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july 31, 2001.Things that have happened recently that I don't like: Item one: when I found out that Poet might be dying, I cried like a baby, I fought with the Boy, I did the long introspective walk. You remember. Now I find out that despite his possible fatal liver condition, he's started drinking & smoking again. I don't like this, obviously. I'm told that it's rare (the drinking & smoking, that is). I suppose I shouldn't get all uptight about it; I'm not the one who has to radically change her lifestyle. Besides, now he has Marcie to take care of him. Good old Marcie. Item two: Pixie is not allowed to leave the US for the next 2 years. I don't like this at all. I think it's fate trying to send a message: come home to Canada! It's bad enough that seeing my family is such a big deal, but when they more out of the Toronto core, it's all the more lonely. I can't afford to go to Chicago for another year at least, Journalcon be fucked. Of course, I don't get to be mad at this situation, not really. It was me, after all, who made the decision to move to Nova Scotia in the first place. If I still lived in Toronto, they would only be a cheap train ride away. Item three: I've skipped lunch twice this week already. And this morning I overslept by an hour and a half, so I skipped breakfast too (although I was very well-rested and cheerful at that point, so everything was good). When this is combined with my erratic sleep schedule (also called House Guest Syndrome), I become one cranky motherfucker. Okay, I need to lose weight, but this isn't the way. I don't like being cranky. I need someone to send me a cheeseburger. Today's situation was almost Shakespearean in its confusion. Dirk had agreed to bring me a sandwich at lunch so that we could sit on the grass and loaf about (ha ha. loaf.) I was looking forward to this very much as the morning wore on, for as you'll recall, I'd overslept by almost 2 hours and had rushed out of the house without breakfast. Alas, 'twas not to be. The problems with this plan in execution were multiple, tiny & ultimately confounding. As I sat on the dry, scratchy, uncomfortable grass and waited for Dirk, I tried to read St. Urbain's Horseman with little success. My problem is that I just finished Joshua Then And Now, which contains a later and better version of the same character. My motivation to delve into his troubled aging-writer-Jewish-French-Canadian-with-a-beautiful-Anglo-wife-and-several-children soul was thus drastically reduced. So when 12:30 came & went, I got up & returned to work, assuming that things would work themselves out. They did, of course, work out. Everything always does. But the distinction to be made here is that things don't always work out so that I get a sandwich. Dirk says that he arrived at 12:30, spent a good 45 minutes wandering about hungry, and then went home. He even went to my boss' office (which was closed) and checked the board at reception (which erroneously claimed that I was 'out'). He told me that he began to wish for liveried servants to send hilariously vague messages back and forth. In lieu of that, he went back to the house to eat. Marge: If Apu wants to make it up to you so badly I think you should let him. Speaking of losing weight (and we were, just a few paragraphs ago. check back if you don't believe me), I found a terrific journal today: Pound, a weight-loss journal that's so much more. She wrote a hilarious article for the summer issue of Bust (which I just got, thank you very much Dirk) about size requirements in want ads. She's very funny, very smart, and very thoughtful. I'm going to be going through the archives soon, I think. How did you get so damn fat?
Last night we went grocery shopping at midnight to accommodate the Boy's work schedule. Despite all of us being tired, cold & unable to make most decisions, it was kind of fun nonetheless. As we were loading food in the van, I noticed that the bags were leaning all over the place. "Here, those bags are going to fly all over the place," I said. "Naw naw, they're fine," growled the Boy in a mock construction worker's voice. He patted me condescendingly on the ass as I began to repack the groceries. "Can you spend just one minute without your hand on my ass?" I called out over my shoulder. The response was another pat on the ass. I repeated my line and looked over my shoulder... ...to see the Boy several feet away, returning the cart. Dirk looked at his shoes. "Now the question is..." he paused dramatically, "how could he touch your ass from over there?" I said nothing. I was profoundly unsettled. I still am.
this time 2 years ago: "Amoret you are neat. You have pink shoes on your feet." this time 4 years ago: meeting marilyn manson |
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