I GOT IN!!!!

i got in to the first program i heard from!!!

i'm going to get an mfa in writing. for real...

now i just have to hear from the other four programs!!!!!!!!!!

i am as happy as a little bunny.

and guess what this means? no more blonde girl bad luck. the bad luck has lifted!!!

Blonde Children, The Natural Scapegoats

On Tuesday, a blonde child crossed my path. I've had nothing but bad luck ever since.

Tuesday, I went to the gym and tried out a new locker room. As I was getting ready to leave, this little blonde girl kept staring at me. She watched me change out of my swimsuit and then she watched me as I bashed my head into the corner of my metal locker. She watched me almost cry.

I tried to give her the look of death, but it didn't take. She just stared.

Before I continue, you should know that blonde children are like black cats for me. If one crosses my path, it's bound to be bad.

So I left the gym and drove home. Trying and failing to control my anger. Her piercing blue eye balls stuck in my mind.

Flash forward to today.
Like every Thursday, I woke up and started getting ready for the gym. But my swimsuit was nowhere to be found. I looked everywhere and no suit turned up.

I put on an older suit and my gym clothes and headed over to the Y. This older suit has been stretched out and it's much too baggy for swimming, but what could I do?

I arrived at the gym. I accidentally walked through the boy's locker room in my confusion. I searched through the lost and found and the locker room where I had seen the evil blonde child and nothing showed up.

I went for my swim. About thirty minutes into it, I realized my left breast was hanging out of my suit. FULLY EXPOSED.

I covered up, finished swimming, and went back to the locker room.

Now I have to go buy a new suit and my old one was less than a year old. All because of that incredibly evil blonde child.

I COULD take responsibility for all of this but I'd much rather blame blonde children.

On my way out of the Y, another one crossed my path. I've got to get out of Minnesota.

Snow Be Gone

Why today is perfect:

There are no traces of snow.

how i learned to love the french

i know i swore off the french years ago. maybe it was in middle school or high school when i really began my distaste, but all that has changed.

something happened this week and now i adore the french and all things french.

birthday dream for myself:

if you really want to get me what i want for my birthday, i would like to take a french immersion course and then spend three months in france bonding with my new favorite place. if you or someone you know would like to move to france with me, please tell me.

it's important to note that i will never change my distaste for horses. i will always hate them and think they are gross.
also, i will never like nuns. they are gross too.

but france, now france is another story.
there really isn't anything more beautiful than french people in france.

readings of the week:
brown girl, brownstones by paule marshall
short stories by carson mccullers

food of the week:
avocado

disease of the week:
shingles

language of the week:
french

shingle white male

Last night was our fantastic hunt for the 24-hour pharmacy.

It turns out there's no such thing in Minneapolis. What kind of wack-hole city is this?

We found the golden Vicodin and sacred Valtrex at our fourth (or was it fifth) pharmacy in a suburb of Minneapolis.

Miles has spent the day hopped up on Vicodin. He can't tell the difference between "yes" and "no" and it's pretty fun to take him places.

I steered him about the grocery store and resisted my urge to yell out, "MY BOYFRIEND'S CONTAGIOUS WITH THE SHINGLES".

He's going to make it. I just know it.

another disease to add to the file of fun

Okay, it's not really fun, but it is kind of exciting.

Miles has shingles!!!

Today will be all about the emergency room for little Miles. I thought only old people got shingles, but no, looks like the srpitely Miles has been attacked. Shingles is an outbreak of chicken pox years after the first time you get chicken pox. I think it's like the little pox have been sleeping inside of Miles and suddenly they want to party and make a big fuss.

Miles seems to think that because he got shingles he should retire and move to Century Village which is a retirment community in Florida with pools and shuffle board.

Ohhh! He just came upstairs to tell me it spread more! He's got a case for sure. Life is truly exciting, isn't it?

There Are No Coincidences

Tonight while I was waiting at a restaurant, I read my horoscope. I usually don't agree with Rob Brezsny, but this is uncanny. Note relationship to my blog post from earlier today. Wacky.

Aries Horoscope for week of March 23, 2006

Seventh grader Michael Kawa's poem is about the official face he shows the world. "My mask helps me when I am scared and when I am embarrassed," he writes. "My mask tells me to act like someone else when I want to act like myself. My mask tells me I should go on the Big Dipper roller coaster when I really want to go on the little rides. My mask hides me from girls and fights. My mask hides my mad mind." Now I invite you to write about your own mask, Aries. It's the perfect time to take inventory of your persona--the official face you show the world--and to make changes to get it into closer alignment with the person you actually are in your depths.

TMTOF Syndrome

Also, I'm suffering from a horrible condition called TMTOF (longer name: too much time on friendster). Please help.

je veux regard Dieu en face*

The past couples of days I've been thinking about public and private personas.

To function happily, I feel like you have to have a large threshold for either performing or feeling comfortable being yourself in public. I don't think I have either of those talents.

It seems like now more than ever, success as an artist is related to being capable of performing as oneself.

I know that coming home and spending lots of time alone helps me refuel and exist around other people. Writing in a blog is a performance too. I choose my words carefully and more often than not, I try to write about fun and silly things as opposed to serious things. (Okay, I don't think I've had a blog long enough to really judge how I use it, but either way, it's a performance.)

I really don't like performing though I know I have to do it to live just like everyone does to some extent. I'm scared that the more I invest in filling my time with writing, the more people will expect me to be something. I wonder if I'll have to match my work (what's on the page to what's walking around). If my work gets published will people say, "I know that girl, she's such a..."?

I guess in my ideal situation, I would be given more time to figure out how to be and who I am before the judgment begins. I admire Rirkrit for appearing to be the same person all the time, to have no line between his private and public roles. I also feel bewildered by him. Maybe he has a lot of walls up all the time or maybe he gets his feelings hurt regularly or maybe he's so comfortable with who he is that he can easily access where he ends and someone else begins.

I used to feel so disconnected all the time, completely overwhelmed by all my different personas. Now I feel like I know my limits: how long I can perform before I need a break.

I still wish my writing didn't have to be connected to who I appear to be.

(The title of this post comes from a book by M. Lancelot. I've never read it but I like the cover. The extended title is "le phenomene hippie")

This weekend's literature: Reflections in a Golden Eye by (guess who) Carson McCullers

update

rirkrit wore the same outfit that he wore six years ago. he's so practical.

delilah after dark is the perfect woman.

pictures are fun/anything to not work on my MFA application

also, tonight I'm going to the Walker to hear a talk from Rirkrit. some of you may remember that he came to oberlin to visit our emerging arts class and he came over to my house to get drunk and stoned with us. i'm excited to see him again.

linda weintraub was in town a couple months ago and she is still in love with rirkrit. i saw her speak at the u. i feel like i'm really having an oberlin reunion. that's kind of a gross idea since oberlin was so painful, but whatever. there's lots of oberlin people in minneapolis and i like a lot of them (miraculously).

i hope rirkrit makes some food. i'll let you know how it goes.

i think i'm going to wear one of my new adult outfits so i can fit into the hipster straight art community at the museum. it's funny to think of hipsters in minneapolis. but i suppose to some degree, they're everywhere.

special note to my beloved riva: i'm sorry for all my wrongdoings.

Riva Is Ignoring Me

I don't know why but my best friend, Riva refuses to write anything on my blog. I must have offended her. Maybe she doesn't want me to become a cooper. Riva, there's no positions on craigslist for coopers. Don't worry, it's not going to happen.

My new idea is to learn to speak French fluently and move to France to become an American who snubs America and actually does something about it. But learning a new language sounds really hard. Does this offend you, Riva?

Today, after swimming at the Y, I went to Al's with Miles for our perfect breakfast. (Thursdays is the day we go out for breakfast.) Anyway, there was an old man sitting next to me and he was speaking to his grandson. The old man explained, "Grandpa has a lot of money because he saved over the years." He was speaking to a four year old. I really liked his passion for teaching this little one aobut saving money. I wanted to lean over and say, "How about sharing some of that with me, gramps?" but I kept my mouth shut.

Ah, To Be A Barrel Maker...

I have deicded to become a barrel maker also known as a cooper. I have no idea what this might entail or if there's any demand for coopers in Minneapolis, but it just seems like it would be such a satisfying occupation. After a hard day's work, what do you have to show for yourself? Hundred of barrels, I suppose. I'm going to check craigslist for possible entry-level barrel-making positions.

blarney harney

*shalom from the holy land, minneapolis. so many jews, so little time. except not really at all.

*i saw something somewhere about how in order to really know yourself you have to be willing to step outside of your comfort zone, but that doesn't apply to me because it implies that you have a comfort zone to begin with. maybe i just haven't found a comfort zone to step out of. i'll work on that.

*my friends just got a puppy. it pees and poops a lot and it's pretty cute. here are my choices for what they should name her: melba toast, beezus, aunt melba, celery, shlomi, fenfen, levitra (this was my genius idea that they promptly turned down), thelonius, or doctor who. they only like some of my suggestions. miles is rooting for minerva but that's just sick.

*today water leaked all over the shakespeare books (sorry mom and dad) at the bookhouse. something about snow melting through the ceiling. we lost a bunch of good things and a bunch of things i was hoping to get rid of.
there was also water damage on a book of photographs of famous people in the bathtub. in a way, it was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

*one more grad application to go, baby.

*finally, i'm having my bimonthly (and what i mean by that is once every two months and not twice a month) gender dysphoria. this manifested itself in a manic shopping spree in which i purchased three tops, three pairs of shoes, a necklace, earrings, and goggles (the goggles aren't part of the dysphoria, silly. those are for swimming.) i am growing more and more tired of passing as an 18 year old straight girl. i didn't like being 18 the first time and i don't want to do it again. i am stuck in the middle: too little energy to try and dress like a straight person my age and too much fashion-sense to dress like a lesbian. i know, my life is hard. naturally buying a ton of clothes was the answer to my problems.

*this week's reading material: on the golden porch by tolstaya and black ice by lorene cary
*to celebrate the first day of spring (today), please listen to: spring is here by nina simone

You Know You're Not In San Francisco When...

For the second time, Miles and I went to Rice Paper. Last night was our 3.9 year anniversary. Maybe it's our sadomasochistic tendencies that inspired us to try again. Here's the review we wrote for the Rake Magazine three months ago:

Ambiance 3.0, Food 9.0, Service 2.0
What a confusing dining experience. For our anniversary, we decided to check out the much-lauded Rice Paper. We made a reservation and were warned that we could stay at our table for an hour and a half max. That's the first time we've ever experienced a warning like that, but we didn't think much of it until the rest of our visit unfolded. Upon arrival, (on a Saturday night) we were seated underneath a pungent pine wreath and right next to the traffic leading into the kitchen despite several empty tables. I asked to move to a bigger table but I was told they were reserved. Nobody showed up to sit at any of the "reserved" tables. So we ate our appetizer, the truly delicious tofu puffs next to the kitchen with pine infilitrating our sinuses. The food was great. I'd say more but we're running out of room. Service stunk through and through. Be prepared for amatuerish restaurant behavior. Superb food. Loved the pancake wrap with 3 sauces and mekong platter.



For the record, nothing has changed. We sat down at a really nice spot and then were told we had to move for bigger parties. They really need to get it together. I gave our hostess the death stare and they brought us a free appetizer. We're going to have to find a new date place.

Whoever Sang The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow Should Get All Her Red Hair Pulled Out With Tweezers

Wow, that's a kind of bitter title. I don't really mean it. Or do I? (Insert evil cackle here.)

Things that are good include but may or may not be limited to:

Tomorrow Miles comes home and that's good news because I'm tired of trying to talk up every stranger and random person I come into contact with in order to feel like a real human having real conversations.

It looks like I'm almost at the point where I only have one more school to sell my blood to in order to complete the glorious admissions process.

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter is my second favorite Carson McCullers book right now. Me and a friend, a real friend, not a stranger, decided if Carson were alive now, she would be a happy dyke hipster in SF. I really think Carson would have liked that scene. She had that skinny angsty dark side and with all that cigarette smoking and death on the brain, she really would have fit in.

Cornelius' seasonal affective disorder seems to be curbed with the sun shining every day.

Things that could be better or at least shouldn't be included in the above list:

I shovelled for the first time ever today. The final count was 10.7 inches of snow and my arms will testify to that. At one point I stopped and looked up at the branches of a tree above me and I swear to you, the squirrels were laughing at me. Two of them.

My other bookstore job, not the good one, but the one I'm not into is SO boring. I really get depressed when people come in and buy incense or a greeting card. I mean it's a bookstore. Don't you want a book?

When I left for work, I accidentally turned the heat in my room all the way up instead of off and now it's like a burning sauna. (On the upside, Cornelius seems pleased.)

I think it's important to have something to write in order to write at all (this applies to my blog but it's mostly meant for my creative writing). Sometimes I think I don't have a fire inside of me that burns bright enough to need to be written. I wish Carson was alive so I could ask her how she knew that she had to tell the stories she wrote.

And now in it's own list, the broadway musical of the day, to be played on repeat if you will brave it:
Chorus Line
Please spend extra time appreciating "different is nice but it sure isn't pretty. pretty is what it's about. i've never met anyone who was different who couldn't figure that out."

Thank you and good night lovely birds.

The Handsome Girl Looked out the Window Only To Discover

Snow. Snow people. I'm talking lots of it.

Here's what I'm trying to say:
This past week i was walking around in a tank top, sometimes a sweatshirt, no coat. (Refer to old post for proof.)

I have just encountered the biggest snow fall of my life in Minneapolis.

I am looking out the window at my little car buried in snow. And it's still falling.

I wish Miles hadn't taken the digicam to Maryland because it's beautiful and I want to remember something nice about it.

I need to figure out if I should stay home since the street doesn't look cleared or if I need to bundle up and make my way over to the Bookhouse.

I think God is angry at me, but I'm not sure what I can do to right my wrongs. At least not soon enough so it will stop snowing. Like everything else, a change in weather really brings out the solipsist in me.

Maybe over a bowl of cereal and some Heart is A Lonely Hunter I can figure out whether I should work today.

If A Walgreens Falls in One Part of the Forest...

Question:

If I'm enjoying the music in Walgreens in Minneapolis and simultaneously you're enjoying the music in Walgreens in Oakland or in another part of the country, will we be listening to the same music at the same time?

Day 3: The Sun Also Rises In Minneapolis

I just got back from a long walk. It's in the fifties and sunny and I walked around the park in a tanktop. I just talked to a Bay Area friend (her name will not be used to protect her privacy).

She and I discussed The Ballad of the Sad Cafe.
I think it's true. There are two ways with love. To love and to be loved. I like having both go on with myself. I don't think it's better to love or to be loved. I think it's good to find a way to have both.
She said she would rather love.
I need a new book to read. I think I may stick with the McCullers theme and read The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter.

I found out that the youth I used to work with in the Bay Area still love me. It's good to have a fan club.

(Now, I will stop protecting the privacy of my beloveds:)

Also, I came up with one more reason why I should move to Key West:
I won't have any friends there (which Riva thinks is bad) but that will provide isolation so I can begin working on my writing without distraction.

And, today's music preference is: "Peaceable Kingdom" by Patti Smith. I dedicate my listening to it over and over to Ellen because eight years ago, she taught me the beauty of playing a song on repeat until your mind is cleared of everything but that music for weeks.

And Miles has a blog! I am thrilled.

My Dream Houseboat in Amsterdam

Day Two: The Addiction Starts to Look Like A Warm Blanket

I'm pretending to be sick today. Well, that's not really true. I usually go into work today and I realized that I can't really be near my boss today. To understand this is to understand the complex and simple nature of my boss.
Her name is Kristen and she is famous in some circles. She has owned the used bookstore where I work for thirty years. She started it with her ex-husband and another couple. Since then, the other couple abandoned ship and her ex-husband divorced her and opened his own bookstore two doors down from hers. She's the strangest boss I've ever had and that's saying a lot.
Kristen has long silver hair and wears flowing skirts every day. She is in love with books related to Jung, folklore, mythology, and the classics. She is incredibly brilliant about some things and incredibly deficient about others. Her heart is kind and she tears up when she talks about having to offer someone trade credit instead of cash.
Some of the long-time regulars are in love with her and just the other day as I was biding my time at the front desk, a man called and told me he wanted to invite Kristen to his 50th birthday party. He doesn't know her on a personal level but she has been a part of his life, since he has been a customer for as long as he can remember. This was one of thousands of weird calls that I have to deal with, but I enjoyed the sadness that what he wasn't saying. I'm sure he's been in love with Kristen forever and now on his 50th birthday, he wants nothing more than to spend it with this woman who doesn't know him.
Since Kristen's first husband split, she has remarried a short man named Ted who has a little white alaskan dog that bites incessently. They make a perfect couple. They've opened a retreat center and I am frightened to find out what happens at one of those retreats but I'm guessing it has to do with shamans and healing. Ted calls the store every hour for Kristen, but she is rarely there.
For the past few months she has been the primary support for her dad who had lung cancer and was very close to death. Any kind of extra task that Kristen takes on (for which there are many) drives her into more and more of a frenzy. She comes and goes from the store with little warning and while there, attempts to move the store forward in her mania. More often than not, her presence is overwhelming for all of the staff and we tend to hide in the corners of the store when she arrives.
The thing is, I love my job and Kristen is a very nice person to work for. What makes the job particularly amazing is her lack of presence. It's pretty much left up to the four of us that work there to run the store and make decisions about everything. It's only the times when Kristen arrives like a tornado that we go into hiding.
Which brings me to why I'm not at work. Kristen's father died last week and I'm pretty sure she's working today. I couldn't take the chance of working alone with her all day so I just stayed home. Since I have no real schedule, nobody is expecting me, which means she will think I'm not working because I'm just not.
I'm still in my pajamas and it's 2:04 pm. I'm working on one of my MFA essays and I thought I was further along than I am. I'm also killing time by reading "Ballad of the Sad Cafe" by my new favorite auther Carson McCullers and reading Miles' copy of the New Yorker which has a (surprise, surprise) offensive article about JT Leroy in this week's edition. Other things to do today include making more phone calls to everyone I'm neglecting in the Great MFA Race of 2006.
Every artist needs to hibernate. This week is my turn. Love from the cave.

photo fishing

i was trying to post a picture for my blog but instead i can only post pictures as part of my blog. someday i'll figure it out. in the meantime, here's a picture of me in florida sitting in front of a neighbor's house appreciating the weirdness of christmas in florida. from a jewish perspective of course.

Today is the first day of the rest of my addiction

I did it. We all do it at some point. I took the big step. Started my own little place to blab about this and that. I smell like the pool. I haven't showered since swimming this morning and my skin itches from the chlorine. But it reminds me of being a kid. Swimming after school, going in for dinner, sitting around in my wet bathingsuit until it was dry, showering late at night before going to sleep. I'm not wearing my bathingsuit but I am wearing my highly chlorinated pajamas which I wear to and from the gym.
Today I had one of my paranoid days while I swam. The guy in the lane next to me wasn't a very good swimmer but I felt like he was trying to prove that he could swim faster than me. I wasn't in the mood to swim and having him competing against me didn't make it easier. He only swam for 25 minutes and I swim for an hour. I realize all of the angst I felt could have nothing to do with him but I really felt that the tension was palpable.
I have the day off so I have to continue my uphill battle for applying to grad schools. I have two programs left. I think I'm winding down, hence the idea of creating a blog as opposed to creating a new essay where I give my blood to some institution so they will let me attend their fancy pantsy school.
Wow, I sound really irritable...
I'm not sure if I'm cut out for this Blog Business.