(no subject)
When I was six years old I was employed on Sundays. I was the official pancake maker... for the dog. I would push a stool across the red and white, checkered linoleum and hoist the frying pan onto the stove with two hands, all in preparation for my dad’s flipping and impressive heart-shaped flapjacks. I would eagerly wait for the moment when I would be allowed to create one last cake for Mud, our golden retriever. Her full name was Mississippi Mud. She was born in New Orleans. We had the same hair color, me and Mud.
My roommate is out tonight, probably spending time with his girlfriend. I decide to make pancakes for dinner. The first batch is a flop- four pancakes oozed into one, a small window in the middle, and black as the night is long. I open a banana and pitch little chunks into my makeshift batter, then carelessly stir it around with one of the metal whisks that’s meant to attach to the end of an electric mixer. I am too lazy to find the appliance in its entirety.
“Take two.” I chuckle to myself as I pour the batter into the skillet, “How do you fuck up Bisquick Maggie? I mean really.”
The set of Herbal Essence hair products in my shower has little facts on the back, not unlike Snapple caps. The current bottle of shampoo asks who an individual talks to the most in life. The conditioner reveals that the answer is oneself. It’s a brilliant marketing scheme, really. On the backs of both the shampoo and conditioner bottles are random questions that the other answers. Basically it is impossible to go into Target and buy JUST the shampoo, because that would leave you naked and curious early in the morning- a catastrophic combination. And so the shampoo and conditioner stand smugly side-by-side, the contours of their colorful bottles fitting together perfectly like a puzzle. They are inseparable. Showering has become an educational experience. I have learned that the word “pants” used to be a dirty word in England. I have learned the average number of bubbles in a bottle of champagne. And I have begun noticing that I talk to myself a lot. There is an improv script being reviewed in my mind, and only the cleverest and wittiest remarks are cleared for the real deal when I actually say things, only the sexy suave comments that one whispers in another’s ear on the dance floor when the music is just right. Or this is how I imagine it all goes down.
I spread jam on one of the four pancakes, cinnamon sugar on another, syrup on the third. The fourth is left bare and un-eaten. I wash the dishes and sing “Say Hello, Wave Goodbye” at the top of my lungs because I am learning how to play it. You were a run-around, a lost and found and not for me, I feel. I think of it as a winter song, best when the sky is pink after a fresh snow. I feel myself fighting this anger every day. The anger that results from hurt smarts, and I admit that I am struggling. But each day is a step forward, then half a step back, but progress nonetheless. That song has played some kind of role in every important relationship I have ever had because it has always been one of my favorite songs. I never thought I’d say that I miss Moscow, but I do. I miss my friends. I really do love Moscow in the Fall and Winter. And I wish I could have a dog because I know that we would be best friends. Inseparable. Like those bastard shampoo and conditioner bottles. And I would make my dog pancakes.
My roommate is out tonight, probably spending time with his girlfriend. I decide to make pancakes for dinner. The first batch is a flop- four pancakes oozed into one, a small window in the middle, and black as the night is long. I open a banana and pitch little chunks into my makeshift batter, then carelessly stir it around with one of the metal whisks that’s meant to attach to the end of an electric mixer. I am too lazy to find the appliance in its entirety.
“Take two.” I chuckle to myself as I pour the batter into the skillet, “How do you fuck up Bisquick Maggie? I mean really.”
The set of Herbal Essence hair products in my shower has little facts on the back, not unlike Snapple caps. The current bottle of shampoo asks who an individual talks to the most in life. The conditioner reveals that the answer is oneself. It’s a brilliant marketing scheme, really. On the backs of both the shampoo and conditioner bottles are random questions that the other answers. Basically it is impossible to go into Target and buy JUST the shampoo, because that would leave you naked and curious early in the morning- a catastrophic combination. And so the shampoo and conditioner stand smugly side-by-side, the contours of their colorful bottles fitting together perfectly like a puzzle. They are inseparable. Showering has become an educational experience. I have learned that the word “pants” used to be a dirty word in England. I have learned the average number of bubbles in a bottle of champagne. And I have begun noticing that I talk to myself a lot. There is an improv script being reviewed in my mind, and only the cleverest and wittiest remarks are cleared for the real deal when I actually say things, only the sexy suave comments that one whispers in another’s ear on the dance floor when the music is just right. Or this is how I imagine it all goes down.
I spread jam on one of the four pancakes, cinnamon sugar on another, syrup on the third. The fourth is left bare and un-eaten. I wash the dishes and sing “Say Hello, Wave Goodbye” at the top of my lungs because I am learning how to play it. You were a run-around, a lost and found and not for me, I feel. I think of it as a winter song, best when the sky is pink after a fresh snow. I feel myself fighting this anger every day. The anger that results from hurt smarts, and I admit that I am struggling. But each day is a step forward, then half a step back, but progress nonetheless. That song has played some kind of role in every important relationship I have ever had because it has always been one of my favorite songs. I never thought I’d say that I miss Moscow, but I do. I miss my friends. I really do love Moscow in the Fall and Winter. And I wish I could have a dog because I know that we would be best friends. Inseparable. Like those bastard shampoo and conditioner bottles. And I would make my dog pancakes.