I want no more days like it
Woke up to fleas in the kitchen
(that really isn't a kitchen),
mold on my sunflower sprouts,
acne on my face and back,
and all sorts of
worry about Jessica,
worry about the grandgoobers.
And major, major PMS.
Overconfidence about a positive balance in bank.
Overconfidence brought down to size.
After a small deposit, I ask,
"Teller,
this balance is BEFORE deposit, right?"
Wrong.
I want to row again,
you know.
(But this tryout probably won’t be like the last.
Remember,
the one where they said,
She can’t swim or tread water for nothing,
but she’s refusing to get out of the pool,
so let’s just say she passed.)
Yeah, must learn to swim.
PMSing, acned, overdrawn at the bank,
and consumed by worry over
Jessica and the grandgoobers,
I swing by the Y.
I want PRIVATE swimming lessons?
Hah.
$120 for six sessions, please.
(Do they not know
I have no money (just ask the teller) and that
I can't possibly learn to swim in six sessions?)
Onward ho.
Return home to a shut-off notice from my friend
the cable company.
Who wants cable anymore, anyway.
During a downtown stroll,
I ask,
"Mr. Neighbor,
can we walk one block in other direction,
so I can see if I can find the place
that gives $10 haircuts?"
A complete and total scene
at Northampton's most major intersection.
Over wanting to walk one block in other direction.
(People are no longer staring simply because
I am wearing a tutu.)
Did I NOT know that walking ONE BLOCK in other direction
required TIME?
Mr. Neighbor was OUT OF TIME!
How dare I not know it.
I must not have heard him the first time,
so I
(along with everyone else in town)
got to hear it again.
Did I NOT know that walking ONE BLOCK in other direction
required TIME?
Mr. Neighbor was OUT OF TIME!
How dare I not know it.
MAJOR PMS.
After being
OUT OF TIME
but walking one block in the other direction, anyway,
Mr. Neighbor and I
were caught in major downpour.
My fault, of course, for wanting to walk one block in other direction
for a haircutting place I couldn't find.
(And how dare I want to get a haircut.
He prefers it long.)
Mad dash to escape both the downpour and Mr. Neighbor.
Great little bag …
(made by the talented moxiegirl),
…
a bag that held money, good car key
("good" is used to describe the key, not the car),
cell phone and
The Only Reason I Will Talk on the Phone,
the wireless earpiece.
GONE.
Arrival home leads to two discoveries:
One, gone bag.
Gone bag, gone money, gone good car key, gone cell phone, gone wireless earpiece.
Two,
right there, in front of my eyes,
a two-day video rental that's probably
gone unreturned for two months.
Return to downpour in search
of bag.
No bag.
No bag, no money, no good car key, no cell phone,
no wireless earpiece.
More worry about Jessica.
More worry about the grandgoobers.
More major PMS.
I stand in downpour.
Downpour of rain.
Downpour of life.
I return (wet) to check e-mail.
I should worry about lead in my dinnerware.
(That’s all of three dishes and two plates.)
It's not enough to worry about flaking teflon.
Or ingesting anything that has touched plastic.
(The people on this mailing list sure can
get one into an over-tizzy if one leans toward tizziness
the way I do.)
Oh, and earlier in day,
pre-downpour (or at least pre-downpour of rain),
I notice
The table my immediate neighbor promised me?
For $20?
It's out on the front lawn with a for-sale sign on it.
I was too little too late.
Someone stops to inquire about the table.
I am the only person in sight.
So I get the inquiry.
Because I am a stout people-pleaser,
I inform interested party that it's not my table,
but, oh,
let me run get the table-owner for you.
Just one second.
Run faster, Carolyn,
the person inquiring about the table that might have been yours
is waiting.
(Oh, and, if I put out a table with a for-sale sign on it,
it would sit uninquired-about
in the downpour.)
I tried to sleep,
but sweat has kept me awake.
So, guess what,
yesterday has become today.
(that really isn't a kitchen),
mold on my sunflower sprouts,
acne on my face and back,
and all sorts of
worry about Jessica,
worry about the grandgoobers.
And major, major PMS.
Overconfidence about a positive balance in bank.
Overconfidence brought down to size.
After a small deposit, I ask,
"Teller,
this balance is BEFORE deposit, right?"
Wrong.
I want to row again,
you know.
(But this tryout probably won’t be like the last.
Remember,
the one where they said,
She can’t swim or tread water for nothing,
but she’s refusing to get out of the pool,
so let’s just say she passed.)
Yeah, must learn to swim.
PMSing, acned, overdrawn at the bank,
and consumed by worry over
Jessica and the grandgoobers,
I swing by the Y.
I want PRIVATE swimming lessons?
Hah.
$120 for six sessions, please.
(Do they not know
I have no money (just ask the teller) and that
I can't possibly learn to swim in six sessions?)
Onward ho.
Return home to a shut-off notice from my friend
the cable company.
Who wants cable anymore, anyway.
During a downtown stroll,
I ask,
"Mr. Neighbor,
can we walk one block in other direction,
so I can see if I can find the place
that gives $10 haircuts?"
A complete and total scene
at Northampton's most major intersection.
Over wanting to walk one block in other direction.
(People are no longer staring simply because
I am wearing a tutu.)
Did I NOT know that walking ONE BLOCK in other direction
required TIME?
Mr. Neighbor was OUT OF TIME!
How dare I not know it.
I must not have heard him the first time,
so I
(along with everyone else in town)
got to hear it again.
Did I NOT know that walking ONE BLOCK in other direction
required TIME?
Mr. Neighbor was OUT OF TIME!
How dare I not know it.
MAJOR PMS.
After being
OUT OF TIME
but walking one block in the other direction, anyway,
Mr. Neighbor and I
were caught in major downpour.
My fault, of course, for wanting to walk one block in other direction
for a haircutting place I couldn't find.
(And how dare I want to get a haircut.
He prefers it long.)
Mad dash to escape both the downpour and Mr. Neighbor.
Great little bag …
(made by the talented moxiegirl),
…
a bag that held money, good car key
("good" is used to describe the key, not the car),
cell phone and
The Only Reason I Will Talk on the Phone,
the wireless earpiece.
GONE.
Arrival home leads to two discoveries:
One, gone bag.
Gone bag, gone money, gone good car key, gone cell phone, gone wireless earpiece.
Two,
right there, in front of my eyes,
a two-day video rental that's probably
gone unreturned for two months.
Return to downpour in search
of bag.
No bag.
No bag, no money, no good car key, no cell phone,
no wireless earpiece.
More worry about Jessica.
More worry about the grandgoobers.
More major PMS.
I stand in downpour.
Downpour of rain.
Downpour of life.
I return (wet) to check e-mail.
I should worry about lead in my dinnerware.
(That’s all of three dishes and two plates.)
It's not enough to worry about flaking teflon.
Or ingesting anything that has touched plastic.
(The people on this mailing list sure can
get one into an over-tizzy if one leans toward tizziness
the way I do.)
Oh, and earlier in day,
pre-downpour (or at least pre-downpour of rain),
I notice
The table my immediate neighbor promised me?
For $20?
It's out on the front lawn with a for-sale sign on it.
I was too little too late.
Someone stops to inquire about the table.
I am the only person in sight.
So I get the inquiry.
Because I am a stout people-pleaser,
I inform interested party that it's not my table,
but, oh,
let me run get the table-owner for you.
Just one second.
Run faster, Carolyn,
the person inquiring about the table that might have been yours
is waiting.
(Oh, and, if I put out a table with a for-sale sign on it,
it would sit uninquired-about
in the downpour.)
I tried to sleep,
but sweat has kept me awake.
So, guess what,
yesterday has become today.