Realization



I was put on this earth to amuse postal counter employees.

Sometimes, I will indulge temptation

Rob and I ordered new phones. We spent the extra money to have them shipped two-day, meaning they'll be here this afternoon (they were already in Doraville as of bedtime last night). I am pretty damn excited, as my new phone is a chic black Razr. My current phone is over three years old, doesn't flip or have a camera, and has suffered much abuse. It has been variously dropped, drowned, and beaten. The thought of my coming Razr, something so shiny and so new, so straight up indulgent as only an over-the-top trendy cell phone can be, makes me so intoxicated I can barely type.

You put your right arm in...

So I never did post my half-written anecdote from last Wednesday, which leads me to believe it wasn't all that funny to begin with. You were spared. Consider yourself lucky.


I’m typing this at home, since I went ahead and played hooky from school today. I hadn’t missed any of these classes yet (and the semester nearly through!) and had lots of errands to run and little things to do around the house, not to mention books I wanted to read, so I decided this morning to just say, “Fuck you, school!” and stay home. I do have to go to my 5:30 class, however, since we’re having a quiz. But by then I should have accomplished lots today. I refuse to feel bad for not sitting in lectures for eight hours today. I refuse, damnit! Ok, maybe I feel a little bad. But not much.


Last night Rob and I endured a going out to eat experience with my family, which is always a trial and tribulation of one kind or another. This time it involved my grandmother and the restaurant manager getting into it over his refusal to let us use a coupon on each seperate check. Grandma ultimately lost, and Grandma does not take loss lightly. It was the perfect bad ending to the perfectly bad meal. However, I learned a long time ago to sit at the opposite end of the table from Grandma, come hell or high water, and to make sure my two cousins are with me. That frees us to spend the meal gossiping and catching up on our two very different worlds: mine, the broke and fabulous urbanite, and theirs, the overwrought decadence of the suburbs.

Rob’s a real trooper through all this. He listens to our loud and racuous stories and ribbings, and occasionally chimes in at just the right moment. Everything our heroine could want in a husband.

***

Tomorrow night, in my ESL class, we will be doing the hokey pokey. They had trouble last week remember their right from their left, so really, they brought it on themselves.

[CSY]

I have a longer entry coming, promise. I'm working on it right now, but my brain is tired and I don't want to give you anything too horribly grammatically incorrect. It's a little anecdote about last night, one that I hope you'll find mildly diverting.

[CSY]

Break?

Oh, right, it's been spring break. Which means I should have had lots and lots of time to post here. We all see how well that went.

I have pushed myself well past the limit this semester...blah blah blah. I have several accomplishments I'm really proud of (although this tipsy post is not one of them) and it seems to really be coming together, this whole BEING AN ADULT business. I've started doing my usual spring cleaning, paring everything (friends, stuff in my house) down to the essentials. I've started taking vitamins again and being more mindful about going for walks. This beautiful weather has really helped.

Disjointed, this entry is...I promise to do better soon.

[CSY]

At least I can make one person laugh

Is it a good thing or a bad thing if you can make your therapist laugh so hard she turns red?

[CSY]

little black notebook

The worst part of living alone is having only one wardrobe to dress from.

I wrote that, apparently, in a black spiral notebook Thursday, the sixth of January 2005. I've been beating myself up lately about not Writing like I should (as opposed to writing, which I do all the time, Writing is the serious stuff, the poetry and essays and little stories that might someday get Published, which is what happens when you have a Publisher, as opposed to published, which is what happens when you're friends with your college's literature review editor). Of course, my self-flagellation is nothing compared to my friend Ori N's oh-god-my-master's-thesis-is-due-in-three-weeks desperation, but it does manifest itself in similar ways. Mostly, in trying to do everything in my power to avoid having to sit and try to write. Tonight, for example, I watched half of season five of Sex in the City, washed every dirty dish and sock in the house, read over my lesson plans for tomorrow night (twice) and started reading through old notebooks to determine what to toss and what to keep.

I used to keep all my old notebooks, but I soon came to realize that my serial apartment life-style and box after box of notebooks filled with adolescent angst did not go hand in hand. So I have begun the (undeniably painful) process of reading through EVERY SINGLE NOTEBOOK and determining what stays and what goes out in a Pay-As-You-Throw yellow bag. Nearly everything between the ages of 11 and 15 has gone; pre-11 writings aren't heinously hormonol and post-15 notebooks begin to have some crude style and substance to them. And this one notebook, this black one from December 2005 to January 2006 has some really great stuff I'd pretty much forgotten about. The little black notebook stays.

***

I ran into an old coworker today, a former $tarwhore like myself. He'll be graduating in May and wants to move to New York.

"Oh," I said. "You're one of those."

"I am," he said. "I know it's such a cliche but...I feel so stifled here in Atlanta, you know? I mean, I love Atlanta, I grew up here and all, but I don't feel like I can be everything I can be here. New York is just so ALIVE. I feel alive there."

"Yeah," I said. "I hear you. About Atlanta, that is. I love Atlanta, and I grew up here too...but I really want to move again once I graduate."

[CSY]