And you thought we were done with this shit.

You can take the girls out of the Highland, but you can't take the Highland out of the girls. Or, as pictured from left to right, the British Dandy, the drunk Bridesmaid, and Miss Anoka.

HD 2 has come, and I hate to say also that it has gone. Ever since the Mankato folk left mine and Liz's place Sunday afternoon, I've been living in sweatpants, crying, and wishing that (as Chad said) that when I walked out my door I was walking onto Highland Avenue, walking to class, walking into the bliss of graduate school.

Not that I'm living in the past or anything. Right.

Actually, it's hard for me to write any of this. I wanted to post and write yesterday, as was traditional after a Highland party. We'd wake in the morning to friends on the couch, leftover danish and dreams of Perkins to avoid grading papers. We'd grab computers and photo swap. We were all still there.

In truth, most of us, I think, spent the weekend feeling that way. Sort of at home yet homeless at the same time. So reminscent of everything from three years ago, wondering how that went by so fast. To be honest, I thought I was the one who'd get over Highland the easiest. I don't know why, but I thought that. I'd been able to come home during my time there, had spent a lot of time in the cities, and now I'm living here. But when I go to sleep at night, in my bed, I sort of hope I wake up in the blue, wood-paneled attic room of Highland. I want to go downstairs, not up, and find Jenny sitting in the rocking chair, Christina in the big chair, Darren, Liz, Chad, and Ben hanging around. I want to feel part of the group, feel like what I do and stupid things I say are important. And I don't want to say that I have it bad here, or that I wish I'd done anything differently. I just really, really miss Mankato folks. I just can't believe sometimes how good it was for those three years, how much we changed and needed each other.

I said my favorite part of the weekend was prepping food for the party in the kitchen, but it was also going to bed and hearing everyone's voices upstairs. As always, I was the one to fall out early, tired, tired, tired. And when I pulled up the covers, I heard Christina, Jenny, Darren, Liz, Chad, Mary--I heard them upstairs. Laughing. Making jokes. I knew what they were saying even though the voices were fuzzy. I could tell who was saying what about whom by the pitch and tone of their voice. At Highland, when I would pass out early, the voices would be below me. I wished I could've taped them to use them as tranquility every night when I can't sleep.

I want to write more, now, but I can't. It's just so much of saying the same thing over and again, how weird everything feels. How weird is the only stupid word that can describe it. I can't look at the picture of the Highland house framed over my couch without so empty I need to ironically throw up.

We're so family, it's not even funny, you guys. Not even funny. On Friday, P said that awhile ago she'd found an old shopping list from Mankato in her jacket and started to cry. I hung X's (organized by department!) grocery list on our refrigerator. Last night, Liz found the "judges profiles" sheet from the hotdish party. It's the little things that really get you. Okay, it's the big things to. Like seeing Jenny nuzzle Truman, and listening to Darren complete my sentences for me, and big fat hugs from Chad. And if you really want to get yourself worked up, read old blogs from semesters ago. And then realize that for some reason you're still looking at time in terms of semesters. Yikes.

Anyway, I know you're just waiting for more photos. Here they are, in exactly the wrong order. So when you get to the end, it's like Highland Days is just beginning.


The costume party was delightfully last minute. None of us had costumes, so the name of the game was to write a costume idea down, throw it in a hat. Then we passed the hat around and picked our costumes. Then we split into groups and drove to separate thrift stores to work our magic.
(We were sort of in teams all day: X, P, and I met Terrill in Anoka--at the Halloween parade!--which is insane. We ate burgers and then while we walked T to his car, we saw storm troopers and a crazy "hallelujah!" float go by. And T (nor X) didn't even kill me.)


So, the hat and glasses weren't orginally part of the British Dandy costume, but they look bloody marvelous.

"Darren tucking his balls back."

So, Darren got my costume idea, which was: 16 year old Latina who is pregnant but doesn't know who the baby-daddy is. In short, and from what you will see below, we were all quite scared of Darren all night. Because he, like, pulled it off. Ew, Consuela.

That fucking purse.

Matt got Mary's costume, because she left. He was a "Were-Chicken"! And for some sad reason, I have no pictures of Liz. But she was amazing! She was a trailer park dream date! And Chad was a redneck gypsy!

Hell yes, that's the house punch.

Party prep.

How wonderful it was to listen to vinyl for most of the party. Including a german polka, the Bee Gees, and a minstrel show with men in black face.

During the longest Jenga game in history, Liz invented a drink that X had to mix: Hot buttered Reisling. Ingredients: Reisling, melted butter. I know. We're that awesome.

Darren and Mary after an hour long discussion about communism.

There is nothing better than friends in your living room. Nothing. I'm going to go cry for everything I miss some more. Or at least drink some wine. Or at least think about how much I drove X crazy talking about downtown Mankato Cub.

The Fucking Fuck Post.

For the last two weeks, I think I've been pretty good about remaining positive, but I've definitely reached my (fucking) breaking point. Oh, I'm definitely there. Because you sit, and you (fucking) wonder--how long? How (fucking) long do I have to wait until an employer calls me back and offers me a (fucking) job?

I realize that they're all in no big hurry, and I realize that there are probably applicants for these jobs that I expected interviews for that are getting interviews because they're more qualified than me. I (fucking) understand. But to get no calls, except for the holiday temp places, just seems sad, sad, sad to me. I'm very much so beginning to hate myself, and everything, and all of this shit that keeps piling on in addition to being unemployed is pushing me over the (fucking) edge. For example, last week, when some (motherfucking) asshole hit my car, and busted my side mirror. And didn't leave a note. I suppose a lot of (fucking) people don't leave notes, but I think what irritates me more is that someone is so (fucking) stupid that they hit my mirror when--what? Trying to park? Trying to pass one of the 800 buses in this neighborhood? (Did you know that both buses and busses are technically correct spellings? Is nothing (fucking) consistent in life?) And then last (fucking) night, I got in a huge fight with the Good Doctor, except it wasn't a fight at all, because all he does is ignore my phone calls, which is 100 times worse than fighting. (Fucking) especially when he invites me to dinner with him and his mom, and then I call him when I get off work, and then he doesn't answer. And then when he calls back, for some reason my (fucking) phone doesn't ring--it does that sometimes--and he leaves a message that says: you didn't answer, I guess that means you're not coming.

And then I call him back (fucking) immediately, and he doesn't answer. And the phone has to be right fucking by him. And then I call him back two more times, then text him to ask why he isn't answering, and then call again. And then, a half hour after we're supposed to go to dinner, he just sends me a text that says: I'm fed up with you. Which does nothing but make me (fucking, fucking) irrate because it doesn't make any sense, and it is simply how I feel about him. He also texted me the night before to let me know that I have become boring which is (fucking) ridiculous. And (fucking) untrue. I think for someone who cannot spend one (fucking) dollar on something because she doesn't have a job, that I'm pretty un-(fucking)-boring.

Of course, since I'm broke as hell, and borrowing money from my parents, shitty things insist on keeping to happen. For example, the Star Tribune has, for three weeks, not delivered my Sunday paper after I have called to to tell them hasn't been delivered. Still no paper. Then, the (fucking) state of MN denied my unemployment. Why? Why (fucking) why? Because I've worked in (and for) this state for 8 years, and I haven't put my time in? Because unemployment is made for people like me who get (fucking) fucked over by their employers? I don't even really (fucking) know why, although based on the application right now, it looks like it's because I vounteer my time to Graywolf on Mondays and Tuesdays. So. Because I vounteer my time to a nonprofit organization, the (fucking) state has told me that I don't deserve my (fucking) $99 a (motherfucking) week. I called them to ask why. I was on hold for 20 minutes. They said: you can have your unemployment (maybe, if you're employer says you weren't discharged) in (maybe) 4 weeks. And all I think about is how my brother lived on unemployment for so long, spending it on alcohol, because he lived at home. And then I continue to hate everything.

And, really, they should just give that (fucking) money to me, because it's just going right (fucking) back to the state anyway. Since I got a speeding ticket on the way home from an amazing Graywolf reading event. Finally something fun, something I loved, and on the way home, I get (fucking) pulled over. I don't get a speeding ticket for 2 years, and then, when I'm umployed and the last (fucking) thing I can afford is a speeding ticket, I get pulled over. When I seriously thought it was a 65, and it was a 55 on 35W. When the (fucking) police officer was just parked on the (fucking) hill on the side of the interstate, with his stupid little radar gun, with his unmarked police car, waiting for people to drive by. And here's me, the recently unemployed, unbelievably broke and depressed girl in her shitty (fucking) car, going 69. Because I'm sure he didn't have anything (fucking) better to do than park on a hill on the side of an interstate. I'm sure he couldn't just fucking catch speeders the normal way. Oh, and I'm sure there weren't people going over 69, it just so happened that I happened to be in the right lane becasuse my (fucking) exit was a half mile away. And I sure need to pay $142 (motherfucking) dollars right now, because some stupid motherfucker couldn't, instead, go to--I don't know. North Minneapolis to stop someone from getting shot. Instead, catching people in a ridiculously low speed zone is more important.

So, that's it. I don't even have (fucking) jokes to make, or positive comments. Or anything. I'm grateful that my parents aren't killing me and are helping me with money. I'm grateful that Highland Days is merely days away, but just nervous because I can't spend the money I want to, or nervous that I won't pull myself out of this depression before the people I love the most get here. But I'm just really, really, hate (fucking) life right now. I think I have a (fucking) right to. I think I have a right to feel just a little bit sorry for myself, because I brought some of this shit on (the speeding ticket, I fucking guess--but it's not like I was thinking--whee! I'm speeding!) but some of it is out of (fucking) nowhere. I just can't even make (fucking) jokes about it anymore. I'm defeated. I go to bed crying, I wake up crying, and I throw my hands in the air, and ask my bedroom why. What I did. No answer. No good news. Everything I've invested a little bit of faith in right now has let me down. Sometimes twice-over. So. Whoever it is that wins, (fucking) wins.

Real example of a thing you can only say after a forensics tournament and that any other time would get you arrested:

Yeah, I mean, it was incest; but it was incest done well.

I know I say this after every single tournament I judge, but I fucking love forensics.

A conversation that COULD HAVE happened at Turtle bread with the cute guy behind the counter, if I wasn't the most shy girl you've ever met...

...when it comes to men.

How the conversation really began:

Attractive guy: Hi, what can I get for you.

Jeano: Hello, I'll have a cup of mushroom wild rice soup.

[AG goes to retrieve soup]

AG: Shoot, we just ran out of mushroom wild rice. We have chicken wild rice if that's alright.

J: No problem, chicken sounds great.

AG: Sorry about that. I really hope you enjoy your soup.

J: [flirtatious laugh, because the way he said it was so sincere]: Thanks, I'm sure I will.

WHAT SHOULD HAVE HAPPENED AFTER THAT, BUT NEVER DOES BECAUSE I AM TOO SHY:

J: Hi, I'm Jean.

AG: Hi, I'm the attractive guy who works behind the counter at Turtle Bread.

J: I know. So, this might seem kind of forward, and I really shouldn't be acting forward, because my hair is wet, which is awkward--but I always leave the house with wet hair, it's just a thing I do--anyway, would you like to get coffee sometime?

AG: Yeah, that might be cool. I know I'm hot, but I don't even have a girlfriend or anything. So maybe YOU could be my girlfriend! That might be fun! I mean, we could go out for coffee, find out we have a lot in common, and who knows. By the end of the night, maybe we'll even kiss. Like on the mouth.

J: I sure do like mouth kissing.

AG: Yeah, I think I'm pretty good at it too. And well, I have to be honest. I can tell by your wet hair that you're unemployed right now, and I want you to know that that doesn't matter to me. You'll find something soon.

J: I like your shirt.

AG: Do you want to get married?

J: Are you gay?

AG: No.

J: Then probably.

Twin Cities Book Fair.

This morning I woke up early to go to the TCBF with Graywolf. I love literary events. Plus, I thought I should be, um, "networking" to people. As in, hi, I work with Graywolf. How would you like to give me a job?

I didn't really network, though. I did meet some important people, or at least watched the Graywolf staff talk with important people, like the director of Milkweed. I did say "hi" to Tom Maltman, as in, introduced myself to him because we hadn't ever really met. We talked BER for a couple of minutes before he read from his new novel. I wished I was at AWP. I wished Christina and Jenny had been there, and we could've walked around to all the publishers, feeling important. Promoting the magazine.

While we were setting up, organizing the table, Mary the marketing executive tried to get me to move to New York. She was actually sort of talking me into it. She said that all interns who'd made that blind move out there found significant publishing jobs within a week. A week! It's weird because I started that conversation thinking: I'm not the kind of person who could move to New York. I'm just not that kind of person. But by the time I was done talking to Mary I was like: I could move to New York if I wanted. I could just do that. How many times does one find herself in a position where she could just go to New York if she wants to, anyway? What's keeping me here?

It's weird how quickly you go from the kind of person who doesn't do something to the kind of person who does. You don't have to actually do it, you're just the kind of person who would.

But if I went to New York, I suppose there'd be things I'd miss here. For example, I bet at New York book fairs, you don't see the sort of people you see at Twin Cities book fairs. You don't see the wide, soft women who walk around like slow-moving Thanksgiving balloons as though their bodies are filled with air, you don't see the men in their 50s that you hope your future husband will age like, who grab book after book after book and hand you their credit card. You don't hear the certain types of book pitches in New York (actually there, they might be more colorful) for books that aren't even close to what your press publishes. You probably do see the New Agey women, though, like the ones we saw at AWP in Austin, in their dyed flowing skirts. You might see the guy walking around in the homemade shirt Be Careful or I'll Put You in My Novel.

But it was good. It just felt good to sit there, listen to people talk books, feel like I was in the middle of something that I'd like to stay in the middle of for a very long time.

to do, unemployment, day 5

• wake up with slight hangover;
• wake up to phone call from former employer, again, asking for more material to be sent to them;
• wake up and, for some reason, realize that there is a chance that the paint picture of "Erotic Desk" may have been saved to the desktop of former-employer's computer;
• first get nervous about that, then not care and laugh;
• search all Minneapolis job boards, again and again for two hours;
• watch Scooby Doo while doing the above;
• sing in shower, loudly;
• eat almost an *entire* "unemployment cake" by standing at kitchen counter and plunging fork into repeatedly for mouthfuls and mouthfuls;
• curse and love Shannon for baking me an "unemployment cake" and forcing me to take it home;
• go to beloved unpaid job for three hours to read full short story manuscript;
• return phone call to former-employer, over-friendly and professional;
• go to Caribou, again, to revise resume and apply for more jobs;
• find Pro Staff job at University registrars office;
• send Pro Staff resume via email;
• 2 minutes later get phone call from Pro Staff, asking me to come in one week from now;
• inquire about University job, get told Master's degree may over-qualify me;
• inquire again about University job;
• get asked about "answering phones, call center work";
• inquire again about University job;
• schedule meeting;
• go to car on street outside Caribou, discover someone has hit the driver's side mirror;
• try to willfully attach driver's side mirror, which is not broken off, but hanging on the car, sort of like optic nerve;
• curse everything;
• curse, curse, curse;
• go home, eat more "unemployment cake";
• curse.

And after all of this happened, he wrapped it in newspaper and put it in the neighbor's yard.

Last night the Good Doctor found a small, gray, soft bird on his front porch. He'd turned on the porch light, and as he'd done it, something fell. He opened the door and it lay there, with its bird legs up in the air. He picked it up, brought it inside. No blood, no damage, no broken hollow bones. But a warm body.

The Good Doctor tried to save the bird by pushing the fingerpads of his middle and index fingers on the bird's chest. He gave the bird CPR. He craddled the soft bird in palm, pet the short-feathered, fuzzy head, pressed lightly on its small body, checking. For something. The bird moved, his black eyes shifted or opened or closed. Or at least the Good Doctor thought so.

But he died, or he remained dead. Depending.

Last night when I talked to him on the phone, the GD said that the bird had flown into the window, but as we continued to talk, as he remembered examining the bird, he thought it might be odd about the no blood or damage. "Maybe he was electrocuted," I said. "His body was warm."

"Maybe," the GD said.

Or maybe he'd ingested the gallons of spider poison the GD scattered around his house. Or maybe he'd just been flying, flying, flying and out of nowhere, he'd fallen. He'd stopped flying-flying and he'd fallen and landed on the GD's front porch. He wasn't meant to be saved, just seen in his last moments--to prove that for awhile, he'd been alive.

You've got to be kidding me. You've. Got. To be. Kidding.

Christina, I said, this just isn't fair. And I know what this is. The other day I was like: I just want cool weather. I just want it to be chilly and fall and wonderful. And what? In return for this, the sacrifice I have to make is I lose my job?

So, in turn for finally getting the weather I wanted today, the higher forces took my job. The life gods are like, that'll cost you. That'll cost you your no-longer-current job. Now you're unemployed. (Now you make exactly zero dollars a week, and since you have no real reason to understand why this is, you will assume it's because you asked for something and something else had to be taken away.)

This is what life is giving you right now. This is what you get.

Thanks to all of you I talked to today. Today would be impossible without all of my amazing friends. If you know of any job openings, well. You know.

Now time for some Lean Pockets. Pepperoni. One snack at a time. (I have to be honest with you, in spite of all the comforting words from my friends right now, it's pretty easy to feel like a useless loser. I was really wanting a car to hit me after my just-lost-my-job run so I could get a decent lawsuit on my hands.)

Marathon Lance.

Today, in the Twin Cities ridiculous heat and humidity, Lance ran a marathon.

I'm so proud of him. Especially because it is October 7th, and it is fucking hot outside.

I know a lot of people who have run marathons now. And, well, they're all pretty neat. And walking around the capital amongst all of those runners--runners crying and sweating in each others' arms, runners whose spouses were stretching out their legs for them as they collapsed on the grass, runners who took gaping hunks out of fresh apples in hunger, runners whose legs wobbled just a bit after the run like newborn fawns--yeah, walking around those runners made me feel pretty lazy. But this isn't about me, it's about Lance, and he's pretty damn awesome. I mean, he ran over 26 miles.

In, like, a row.

I can barely drive 26 miles without getting sick of songs on the radio. I mean, that's almost 5 hours. That's longer than the morning at work before you get to take lunch.

Lance, that's almost 2 Lord of the Rings movies. Longer than the first two Batman movies for sure.

And now, because I've been a lazin' all summer, I'm using you as motivation to get back out there to train for some other sort of race. Because races might hurt, but they make your brain feel good.

Now, come on Lance. Let's go eat a 20 piece McNugget. You know you want to. Come on. I'm buyin'.

Something all of you should know.

So, I took this call at work last week with a lovely attorney who told me that she was a member of AARP. Except I didn't really know what that was, so I asked her. And she said that it was the Amercian Association of Retired Persons.

Except what I seriously heard and wrote in my notes was: American Association of RETARDED Persons.

I'm not kidding. Thank God, I didn't really ask any follow up questions on that. And thank God I googled it. Because saying a lawyer is retarted on her own website just might be the thing that makes your boss fire you. And my reputation at work is pretty shitty right now, and I'm talking lowest of the low. I shouldn't go around claiming people are retarded when instead they are just old.

Although the search marketing guy on the line piped up and said that he "was also a member." Unfortunately, this only concluded the fact that I thought the lawyer had said "retarded" because this guy is one of the most retarded people I have ever met in my life.

The first photo dump of "You Don't Give a Shit!"

I've finally uploaded photos since June.

Let's start with my birthday, June 22nd, wherein I came home to a house filled with western themed decor, a pink cowgirl hat, and a cactus pinata. David and I tried to smash it inside, which didn't work. So we brought it on the lawn.

Then Shannon took me to dinner, complete with creme brulee dessert. It was gone in like two seconds, and it was amazing.

And the next time I took a picture was with Lance, at Guitar Center in Edina. Rocking out.

I played a $1300 Gibson.

And in July, we went to the aqautenniel. Watched waterskiers on the river.

And I drank with Kristin after work.

And David and I went to the Dells for an amazing weekend. This was the only picture we took, in the hotel room, pre Noah's Ark. And after a night of watching "To Catch a Predator."

And I guess I didn't take any pictures in August. I guess August sucked.

But a couple of weeks ago, David and I went to an apple orchard and winery. We had wine samples twice over, even without fake mustaches the second time when we were breaking the rules. And we went to the petting zoo to see a llama, meh-meh-meh's and a very cute sheep with a very pear-shaped nose:


(David explained why their pupils were square. I don't remember why. Something about peripheral vision.)

Then we took a picture in the hay maze:

And of the trees.

Which were used by the Good Doctor to make me a pie:

And that's about it.

And next, we have a quiz:

Who recently got his balls cut off?

a)

b)

c)The poor, poor puppy.

Anyway, to post for real, it's been a rough week. I've been battling post-school demons again and again. I want to be in school. I feel like a fish out of water. I feel like I'm not qualified for anything and that everyone who once told me that an English major was a good idea should be punched in the neck.

I'm so deep in it I can't really talk about it. But I keep falling back on this duck hunt metaphor.

In esssence, I'm the duck. And here I am, a fucking lunatic flying around like crazy, trapped in this blue square of a screen with exactly the same background no matter how much I keep flying, and my eyes are all big and bulgy, and most importantly, there are people shooting at me with plastic guns, and they're cheating and getting really close to the TV (I mean, they're like touching the tip of that plastic gun to the screen) and they're taking shots. And they're going to hit me. I mean, all I've got is the blue square, and it doesn't phase them to cheat.

Anyway, the point is this:

They hit me, they catch me. Nobody wants me to make it.

Okay. That's pretty pessimisstic. My friends want me to make it. But the rest of the world is shooting at my post-graduate self and daring me to succeed in this duck-flying adult life.