk…” That’s one slow way to get to the store, and as Sarah pointed out you’d probably get arrested on the way. “Stop, sir! Stop that humping!”) I laughed myself sick about this, trust me. It’s still hilarious. (“Hump, you bastards! Hump faster!”)

Anyway, that’s what I was going to tell you about, but I’m not now. Yesterday was wonderful, today was abysmal. I can’t figure out what story ends on night 271 of the Arabian Nights and the collection of books I really want is an obscene $3600. I have better things to spend my lack of money on. Like college.

Our air conditioning is broken. Or close enough, I guess. It’s the fan in the furnace that quit working. The air is still on, but it can’t get blown around the house very well so we have the thermostat set up to eighty-something. Oh well, we survived worse way way back when we didn’t have central air. So anyway, I started the morning (okay, afternoon) with that. I can’t find the motivation to clean my room. I waited for a half hour for a phone call before saying Screw it and going to read in the tub. I love baths, so that was all great, but I was going to finish up Prozac Nation, which is a depressing enough book to begin with. So I finally settle back into the rhythm (I haven’t read it since the week before school ended) and all of a sudden it skips from page 244 to page 277. There’s not even space in the fucking binding for 33 pages to have been there. So one minute Elizabeth is committed near Harvard, mourning Rafe, and the next minute she’s in London having gotten messed up with some Miguel guy and I have no clue how she got there or what he did to her. I had to put the book down; I just couldn’t keep reading after that.

I guess, other than that and the phone call that never came and the various amounts of other crap I don’t feel like talking about, I’m fine. If fine is nothing, anyway. You get to hear about all of this because no one else is around, and it’s your fault if you come here to read this crap in the first place.

And now there’s a spider making damn good time across my wall. No one to get him with kleenex and not enough time to get the vacuum from upstairs. (Not enough floor space for the vacuum anyway, between the laptop and the scanner and stacks of books and everything else.)

This is my number one reason for ever believing I might have a husband: I just killed that creepy little spider who couldn’t've been bigger than my thumbnail with probably at least ten kleenexes (the nice two-ply thick soft kind) and I’m shaking. I think I need to live with someone who’s less of a chickenshit than I am.

My happy thought for the day is my eight dollar chair. I got it last year at a church rummage sale. It swivels and rocks, and it’s kind of this dusty muted salmon color (orange-tinged pink? Peach?) but I keep a sheet over it because I have no idea where it’s been. The sheet I got at the rummage sale too (white with daisies and yellow tulips), but it was easier to throw in the washing machine. Anyway, the chair is really comfortable, and it’s petite for an armchair: it fits in the trunk of my dad’s car. You can actually close the trunk on this chair. But it’s big and cozy enough to curl up in, which is why I’m loving it right now. It’s the exact perfect size, and it’s very comforting to be able to fold your entire self up in it. It’s some of the best money I’ve ever spent. And it’s semi-famous, too. I’ve fallen asleep in it twice while talking to people online. (Ha. That’s what you get for not letting me go to bed. ,) )

Well, that’s all I have for today: complaints, an unnamed longing, and the god of all armchairs.

July 16th, 2001

» an etymology lesson

I’m magical, like Abe. I can make brooms and canes dance.

I’ve always found something curious/fascinating about how women who live together also go on the rag together. (And god I love that expression.) It’s strange how bodies respond to each other, that strength of female companionship. Did you know if we all lived outside all the time we’d all have the same cycles? It, like tides, has to do with the moon. My roommate gave me this fantastic book for Christmas: Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer. She talks about the moon bit in there, and how that explains why people are so crazy on full moon nights. It’s…lemme find it.

“The full moon?” he asked, against her skin. “That’s the secret of everything?”

She didn’t say yes or no.

His hands climbed her like a tree, from ankles to knees to waist to shoulders until he cupped her face and looked into her eyes like a Gypsy trying to read the future in tea leaves. He seemed so happy, so earnest. “For that, men write stupid poems and howl and hold up liquor stores? When all they really want is every woman in the world, all at the same time?”

I love that. I was reminded by a poem I was reading the other day where they talk about “historical hysterical” — the etymology of hysterical, how it “means the womb has come loose/and wanders all around the body.” I know that sort of lost feeling.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all have Eddie Bondos at least once in our lives? A sort of singular physical passion. Read the book; it’s as good as The Poisonwood Bible, in a different way. (And it’s in third-person. ,-D)

P.S. Worms World Party is kicking my ass. I sank Ship of Fools like two dozen times in a row. On the same first training mission. How do I work these worms?

July 15th, 2001

» ’cause you were all yellow

I’ve temporarily changed the look of my main page, in memorium. The graphic sucks, yes, but I found that I’ve forgotten exactly how I made the original and I had to start over completely, and I got tired of messing around with it. The right people will know what I mean. (Actually, anyone who read my last entry will know what I mean. I’m ignoring that.)

When I was flying back from California I sat next to this man who had some fancy medical apparatus on his knee because he’d torn a ligament or something playing soccer. He’d also held up the line of people waiting to check in at the gate for twenty minutes, making me very nervous about getting on the flight. (It didn’t help that I really didn’t want to be going on it in the first place. Or that I’d gotten up at five a.m.) Remember him?

When I was a kid (Als ich ein Kind war) I was scared of California. It’s kind of funny/ironic now. My uncle used to live in San Francisco; he sent me a postcard once, which I still have somewhere. It was a picture of the Golden Gate bridge and he wrote how it was funny that they called it that since the bridge was actually red. My parents would say maybe we could go out and visit him one day, but it never happened. I remember watching pictures of earthquakes on the news: collapsed roads, twisted cars, houses crumpled like paper, parts of the state sliding out into the ocean. I, imagining this happened on a routine basis, wondered how anyone could be crazy enough to live there and feared constantly for my uncle’s life. Now, though, I’m more inclined to agree with Stephanie. You can’t convince me that California is not the Holy Land.

(I’ll be sad when it finally breaks at the border and drifts out to sea. ;) )

I had a horrible, horrible nightmare last night. It was very strange — kind of a cold intellectual/emotional/guilt terror rather than the usual gut fear reaction of monsters-are-chasing-me dreams. I think I like the latter much better. The good part came later, in a separate dream. It would have been a nightmare too: I know because I’ve had it before. It’s a walking tour of a haunted house that’s modeled on a book, and after the tour the group gathers in a room to watch a video of all the symbolism in the house that mirrors the book, and you can see how much of it you caught. (There was some strange thing about apples, but I did remember it from the book. I…am weird. And the after-meeting isn’t the nightmare part, just actually going through the house.) Anyway, my point. This time I was going with Kim — turns out the whole deal is in California, and she’s been through it lots of times and it’s all grand fun. So I got to cling to her through the whole tour and laugh about it all. (Afterwards I went back to Carrie’s house which wasn’t her house but a mansion with this really nice foyer. Well, it was nice up until I saw who was in it, but that’s when it was a nightmare again and we won’t get into that here.)

I’m going to drown my sorrows at Denny’s now. Next time someone asks me what I’m going to do with my major I’m going to say “Flip burgers. In California.” I dare you to laugh.