Sometimes you just need to take a Friday night
and:
rearrange the furniture
fold the laundry
load the dishwasher
watch the Netflix
eat a cannoli (thanks Tom)
write the story
make a grocery list
clear the clutter
and settle in for the weekend.
I can go boozing another time.
About once a week at work I got to the bank to drop off the deposit. There are four tellers, and Moe is my favorite. She has a six month old son whose name translates to “Great Light,” and she eats a ton of yogurt. Rita has a nervous laugh. Faye is quick and quiet; her hand flies over the adding machine. When I say, “Have a good day, Faye,” she always smiles and waves. Mrs. Gee (her nameplate says Lulu, but I’d never call her that) of the perpetual scowl is actually quite nice, I’ve found, easily plied with a smile and a “thank you so much”.
Most people, I’ve found, are easily plied that way.
We talk about the weather, the day of the week, the things you talk to people about at the bank. I take my sunglasses off.
Today it was warm enough to go without a coat. There were buds on the trees. “Have a good day, Faye!” I said, before I left, and she smiled.
Among other things: a giant armchair, some patio furniture, a couple of lanterns, new dishes, a print of the Brooklyn Bridge, Bananagrams, a three-mirrored vanity, some half-dead plants, a spoon rest shaped like a fish, a porch swing, my bicycle, and a new desk chair.
I woke up at five. I’m going to bed. Pictures to come.
So far, working part time is super productive.
Things I’ve Found in My Parents’ House, a selected list:
a jar of $9 vanilla extract, unopened
a hand turkey dated 1989
a fur coat
the remote to a TV we don’t have anymore
one exercise ball, deflated
three cake stands
a hat box that my cat had thrown up in
a year’s worth of Oprah magazines
the slip one of my grandmothers, I don’t know which one, wore under her wedding dress
“Surviving Separation and Divorce: A Handbook”
a giant wasp (Tom killed it with a Michael Kors sandal and I said, when I write my memoir…)
a large collection of Hanson fanfiction, three hole punched and stored in a binder
sandalwood incense
enough empty wine bottles to make me feel sad
a shit ton of Swiffer dusters
my “Seniors 2003: Pink Ladies” t-shirt
one stained glass window
We’re getting stuff for the apartment, before this place sells. It is one part grave-robbing and one part unearthing of an ancient civilization. It feels like a haunted house. I opened all the windows and turned the music up as loud as it would go.
I wanted to get some pretty things for Rachel and Victoria, who had birthdays in January and February (they’re cousins, born four days apart! I freakin’ love that about them). I’ve been trying to shop handmade and homemade whenever possible, so I rambled around blogland for awhile until I found Abby Try Again. She’s a photographer based in Portland, and her work is just lovely–vibrant and friendly and breathing, somehow.
Anyway, I picked up a couple of prints for each of my lady friends, and they arrived super promptly in a tidy little package. I think they were a hit. And I got the biggest kick out of the whole thing. Happiness all around.
The apartment is clean(ish).
The novel is done (just about).
I have a mug of coffee,
and I’m finally, finally wearing a skirt with no tights.
A client at work sent us a gift basket full of oranges.
My friends come tonight.
I’m going to make them this birthday cake, courtesy of Martha.
I can’t get over this song.
Tom went grocery shopping, because he is wonderful.
He even bought broccoli.
He said, “It’s the little things with you,”
and he was right.
I’m off for the weekend.
Be good.
Condo is our betta fish. We used to have an excellent and mentally disturbed betta fish named House, but he died of shock after Tom transferred him to nicer digs. Anyway, we got a replacement who was noticeably smaller: thus, Condo. God forbid he dies, too. We’ll have to call the next one “Tenement”. Or “Van Down by the River”.
Condo isn’t particularly hardy. He gets tired easy. He doesn’t like to eat very much, or follow your finger around the tank. If you change his water he gets cross and sulks for a day or two. Mostly he hangs out at the bottom by his rocks, chilling and observing the world outside his bowl with palpable disgust.
Condo’s apathy makes me especially nervous when Tom’s away–I don’t want to be the only hand on deck should his ennui turn to suicidal ideation and a necessitate a burial at sea. “Swim, buddy!” I shout at him every once in awhile, tapping rudely on the glass. “Time’s a wastin’!” It’s important to me that he finds the will to live: I don’t think I’m up to flushing our only pet on my own.
Hang on, Condo.
Our guy will be back soon.
My father always takes great pains, whenever he sees me, to remind me where I am from.
Thanks for a fantastic weekend, Riss. Also for taking me to Wal-Mart.
a long chat with someone new
February is not without its pleasures.
