I think I'm dying of Bird Flu

I'm freaking sick AGAIN. I'm the annoying borderline-ill, where if I drug up enough, I can still function, albeit miserably. I taught this morning, and I've e-mailed in sick for class tonight. I'm very sad because one of my Somali students is cooking up a storm for us in class tonight. We're writing stories about food. Everyone has stories about food.

This morning, a student kept talking about washing her chicken. She needs to mop her chicken. Lightbulb: Kitchen! Not chicken. Kitchen.

I go sheep now. I mean sleep. Sleep!

Pajama Love

First, there are the cotton ones—a t-shirt and bottoms—covered in pink flamingoes. Only the flamingoes have on winter hats and gloves and galoshes and it’s snowing on them. They’re soft and stretchy and have a draw string (elastic sucks) and frankly, I can relate to that bird. I lived in the tropics once and I must say—it’s easy to get used to. Now I am in Minnesota where it’s bloody freezing and snowy, but like my flamingo friend, I like it here enough to just rug up in leg warmers (some of the flamingoes on the pants have on leg warmers) and get snowed upon.

I also have a pair of very oversize red, black and white flannels that are mens’ pjs—saggy bottom and all—that I adore. They’re very old and slightly raggedy, as they are from the Curt Cobain era of chicks-who-wear-extra-big-flannel-stuff. I love them. However, I can’t wear them right now because they are at Lola’s house from the time we had a slumber party and she borrowed them and loved them so much she wore them to breakfast at French Meadow and took them home. She also still has my prom dress, but that’s another story.

Then we have summer wear: light blue shorts and tank to with sparkly sheep on them and an awesome ribbed tank with grommets that I wear with boy-shorts. Then we have a few kinds of pajamas that I won’t get into, but let me just say that American lingerie sucks. French is the way to go. There’s a fabulous French skivvies shop in Portland (6th and… oh, near the square downtown, right next to the Starbucks. Ha ha.) that has the silkiest, most beautiful accentuate-the-goods slips and lots of other lovely awesome wearables. I love my purchase from there so much I could marry it.

Tonight, however, I wear the Magic Love Shirt. The Magic Love Shirt is a raggedy old top that I bought for approximately $1 at Ross in P-town. It promptly shrunk to the Barbie size and is way too bridge-and-tunnel to wear in actual public. It is black and has the word “LOVE” across the front in (not glitter, not sequins) silver and red rhinestones. I wear it with my favorite yoga pants (hooray draw string).

Why is it magic? I only wear it when I need or want to welcome or give or be grateful for all the kinds of love around. I wore it when Melanie died. I wore it right before I met someone I dated for a long time. I wore it when I was homesick for Australia. I bought an identical one for my best friend who lives in NY and am so happy to see when I see her and so sad when we are apart for too long. I wear it when I need to project and open up to love and want loving things to happen, and I swear it works. Quantum physics backs me up on this, people. Seriously. Although there isn’t any kind of catastrophe at present, tonight I wear the magic Love shirt because I want to send all that out there—openness and gratitude, and perhaps a request for a new chance to give and receive it—and we shall see what it brings me.

A quote from Jean Sramek

from www.mnartists.org, “Math Class is Tough: That Rare Artist”

http://www.mnartists.org/article.do?rid=84009

".... This newcomer, we read, is that rare artist who also has a head for business. This description is repeated several times by both the reporter and the artist’s devotees, repeated so that we understand: sure, there are plenty of creative people in the world, but most of them are not very good with numbers. It implies many things, each one more infuriating than the last. But I know what the reporter means. She means it in a positive way, when she says that this artist can also make money. Really. We all know what she means and so let’s stop taking it the wrong way.

"Okay, scratch that. We all know what she means, and let’s take it the way we want to take it, which is with a grain of salt, preferably attached to several other grains of salt, which are in turn attached to the rim of the glass of the world’s largest margarita, which we all drink as we sit around reading the newspaper’s arts section out loud, guffawing until tears come to our eyes. That rare artist who also has a head for business. Ya hear that? I’m rare. You? Well, no. Not rare exactly. More like medium rare, haw haw, God that pisses me off. How come it’s never the other way around, like if they interviewed the president of the Chase Manhattan fucking bank they wouldn’t be all surprised if he played the violin, they’d just say he played the fucking violin, not that he was a rare businessman who had a head for music, and we laugh louder and then have another drink and dull the pain of the world thinking that we’re too stupid to make a living because we are Creative Artists. That’s what the reporter means, and it sucks that most people think she’s right."

Starfish and Coffee

It’s Sunday, the day of Getting Things Done. I will do laundry, clean and go for a long walk. It’s a balmy freakin’ 40 degrees out here in Minneapolis. Still: winter air in Minnesota is dry and makes my hair frizzle up and crack off. So first, I slather high-powered conditioner on my hair. I will cover it with a plastic shower cap and a super-warm REI skiing hat, as the conditioner is heat-activated. I will wear this and dance around my apartment to Prince songs. I will put on fluffy wool socks and, with a running start at the back of my bedroom, glide across the hardwood floors from the bedroom through the bitchin (bedroom/kitchen) and across the living room singing along to "Lets go Crazy."


"Starfish and Coffee":
All of us where ordinary compared to cynthia rose
She always stood at the back of the line
A smile beneath her noseHer favorite number was 20 and every single day
If u asked her what she had 4 breakfast
This is what she’d say
Starfish and coffee
Maple syrup and jam
Butterscotch clouds, a tangerine
And a side order of ham
If u set your mind free, baby
Maybe you’d understand
Starfish and coffee
Maple syrup and jam
-Prince

What the F. And by "F" I mean Frequency.

Behold! I have found the secret key to staying happy, occupied and sane while working hour upon hour inside the cubicle labyrinth! Muzak.

According to Mike and the Muzak corporation.

You see, it goes something like this: Musak isn’t just Rod Stewart songs remixed by Zamfir and his magic pan flute. It is a combination of art and science. It is sophisticated, engineered to saturate business space with dilute, inoffensive Background Product. It employs “Stimulus Progression” (dull tempos, rhythms, and instrumentation followed by brighter tempos, rhythms and instrumentation) to create psychological effects for which the human psychology is apparently programmed. For example: happiness. “When you employ the science of Muzak in an office, workers tend to get more done, more efficiently and feel happier. In general, people feel better about where they are, whether it’s during work or leisure time.” No shit?

Why can’t we just listen to real music? Muzak’s effectiveness is dependent on you tuning it out to do other things, which isn’t possible with regular music you might, say, listen to consciously and, you know, enjoy. That would be too distracting for the cubicle environment.

Muzak is not to be confused with anti-noise, another environmental background tool whereupon two varieties of sound wave are produced to block one another out and result in perceived silence. Okay.

So why aren’t I happier and more productive in my Muzak-saturated business environment (L-shaped desk, uncomfortable chair, wilting poinsettia from the holidays, 5 kinds of machines within a 2 foot radius, gray walls, cheap coffee)? Because Muzak apparently does not work on yours truly. It only has the desired result when it is tuned out, goes unnoticed and the listeners go happily about their conversations and other business without paying it any conscious attention. Muzak’s “Causing people stop to ponder the nature of emotion is seen as a positive failure by its manufacturers and users.”

Alas, my key to cubicle bliss is thwarted. Muzak fails me. Those of you who find happiness, contentment and productivity in the pan flute are blessed, indeed.

The Tiger and the Frog

So, I woke up in a panic in the middle of the night. I had a dream that my house was being attacked and I had to run for my life and catch a boat to the other side of the world. Perhaps I should not read my student's work before bed.

My students are refugees. I love them very much. Sometimes they write about things like their lovely, pristine, happy villages getting attacked in the night and having to run for it only to find relative safety in a camp where soldiers come in the night and do horrible things. Other times they write about feasts they make for various religious holidays (deep fried bat, anyone?) and we look up pictures on the internet. Other times they write made up stories about, say, a tiger and a frog where the tiger tries to eat the frog, and the frog tells the tiger that if the tiger can beat him in a race, he can eat him. Then they race, and at the last minute the frog jumps on the tiger's tail and when the tail flips up the frog is thrown over the finish line. Other times they write about computer programming, the meringue, political uprisings, and their PhD in engineering. Some of them write about America, and how they threw up the first time they saw moving traffic, and how they thought some of our machines were dragons. Quite a variety, I must say.

I'm very thankful that I live in a pretty safe place. I'm also thankful that my students all made it to a pretty safe place.

So, I got up for a while just to double check that the doors were locked and then tried to read a mediocre story to get the dream out of my head, and to get the obnoxious Billy Joel song I heard at Lund's out of my head, too. And when I fell back asleep, I dreamt I was on the boat getting ready to leave home forever, and all the girls I used to waitress with in high school were on the boat with me. And Jamie M. still had on the cropped shirt she used to wear in high school that made all the boys nickname her "Schwing," but it was nice to at least see someone I knew, because I was rather freaked out about the whole boat-with-unidentified-destination thing.

Thought, Discontinuity

Frozen frame:
Chin dips
into sheet of stone
not stone
but river.

Two handfuls of stones
In apron pockets.
Two seconds from saying
No.
Should I turn back?
Two steps not taken.
To steps not taken.

[R2. Response to Auguste Rodin's "Thought," Marble, 1886-'89]

God Plays Mean Trick on Local Single Girl

Being underemployed as I am, I was still in bed when my phone rang at 8:15 this morning. That is when I discovered that my recent cold has left me with no voice. "Hello?" is what I tried to say, but what came out was more of a breathy, voiceless Haaaah sound that vaguely resembled heavy breathing. It was my ex-boyfriend. Awesome. He just wanted to say thanks for the Christmas present I sent. "Oh, good," I whispered. Yeah. Can I call you later?" Sure, he said, mildly confused.

Although I sound like I've smoked 4 packs of cigarettes--made of fiberglass--every day for my whole life, I feel fine. So I sent to French Meadow for coffee and, forcing air out of my lungs with all my might, I said to the barista, "Coffee?" which came out like a satanic growl. The barista's expression changed to some combination of both pity and fear. While I admit I'm not my perky self before my morning coffee, and I consider myself a mild coffee addict, I do not actually turn into the devil without it. The barista’s service was rather swift today, I must say.

I made a decision to make the most of it. I settled in with my coffee and paper for a day of reading and writing and peace and quiet.

My phone rang again. It was Mr. Dashing. A handsome fellow I’ve had a crush on since summer. We hung out a couple times and had a ton of fun, but then there was a bit of a miscommunication and I reluctantly wrote him off. I haven’t heard from him since October. My phone beeped—a voicemail. “Hey,” he'd said, “Listen, I know I must seem flakey to you, but I really wanted to explain.” [Insert totally reasonable explanation here.] “So, I’m sorry, and now that I'm in a better place to give you the attention you deserve, I’d love to take you out. So if you’re still interested, please give me a call back sometime today and let me know if you’re free for drinks on Thursday.”

“Nooooo!” I shouted, only nothing came out.

Two Clay Poker Chips

Umbra has black hair swept across her forehead and large black sunglasses like a bumble bee. She’s wearing a red shirt and white pencil-legged pants that stop mid-shin. Black slip-on shoes. She selected this outfit carefully, but forgot about it once she put it on.

She brought these things in her oversized black handbag—two magazines, a small tin of watercolor paints, a journal for journaling, a journal for making lists, a journal for documenting dreams, a tin of breath mints, two tampons, a stack of tickets (baseball, train, an opera she hated) bound by a rubber band. A black wallet long and thin as a checkbook. Two bobby pins. Her credit card statement. Two clay poker chips that she rubs together when she’s waiting for the train, standing in line, sitting alone in a movie theater.

It is a Tuesday afternoon. She’s in France or Germany. Probably France. She hopes someone will stop by and talk to her. When her server asks if he may take her extra chair (she presumes he asked this; all she understood was “chair”) she shakes her head “No,” meaning, I don't understand, which he took to mean "Go away." He goes away. She is lonely.

There are irregular cobble stones under her feet that make a very aesthetically pleasing noise at the clicking of shoes and shuffling of chairs. The café has a dozen or so tables set up outside here on the pedestrian mall. There are lovely old shops and buildings all around, close together but not so close that the sun is blocked by the buildings. She gets a slice of ripe camembert, a crusty roll and a bunch of grapes. She orders a glass of Pinot Noir and goes with the cheese, bread and fruit. She sips it and looks around to asses the prospects for friendship at the tables around her.

She takes out a notebook, the dream journal. “I dreamt that I was in Dupont riding a ferry down the river,” she writes. “Grandmother was there with Bobby, and they were wearing their church clothes. I think we were going to a funeral, but I don’t know whose. I saw rowers in pairs around us, and I recognized the running trail as the one next to the Thames at Oxford, the one Janey and I used to jog during summer school at Christ Church.” She put the pen down and sipped her wine. She tore off an edge of bread and smeared a hunk of the cheese on the broken part without using a knife. The waiter rolled his eyes. She ate it. The bite was too big and she had to chew and chew. It wasn’t very lady-like, but funny. She hid a smile behind her hand.

She stares into space internally debating this: is it better to let people come to you? Or for you to pursue them? To strike up a conversation? People have been nothing to her lately, nothing but disappointing when she tries to cultivate friendships. And men, they are always a disappointment. If she wasn’t thinking of a specific one, she was thinking about not thinking about one. What energy she could save if she forgot about them! If she could channel the energy she spent on worrying and turn it into fuel for good things, she’s sure she could save all the starving people in China. Now, she just wanted a friend. Really, it shouldn’t be that hard. She spotted a fellow with red hair and a trimmed beard. She walked over and asked to borrow the book review section of his newspaper.

the matter wave

Einstein knows it.
Bohr knows too.
All their lives
they sweat it

discontinuity
continuity
guitar strings
waving
or leaping.

The fear of determinism
as fuel.

There is no God, it says,
only mechanics. Cause. Effect.

The Atom
is both machine and art--
emits both color and music.

The smudged lens
they left behind is
little clearer than when they found it.

We can look with all our tools and
just the same
we won't really see
to the other side
until we cross it.

Why I'm Evil

You know those people who come to work sick and cough all over everything? I bitch about them. And today, I join their filthy ranks. I'm not at work right now because I'm dedicated or motivated or want the boss to see that nothing gets in the way of my career. I'm here because I'm broke. And because I'm a big evil germ-spreader. And because all I do at work is surf the net, talk on the phone and read anyway and if I stayed home I'd be doing the exact same thing only in my pajamas and with intermittent naps.

I may have caught the bug in New York City hopping around from party to party on NYE until, that's right, 8:30 a.m. It was a spontaneous trip largely, but not entirely, funded by taxpayers of the small Indiana town in which I was raised (my best friend's Trust, from her Gramp's job as mayor). Here were a few goals of my NYC goals:

1. Big Night Out on NYE: I generally hate NYE. It's overrated, never that fun, and crowded and expensive and all of that crap. But When in Rome... one may as well go all out. Six parties and thirteen hours later: mission accomplished.

2. To smooch a handsome fella at midnight: At 2 seconds to twelve, I grabbed the closest hottie I could find and laid one on him. He's a physics grad from Princeton named Asher or Alden or Alistair or something, who now does some medical job I can't remember. He kind of stuck around after that, so we talked and danced and then he asked me if I had any coke. My friend and left for the next party shortly thereafter, sans Astor McCokerson.

3. To have NY Pizza and Coke (as in soda): Done. Twice.

4. To see some touristy stuff: Done, sort of. Went to Times Square and Rockefeller Center (yep, it's a big tree alright) January 1. Every time there was a gust of wind, confetti rained down from rooftops.

5. To drink a fancy, overpriced martini in Manhattan Somewhere Swanky: Key Lime Pie martini in a hipped-out jazz club: mission accomplished.

6. To spend some Q.T. lounging around with my best friend: We spent a very high percentage of time in her teensy East Village apartment in our pajamas watching movies and eating milkshakes.

7. To see someone famous: I'm pretty sure I saw the guy who used to play the dad on Happy Days. More notably, I met a famous pup--a rescue dog named Theodore who who found firemen in 911 rubble.

8. To do something moderately literary: Had a drink at Chumley's, where Dorothy Parker and many others used to come hang out with writer types during prohibition, ""A New York City institution, this former Greenwich Village speakeasy, opened in 1922, has its original booths, fireplace, and no-name entrance still intact, so remember the address or you'll never find it. The hodgepodge interior includes framed book covers - F. Scott Fitzgerald allegedly wrote parts of 'The Great Gatsby' here - lifeboat memorabilia, sawdust on the floor, and a resident black lab."

As much fun as it was, I'm so glad to be home. And that the holidays are over. And that in 2006, I will kiss my 20's goodbye. Now I need to just make it another 5 hours at the desk until I can go home and crash in my nice, quiet, comparatively enormous apartment.

Found: Random Exercise from Old Notebook

“I bet all of this will be over soon,” Judith said. She set the bunt cake on the wet counter. The pan rattling against the Formica, sizzling.

Anna wasn’t comforted—not by the smell of cake or by her sister-in-law’s attitude or by everything she’d looked up on the Internet about her symptoms. Her condition on top of her condition.

“It just as likely that it won’t be over soon,” Anna said. She put another cherry in her mouth and bit gently, as not to crack a tooth on the seed. She tossed the stem on the pile next to the pitting machine. “Aren’t we done yet?”

"No," Judith said. Anna picked up a handful of cherries and put them in the bowl. She turned the crank to roll them around until all of them had been taken in by the crank, had the pit forced out of it and been spit out the other end.

Judith’s forehead was shiny. The wallpaper curled from the heat. Anna felt like taking her shirt off, and her obnoxious, sticky, tight bra. It was all very restricting. She leaned back in the kitchen chair, the baby weighing on top of her, her breasts spread from their resting place on her stomach. She could feel prickling hairs in her armpits.

Judith turned to her. Anna got up and walked into the back yard. She looked at the tree, and put her hand around a limb—flexible enough to sag with cherries but strong enough not to crack. There was a breeze at the top where the branches were thin and light flexible. She shoved her foot in the crotch of the branches and hoisted herself up.

The Year-Ago Game

Every New Year my sister and I make two lists: “What I Got Out of Last Year” and Goals for This Year. For instance, last year, Emily wrote “Goal: Increase physical phitness” next to which I scrawled “Teach Emily how to spell.” (She’s 32.)

We also play the last-year-at-this-time game.

A year ago right now: Lived in Minnesota. Just finished semester 1 of grad school.

Two years ago: Living in Oregon. House-sat a big, drafty, scary house with weirdly slanty floors. My best Australian friend just died. I was pretty much on a gin-for-dinner diet for about a week.

Three years ago: Lived in Australia. Taught friends how to make snow angels in the sand at the beach. Swam daily. Drank fruity drinks in the hammock strung up between an orange tree and a fig tree in the back yard.

Four years ago: Worked at a winery. On vacation high up in the Cascade mountains. Friends had a bonfire in their yard so huge that it practically lit the sky on fire. With a running leap, we all sledded down their hilly, remote street.

Five years ago: I just moved to Portland, Oregon, and was working my first job out of college and hated it. Lived in a shared house with a crazy model-turned-Buddhist and a psychotic 45 year-old waitress.

top ten favoritest christmas gifts

in no particular order:

1. a jar of red pepper flakes (madre)
2. a shot of goldschlager chased by a santa-shaped chocolate (buckaroo: "oh my GOD. i feel like i just snorted christmas right there.")
3. my car washed by hand (little sister, who is broke)
4. 3 loaves of homemade raisin bread (gram)
5. a pair of 80's-style white sneakers trimmed in hot pink (kate)
6. a beer at Pugly's Mug in Napanee, Indiana, and a really awesome hug (josh, who i haven't seen in half a decade)
7. a trip to the dentist (padre)
8. three beautiful lacy silk antique slips, .50 cents each, from the tiny resell shop in my hometown (self)
9. a throw rug made of shreaded, woven old towels (mom)
10. a bag of homemade candied nuts with a note reading: "enjoy my nuts. love, em." (big sister)

anyone else get anything good?

post finals vacation-itis

Ah, the end of finals week and my school friends and I seem to be in recovery. I bet Voix is busting out the tiara, Jessi is finally showering again, the Captain is contagious, Michelle is in family crisis, Lorissa is missing, and I, darlings, have had a mostly crappy week. I am glad to see it end. I am also glad that the FedEx man just delivered a huge box of Godiva, into which I shall dive mementarily.

Why is Godiva so delicious? Why is there a plush reindeer wearing a Santa hat on my desk? Where did lawyer T. get that God awful rotating fake Christmas tree that glows red, yellow and blue? Why do all the clients who walk in here sweat nervously and ask me to sign paperwork next to a box marked "Witness?" Why did Britney Spears let Kevin Punk-ass father her child? How can I resist the urge to answer the phone "Good afternoon, we know you're guilty but we want your money anyway, may I help you?" Why do coffee filters make such funny hats? Why won't the vending machine maintenance guy make out with me in the janitor's closet? Would he make out with me if I wore a tiara? Gave him Godiva? If I made out with Britney Spears? What do you get when you image-google Mandolin Elvis Mouse?

Ten Awesome Things About Being Single

A friend of mine is tired of being single and of bad dating experiences. Well-intentioned friends are telling her that it (you know, IT) will happen when she stops trying so hard, or when she tries harder, or when she stops emitting the wrong vibe, or when she just keeps being her awesome self and all the other crap people (myself included) say to make single people who are bummed out feel better.

Let’s be honest here: having romantic love can be great. So can being single. And because the majority of people who want a life-partner eventually get one, single hood will end and take some of the good things in life with it. Here is what really makes me feel better when I'm down on being alone.

Ten Awesome Things About Being Single:

1. Being in a relationship that sucks (or going through a breakup) is a nightmare; being in a relationship that is undefined or sketchy is anxiety ridden. I don't wonder where anything is going and whether I want it to go there.

2. I'm more likely to go out and go DO fun stuff—stuff I may not have tried otherwise—than when there isn't a default person at home to just sit around with.

3. I will never fold Dan's rugby socks EVER again. I will never listen to Nate pick his fingernails. I’m not worried whether J is cheating on me. And this Christmas, the only mother I will have to deal with is my own.

4. Shave my legs regularly? Whatever.

5. I thoroughly enjoy sprawling out in the middle of my big comfy bed by myself.

6. I spend more quality time with friends and am more open to new people coming into my life. More importantly: I am more aware and involved with the truckloads of love I receive in my non-dating life: my student who told me how much I helped her, my dad who sends me cute emails about how much he misses me, my best friend who sent me her lucky disco dress from New York for an important party, my boss who sent a card thanking me for work that inspired her, my girlfriends who can make me laugh and cry in the same hour...

7. I don't have to worry about getting stuck with anyone else’s life-crap for an indefinite period of time: his messed up relationship with his siblings, his job angst, his drug use or financial irresponsibility or anything.

8. I can pack my bags and fly to Italy to romp around with a hot, younger fireman whenever the hell I want to.

9. Going out to dinner with guys can make you fat: see. Really, I’m more likely to slack on exercise/reading/homework/me-time with a man around.

10. To reiterate (it’s a big one) the general freedom to do what I want when you want to with whom I want and not have to consider anyone else. Fling with a rich investment banker? If I feel like it. Spend a week getting certified to scuba dive in Thailand? No one to miss terribly. The dirty dishes in the sink for days? Mine. And there are the little things: No one talks me into ordering pizza when I really want Thai.

Until I want a relationship and someone worth giving that stuff up appears, I'm gladly hangin' onto it.

List

Shamelessly stolen from the Voix.

1. What did you do in 2005 that you hadn't done before?
Got a poem published. Started helping people in a more hands-on way.

2. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Sort of. My cousin's wife had a baby and my friend Erin's due any minute.

3. Did anyone close to you die?
No.

4. Did you travel? Where did you go? Best holiday memory?
Yes. Portland, Oregon, NYC, Italy, France, Monaco, Spain. Best memories: Thunderstorm while camping on the Oregon Coast, Hiking through olive fields in Cinque Terre, Lying on the beach with an expensive cocktail in Monaco, the soccer game in Spain and, lastly, coming home. Ah.

5. Best thing you bought?
Boots in Spain. My education.

6. Where did most of your money go?
School, life and travel.

7. What do you wish you had done more of?
Reading. Working.

8. What do you wish you had done less of?
Putting up with men's shit. I was too optimistic and loving, if that's possible. I usually have a good dating life, but this was an insanely bad dating year.

9. What kept you sane?
Friends, school, books, writing, my friends' inexhaustible patience, my own inner strength. Tequila. Just kidding.

10. What drove you mad?
The way a few "loved" ones treated me--the confusion and hurt. At times, I really didn't like the person that turned me into.

11. What made you celebrate?
Starting a creative writing program for refugees, and all the support I've received from that. My student's reading was amazing. My friends' successes.

12. What made you sad?
War, human suffering.... Heartbreak and disappointment.

13. How was your birthday this year?
Awesome. It was beautiful outside. I was surrounded by friends. The Voix threw me a fabulous party and I went to a comedy club and dancing. Love birthdays.

14. What political issue stirred you the most this year?
If it counts as politics, all the suffering from war. All of it. It's atrocious. A disaster.

15. Where you in love in 2005?
I thought I was, but now I'm not sure if that was love at all.

16. What would you like to have in 2006 that you didn't have this year?
More inner peace. A job that's worth my time. A healthier outlook on dating, whether I'm single or not. More discipline to do creative work.

17. What date from 2005 will be etched in your memory and why?
October 21. I was in a gorgeous town in Italy with someone who made me really happy then.

18. What song will remind you of 2005?
Probably a song by the Killers--can't remember the name of it.

19. Compared to this time last year are you happier?
On this exact date last year, I was probably happier then, but I didn't know that shit was about to hit the fan. Last year by the end of December, my answer would be that I'm happier now. By FAR. I have absolutely purged my life of several toxic people and situations, but this time last year I didn't know some of them were toxic yet.

20. Biggest achievement this year?
My success in school and teaching writing.

21. Biggest disappointment this year?
A job I was thrilled about didn't work out at ALL. Also, a few people really disappointed me. Some other people also really, really came through for me. It was definitely a year that showed me who is devoted and authentically cares versus those who needed to get lost. I was surprised--pleasantly and unpleasantly--many times.

22. What is the one thing that would have made you more satisfied?
A solid job where I can give and contribute and be treated well and have financial security.

23. Best new person you met this year?
Michelle, Lorissa, Jessi & Michele (who I technically met last year, still), Alison, Dan M., Emily, all the people at FIRE.

24. A valuable life lesson you learnt this year?
To be more protective of myself. Not to let in anything toxic--a person, relationship, job or situation. I knew this before intellectually, but it was really tested this year.

It was... SOAP POISIONING

I could be at home in my flannel pajamas watching A Christmas Story, Best of Saturday Night Live Christmas (Schweaty Balls, anyone?) and my favorite sappy holiday flick, Love Actually. But am I, you ask? Am I curled on my couch with peppermint-schnapps infused cocoa and Scott Farcus? No, I am not. I am sitting in an office in an itchy wool skirt and tights that make me feel a bit like a breakfast sausage.

Soon, I will go to my small hometown for an old-fashioned, obligatory Christmas. Because it is unbearably rural, these trips are traditionally coordinated with my best friend who now lives in NYC. We get quite bored.

Because B.'s dad is the mayor and her brother is the town cop, kidnapping the baby Jesus from the courthouse square, holding him out the sunroof of Mr. Mayor's Firebird while cruising cross-town laps is frowned upon. So last year we got drunk at the Stag.

Patrons of the Stag are predominantly male, look over 50, work at the local plastics factory, haven't touched a razor in a decade or seen a woman under 60 in as long, and think that the District of Columbia is an island in the Caribbean.

Music stopped when we walked in. We reconsidered. Just then, a fellow half hidden under a birds-nest beard called out to us by name. It was the guy who used to buy is beer in college, who we hadn't seen since 1993, who proceeded to buy us shots of Goldschlager until B. got so drunk we had to call her brother. It just isn't Christmas until a 6'7" cop walks into the bar, tosses your super-hammered best friend over his shoulder muttering, "You are such a dumb ass" to her and the guy who bought you beer 15 years ago shouts "Are you still single? Can I get your number?" as you open the police car door so Copster can toss her in the back seat.

This year there will be no Goldschlager. Except the bottle I buy B. as a Christmas gift.

biker bob's java garage

sounds: pleasant electric guitar and a man's voice. the guitar could be mistaken for hendrix until the man start's singing. now it sounds like scott r., my huge crush in college, who was also an english major. we took this weird class together where we lived on communes. once, we were at this weird commune in rural indiana that really creeped me out, and i didn't want to socialize with the group in the evening, so scott came to me where i was curled in my sleeping bag on a pine floor, and played the guitar and sang to me. when he thought i was asleep, he touched my hair and said, "you are lovely," and left.

smells: warm banana bread with melting cream cheese. i try to picture the barista, a large woman with multiple piercing and strong fingers, stirring a bowl of batter. is banana bread mix called batter? she doesn't seem domestic, but she's very sweet and gives me free coffee at the end of the semester during finals when my loans have run out and the new check hasn't come yet. every time i try to pay her back she swears she doesn't know what i'm talking about and won't take the money. i tip her extra well.

sights: two men--one in a business suit, one in a black sweatshirt and jeans with oil stains. many tattoos. they talk about stripping. wood, i mean, furniture. they talk about kinds of stripping and sanding, getting coats of things on, cutting doors and prepping them to go in. i think yes, strippers need coats. then i picture a dresser in a coat. my sisters and i used to hang around my father's hardware store listening to conversations about finding old pieces of furniture, of being able to see how sturdy and tough they are. they don't make them like this anymore. quality stuff that's meant to last, that people throw out these days because they're afraid of a little work, of putting in a little elbow grease. then i think of our old neighbor who used to help my dad recover furniture, and how the neighbor looked like very very much like spock. so we called him spock, and once my sister called him spock to his face (did he even have another name?) and got in Big Trouble for it. the smell of lemon oil reminds me of spock.

feels: no matter how much i layer, my toes are cold. tights, socks, another pair of socks, thick boots. maybe the extra socks are cutting off the circulation to my toes. my legs are warm, my neck is extra warm on account of the rockin' scarf jessi knitted for me for my birthday. i remember getting the scarf--we were having post-dinner chocolate cake and red wine. it was so hot--august--and i remember thinking how beautiful it was and how looooong i'd have to wait to get to wear it. ha! how long. august feels like yesterday.

tastes: coffee, of course. my mother tells me she's going to give me her french press for christmas so i don't have to spend money going out for coffee. i tell her coffee isn't always the point of going out for coffee. this is the same french press i gave her for christmas the year i didn't let my then boyfriend come home with me. i didn't want him to. i didn't like him enough. took my french press and left my pissed off boyfriend at the gate—you could leave people at airport gates then. i hauled that coffee pot from oregon to indiana. now she's giving it back—she's given up coffee and drinks tea instead, which pleases her greatly. i drink coffee. it may be bad for me. i asked a doctor once if it's bad for me, whether i should give it up to be a healthier person. he said, "what are you catholic?" which reminds me of the last time my parents came to visit. it was summer. we were grilling dinner on my deck. my father opened a second bottle of wine and my mom said "another bottle? really" and my dad said "what are you, protestant?"

why i love my friends

A letter from one Miss Tiffany:

"In today's news, it was reported that an exuberant female resident of the East Bay performed an impromptu one-person dance-party wearing a fuschia tutu, juggling 15 bottles of champagne and swallowing a flaming sword as an over-excited Jack Russell Terrier dry humped her leg. According to amazed bystanders, this unusual performance was spurred by the fact that the obviously unhinged female had FINISHED HER FREAKIN' THESIS. Ha, booya, in yo' face and did I forget to mention that I ROCK! Just wanted to share the love ya'all.

p.s. Moneypenny, the guilty Jack Russell, has submitted an official apology for her appalling breach of etiquette. I was so overcome with gratitude I promised the chastised pup that she can have free access to any of YOUR legs, should anyone feel like a visit. How's that for incentive, mmmmm, puppy-love."