Theoretically that's supposed to help me get through this moment. The trouble is, I want to blip this moment. To get through it without identifying it, in all its discomfort and pain and crusty crankiness. But the only way out is through. I hate that.
How can I tell him again and again I don't want to go out to Reading this weekend? That being out there depresses me, to say nothing of the four hour drive each way. I have told him, and he was stunned, because he had never realized the trouble I was having, with those memories, and that anxiety. But these months later he's already forgotten.
And I'm tired. Not sleepy, not needing sleep or up too long or needing to catch up or nappish. Just tired. Done, drained, empty, in need of refueling, thud. Need to nurse my small self, this one-sprout seedling, without using up what little store of emotional reserve I have.
Not to mention I have the damn dog. The dog whom I love dearly, whom I miss when I don't see her for days....but it costs a lot, emotionally, psychically, to take care of an 87-pound being who misses her constant companion. (I should know. I don't weigh all that much more than she.) I want to wash my kitchen floor, lounge in front of the fire, pay the rent which was due last week but we managed to fuck up jointly, do nothing, do yoga, be Sara and absorb my tranquil surroundings.
28 January 2005
10 January 2005
Hack.
It.
The catastrophic plague that has been sweeping the office.
Phloo.
I have it.
Great. I always wanted to be an It Girl.
Sherry, I need your snail mail address. The most recent one I have for you is the house in Brighton. Please email me. And yeah, this is what happens when you stick your head in an MDiv for a month. Shit happens, I get engaged and hit up by some serious microorganisms.
Let this be a lesson to us both.
I did, however, get a Christmas card from your mother congratulating me on my new job, so at least you're getting some of the news.
The catastrophic plague that has been sweeping the office.
Phloo.
I have it.
Great. I always wanted to be an It Girl.
Sherry, I need your snail mail address. The most recent one I have for you is the house in Brighton. Please email me. And yeah, this is what happens when you stick your head in an MDiv for a month. Shit happens, I get engaged and hit up by some serious microorganisms.
Let this be a lesson to us both.
I did, however, get a Christmas card from your mother congratulating me on my new job, so at least you're getting some of the news.
22 December 2004
On Setting a Date
I have been asked endless variations on this question since announcing my engagement Sunday evening. While I can no longer accurately and honestly respond with my original answer, the spirit of the response is the same.
My original answer, by the way, was, "All of my underwear is still in a box in a U-Haul. Give me a minute, here."
My original answer, by the way, was, "All of my underwear is still in a box in a U-Haul. Give me a minute, here."
03 December 2004
The Coffee Truck
The highlight of our mornings here at Columbia University Press is an institution known as "the coffee truck" (the alternate name for which is, as Joel informs me, the roach coach.) Every morning at approximately 10:30 the coffee truck arrives and honks. Word goes 'round the office, passing from those who are close enough to windows at the parking-lot end of the building to actually hear the truck honking, through the finance department, down on through the indexers cluster by cluster: "Coffee truck.....coffee truck's here.....coffee truck....praise God..." There is a mad scrambling for coats and change-purses, and we begin our daily pilgrimage to that holiest of shrines, the coffee truck.
The coffee truck is a beautiful sight. Its shiny chrome sides gleam in the midmorning light, and some half-dozen spigots protrude from the back of the truck, dispensing coffee, hot water, decaf, coffee, coffee, and more coffee. Cradled in a trough are cartons of milk and Tupperware containers of sugar. On one side of the truck are various tasty comestibles--sandwiches, doughnuts, muffins, and of course cheese Danish. Occasionally there are also yoghurts of varying exotic fruits. Though this concept takes the phrase "highway robbery" to a new height of linguistic irony, and the caloric consequences are sometimes devastating, the coffee truck is indeed one of man's finest inventions, second only to bottled beer.
Which brings me to my point. This morning, there was talk among a certain group of indexers that there should be an afternoon counterpart to the coffee truck. (This flight into fantasy has no doubt occurred because it is currently 10:57 and so far the coffee truck has not made its appearance.) Sometime around 3:00 or 3:15 each afternoon, the afternoon counterpart should make its appearance. It will be called "The Beer Truck."
Ideally, the beer truck would have taps along its back bumper, offering a variety of domestic, import, and microbrew selections. Around the side you'd have your mixed nuts, trail mix, hot wings, cocktail offerings, olives, finger sandwiches, and scoop-your-own popcorn. One of the guys from the warehouse on the first floor has even suggested tiki torches, because by 3:30 in the winter, it's already pretty damn dark and you don't want to spill your drink (except maybe on that jerk from marketing). It was MK who came up with the coup de grace: Friday afternoon travelling beer truck treks.
On Friday afternoons, instead of parking, the beer truck would honk and make a U-turn. Employees could then log off, pack their briefcases, fetch their car keys, and join a caravan, a sort of vehicular conga line, to the destination of the week. We would follow the beer truck hither and yon, through the hills of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow to wherever the beer truck led us. Whenever and wherever the beer truck parked, the party would begin.
For now, though, we're stuck eating our $2.00 doughnuts and drinking mediocre brown swill at a dollar per environmentally questionable styrofoam cup. (I've noticed there's no discount if you bring your own mug. Come on, even Starbucks does that.)
The coffee truck is a beautiful sight. Its shiny chrome sides gleam in the midmorning light, and some half-dozen spigots protrude from the back of the truck, dispensing coffee, hot water, decaf, coffee, coffee, and more coffee. Cradled in a trough are cartons of milk and Tupperware containers of sugar. On one side of the truck are various tasty comestibles--sandwiches, doughnuts, muffins, and of course cheese Danish. Occasionally there are also yoghurts of varying exotic fruits. Though this concept takes the phrase "highway robbery" to a new height of linguistic irony, and the caloric consequences are sometimes devastating, the coffee truck is indeed one of man's finest inventions, second only to bottled beer.
Which brings me to my point. This morning, there was talk among a certain group of indexers that there should be an afternoon counterpart to the coffee truck. (This flight into fantasy has no doubt occurred because it is currently 10:57 and so far the coffee truck has not made its appearance.) Sometime around 3:00 or 3:15 each afternoon, the afternoon counterpart should make its appearance. It will be called "The Beer Truck."
Ideally, the beer truck would have taps along its back bumper, offering a variety of domestic, import, and microbrew selections. Around the side you'd have your mixed nuts, trail mix, hot wings, cocktail offerings, olives, finger sandwiches, and scoop-your-own popcorn. One of the guys from the warehouse on the first floor has even suggested tiki torches, because by 3:30 in the winter, it's already pretty damn dark and you don't want to spill your drink (except maybe on that jerk from marketing). It was MK who came up with the coup de grace: Friday afternoon travelling beer truck treks.
On Friday afternoons, instead of parking, the beer truck would honk and make a U-turn. Employees could then log off, pack their briefcases, fetch their car keys, and join a caravan, a sort of vehicular conga line, to the destination of the week. We would follow the beer truck hither and yon, through the hills of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow to wherever the beer truck led us. Whenever and wherever the beer truck parked, the party would begin.
For now, though, we're stuck eating our $2.00 doughnuts and drinking mediocre brown swill at a dollar per environmentally questionable styrofoam cup. (I've noticed there's no discount if you bring your own mug. Come on, even Starbucks does that.)
01 December 2004
Friedrich Schiller Ironing a Kilt
The fact that it's December hasn't occurred to me. November has been so endless that it cannot possibly be near the end of the first week of Advent. Of course, the fact that I'm living with a Jew (though only sort of, on both counts) at the moment might have something to do with it. That and my complete lack of home. Christmas=home, it always has. This year, homeless, I feel robbed of Christmas, even though Louise builds on to her Christmas village every day at the office, and bakes enough cookies to throttle us all several times over. Even though there are lights all the way down Oscawana Lake Road to the Heights, even though I'm far enough north for snow any night.
And more and more each morning, I realize I miss my boyfriend. This morning I just wanted to hold him, to wrap myself up in his warm scent and strong shoulders, even though he clamps his leg too tight over my hip when he's sleeping sometimes, not realizing of course that he could crush me if he wasn't careful.
EdTool was working fine when I came in this morning; now it's being a bastard. It's been 11:30 since about quarter after nine. Which would be fine if I didn't have to work through lunch so I can drive 95 miles to teach tonight. These next few Wednesdays are going to suck....though not as much as the next few Thursday mornings....
I'm a little insulted that Eva called to ask if we were serious about renting the house. I wanted to say, "If you had drawn up a lease, we'd have signed it already." I told her I wanted to move in as soon as the paint was dry. I mean, good god. I'm sleeping on Robin's couch. (well, he's sleeping on his couch, I'm sleeping in the bed, because that's the way Robin is) I have given up the lease on an apartment I loved, I have bought a new car, I have moved an additional 120 miles away from my partner. I am waiting for you, Eva. I have tried to be perfectly clear that we are serious, and that we were trying not to push you, but that we are anxious to move in and get on with it. Jesus. I am nearing wit's end on how to make myself clear and make this happen. I am getting to the point again where I need answers, because this amount of uncertainty is not healthy for me.
Neither is what I'm about to say to EdTool, white-screening me again for the nth time this morning. This hour.
Grrrrrr.
And more and more each morning, I realize I miss my boyfriend. This morning I just wanted to hold him, to wrap myself up in his warm scent and strong shoulders, even though he clamps his leg too tight over my hip when he's sleeping sometimes, not realizing of course that he could crush me if he wasn't careful.
EdTool was working fine when I came in this morning; now it's being a bastard. It's been 11:30 since about quarter after nine. Which would be fine if I didn't have to work through lunch so I can drive 95 miles to teach tonight. These next few Wednesdays are going to suck....though not as much as the next few Thursday mornings....
I'm a little insulted that Eva called to ask if we were serious about renting the house. I wanted to say, "If you had drawn up a lease, we'd have signed it already." I told her I wanted to move in as soon as the paint was dry. I mean, good god. I'm sleeping on Robin's couch. (well, he's sleeping on his couch, I'm sleeping in the bed, because that's the way Robin is) I have given up the lease on an apartment I loved, I have bought a new car, I have moved an additional 120 miles away from my partner. I am waiting for you, Eva. I have tried to be perfectly clear that we are serious, and that we were trying not to push you, but that we are anxious to move in and get on with it. Jesus. I am nearing wit's end on how to make myself clear and make this happen. I am getting to the point again where I need answers, because this amount of uncertainty is not healthy for me.
Neither is what I'm about to say to EdTool, white-screening me again for the nth time this morning. This hour.
Grrrrrr.
25 November 2004
Sneezle Weasel
That would be me. I woke up like clockwork at 6:42, waiting for my cell phone alarm to go off....which of course it did, though it shouldn't have, since I'm home and theoretically turned it off yesterday. Or not. But it's funny, how quickly my body adjusts to the idea of this as waking time. So now it's eight and I'm better than halfway into my mug of tea (tea! what a blissful thing! who thought of tea?) and kicking around the internet while blowing my runny little sinus-infested nose. If the weather would stop changing, or if I didn't have three cats and a houseful of fur that I'm packing into boxes and swirling around, this might not be so much of a problem.
I confess I still have what could aptly be described as "a shitload" of papers to grade from the midterm. But right now I'm still in overdrive mode. Mostly drive. I'm living up at Robin's during the week (how weird is that? ) so I don't have to commute hell and away from New Jersey. These first three days it was a backpack full of clothes and my journal, but Robin suggested bringing the futon and taking over his camera room. I was -- humbled. Floored, to say the least, though on reflection I shouldn't have been. Robin has always had an endless well of compassion coupled with an unerring ability to do the logical thing. The funny thing: my boyfriend is completely okay with this. It's not ideal, but you do what needs to be done. And my wiping out on 287 at six in the morning is, frankly, not what needs to be done. What needs to be done is a massive amount of painting in Eva's house (for me! for us! for my boyfriend and me.....and she even asked me what colours I liked, which was sweet and kind and thoughtful as I am remembering people know how to be....it constantly amazes me, the kindness of people) and then the migration continues, ever northward. I'm already fifteen boxes of books into it.
I should probably be making piecrust. But that can wait another few minutes.
Another interesting development is the very likelihood that I will soon be the owner of my first new car. Not dad's, my own. Even as recently as last month, I didn't think that would ever happen. On the other hand, why spend $5000 of dad's money (to be repaid, obviously) on something that will fall apart in three years, wherein my boyfriend and I will have to do this all over again, and who knows where we'll be then? It might be better, but it might be a hell of a lot worse. And a thousand dollars a year on gas--I didn't even know I spent that much, let alone that I would save that much with this hybrid.
And above all, it's cute. It's a Honda, and even though it's that strange new shade of opalescent light Honda blue, I really like it. It suits me. I felt at home. And, okay, when I went out to pat it on the flank and say goodbye, I got a surge from it--not a battery surge, or a static electricity suge......one of those surges. An "I want to be yours" surge. A surge that said to me that this car feels the same way I do.
I'm just afraid of the commitment, of falling over on my nose and taking someone else with me this time; once again having to ask my father to bail me out because he was right, I overextended. I would hate that. On the other hand, as I observed to Doug the other day, I have completely no fear like this of moving in with my boyfriend. That, at least, makes total sense to me. Well, okay, I'm terrified, let's not be ridiculous here. I'm terrified that I'll curl up like a defensive little hedgehog and stick all my quills out at him until he leaves me alone in my cage--but on the level both just above that and just below that--like a river whose warm currents swirl around a cold eddy--I am completely sure from the soles of my feet that this is the next step for us to take. True, neither of us ever dreamed that we'd be living together before marriage; it's just not the Catholic-parent thing. But this is the way our life has worked out, and--like living at Robin's--this is the best way to proceed from here. It's like the plot of a novel: it has one true path, and if you stare at it long enough, all the other ones slowly melt away until this is the only way left to you, until all other possible paths become absurdly impossible to imagine, as if this had been the road all along, this wide boulevard. Not saying, you understand, that gazing at it makes it so--I'm not quite stubborn enough (or naive enough) to believe that--but simply that after a while it becomes obvious.
The way John Keeble used to say he knew when a page of fiction or a poem was right--it used to hum purple up off the page at him. Very unlike John, on one level, but again, at another, completely John.
My boyfriend's asleep in my bed, torqued and twisted incredibly into the flannel sheets he bought me last winter. That was the most amazing thing to me, when I woke this morning in the grey light: that he should be here, real and solid and warm, after all I've been through, after all the moments dreaming of this moment, that it should become real. that were I to nudge open the door and peer inside, it would be real still. And most unbelievable of all, that it will remain real for many years to come.
I confess I still have what could aptly be described as "a shitload" of papers to grade from the midterm. But right now I'm still in overdrive mode. Mostly drive. I'm living up at Robin's during the week (how weird is that? ) so I don't have to commute hell and away from New Jersey. These first three days it was a backpack full of clothes and my journal, but Robin suggested bringing the futon and taking over his camera room. I was -- humbled. Floored, to say the least, though on reflection I shouldn't have been. Robin has always had an endless well of compassion coupled with an unerring ability to do the logical thing. The funny thing: my boyfriend is completely okay with this. It's not ideal, but you do what needs to be done. And my wiping out on 287 at six in the morning is, frankly, not what needs to be done. What needs to be done is a massive amount of painting in Eva's house (for me! for us! for my boyfriend and me.....and she even asked me what colours I liked, which was sweet and kind and thoughtful as I am remembering people know how to be....it constantly amazes me, the kindness of people) and then the migration continues, ever northward. I'm already fifteen boxes of books into it.
I should probably be making piecrust. But that can wait another few minutes.
Another interesting development is the very likelihood that I will soon be the owner of my first new car. Not dad's, my own. Even as recently as last month, I didn't think that would ever happen. On the other hand, why spend $5000 of dad's money (to be repaid, obviously) on something that will fall apart in three years, wherein my boyfriend and I will have to do this all over again, and who knows where we'll be then? It might be better, but it might be a hell of a lot worse. And a thousand dollars a year on gas--I didn't even know I spent that much, let alone that I would save that much with this hybrid.
And above all, it's cute. It's a Honda, and even though it's that strange new shade of opalescent light Honda blue, I really like it. It suits me. I felt at home. And, okay, when I went out to pat it on the flank and say goodbye, I got a surge from it--not a battery surge, or a static electricity suge......one of those surges. An "I want to be yours" surge. A surge that said to me that this car feels the same way I do.
I'm just afraid of the commitment, of falling over on my nose and taking someone else with me this time; once again having to ask my father to bail me out because he was right, I overextended. I would hate that. On the other hand, as I observed to Doug the other day, I have completely no fear like this of moving in with my boyfriend. That, at least, makes total sense to me. Well, okay, I'm terrified, let's not be ridiculous here. I'm terrified that I'll curl up like a defensive little hedgehog and stick all my quills out at him until he leaves me alone in my cage--but on the level both just above that and just below that--like a river whose warm currents swirl around a cold eddy--I am completely sure from the soles of my feet that this is the next step for us to take. True, neither of us ever dreamed that we'd be living together before marriage; it's just not the Catholic-parent thing. But this is the way our life has worked out, and--like living at Robin's--this is the best way to proceed from here. It's like the plot of a novel: it has one true path, and if you stare at it long enough, all the other ones slowly melt away until this is the only way left to you, until all other possible paths become absurdly impossible to imagine, as if this had been the road all along, this wide boulevard. Not saying, you understand, that gazing at it makes it so--I'm not quite stubborn enough (or naive enough) to believe that--but simply that after a while it becomes obvious.
The way John Keeble used to say he knew when a page of fiction or a poem was right--it used to hum purple up off the page at him. Very unlike John, on one level, but again, at another, completely John.
My boyfriend's asleep in my bed, torqued and twisted incredibly into the flannel sheets he bought me last winter. That was the most amazing thing to me, when I woke this morning in the grey light: that he should be here, real and solid and warm, after all I've been through, after all the moments dreaming of this moment, that it should become real. that were I to nudge open the door and peer inside, it would be real still. And most unbelievable of all, that it will remain real for many years to come.
05 November 2004
Piff!
That was the sound my head made as I was leaving work Wednesday. To wit:
Hi Sara,
I wanted to let you know that on Monday morning one of the people I had hired didn't show up (I found an email from her that morning saying she had reconsidered). She lives a few blocks away from the Irvington office -- that'll teach me to be guided by how far or close someone lives when making difficult hiring decisions. If you are still interested in the job, please let me know. I thought you'd be terrific at the job, but worried, as I think you know, about your long commute until you got settled into your new house.
I look forward to hearing from you-
Tessa
Columbia University Press
I mean, really! So I emailed her the equivalent of "is a bear Catholic" and went screaming down 413 to teach my class. Haven't really stopped spinning since. The beautiful thing is that after all the stress of the past two days, I called Eva and she's about as tickled as can be that we want to move into the house, and the roofer would have been finished today if it hadn't been so windy. So he's coming by tomorrow, and after that Eva (and presumably Diane) will sit down with us around her kitchen table and hash out the details of this thing, and then we will be able to move.
After all.
Isn't it weird? Isn't it positively lovely, how weird the universe is?
Hi Sara,
I wanted to let you know that on Monday morning one of the people I had hired didn't show up (I found an email from her that morning saying she had reconsidered). She lives a few blocks away from the Irvington office -- that'll teach me to be guided by how far or close someone lives when making difficult hiring decisions. If you are still interested in the job, please let me know. I thought you'd be terrific at the job, but worried, as I think you know, about your long commute until you got settled into your new house.
I look forward to hearing from you-
Tessa
Columbia University Press
I mean, really! So I emailed her the equivalent of "is a bear Catholic" and went screaming down 413 to teach my class. Haven't really stopped spinning since. The beautiful thing is that after all the stress of the past two days, I called Eva and she's about as tickled as can be that we want to move into the house, and the roofer would have been finished today if it hadn't been so windy. So he's coming by tomorrow, and after that Eva (and presumably Diane) will sit down with us around her kitchen table and hash out the details of this thing, and then we will be able to move.
After all.
Isn't it weird? Isn't it positively lovely, how weird the universe is?
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