I spent last weekend on a chair, screaming like a girl. A little annoying girl. The one on the playground that you fucking want to push in the dirt because she is the most ridiculous little girl you've ever seen.
Correction: I also spent part of the weekend locked in the laundry room with the Good Doctor, drunk and screaming. (Not the first time this has happened, probably won't be the last.)
We have a mouse; we killed it. We have another mouse. Following is the procession of mouse:
1) Jeano notices tiny holes chewed in food, pretends they are manufacturers defects, lets instant potatoes snow on floor, convinces herself it is not a mouse;
2) There are tiny poops in the cupboard, in her food cupboard, and they are either fairy poops or mice poops; for one time in her life, Jean is hoping for fairy;
3) One night last week: Jean is tired, but she swears, that while sitting in the living room, she sees a shadow move across the floor. James tells her she's fucking nuts, she really is, but looks under the futon anyway and sees nothing;
4) James cleans Jean's cupboard for her, organizes foods, eliminates poops;
5) James buys mousetraps;
6) James puts cheese on mousetraps;
7) Next morning: cheese is gone from both traps, no mouse is dead;
8) Next day: The Good Doctor, his friend Matt, and Yellow Dog come to visit, so does Liz. Jean has about two bottles of wine in her system, but dinner is over and it's time for dessert. Jean is going to make white mocha ice cream treats in the blender. She goes to grab the blender, and in doing so, sees a gray flash on the counter behind her; Jean screams, screams, screams, screams, screams, screams, screams, screams, screams.
9) A mouse, kill it kill it kill it kill it, she says;
10) James doesn't believe her, but goes to check, and the mouse skirts across the back of the kitchen sink and runs up the wall into the back of the cupboard;
11) Jean is still screaming, the Good Doctor joins her, then they lock themselves in a room and continue to drunkenly scream even though they can't actually see the mouse nor anything that is happening in the kitchen;
12) Liz and James are on a mission, Liz and James are on the cupboard and looking up the hole, but I don't know what else happens in the kitchen, as I am drunk and screaming and doing "squeamish hands" in the pantry, but I think they determined that the mouse has an intricate system running through the cupboards, which explains how he found his way into my food and into the utensil drawer, where he has shit on every spatula and wine opener we've got;
12) Jean leaves pantry, but only by the back way, which doesn't involve going through the kitchen,
12) Liz asks for a wire hanger, Jean tells her this is no time for an abortion, and then jokes are made about Liz making money by performing abortions for farmer's daughters back behind the chicken coop and with a sign in our front yard that says: Liz! Abortionista extraordinaire!;
13) Jean returns with wire hanger, Liz creates a device that pokes up through the cupboard and tries to poke the mouse out and then sets up a plastic bag below the tiny tunnel of the corner cupboard, as though to catch his corpse like a body bag;
14) No dead bodies fall out of the tunnel;
15) We give up, because it's time for Trivial Pursuit;
16) Next day: No incidents in the morning, but as we are cleaning up after our day of baking...;
17) Out of nowhere, a fucking mouse skitters his tiny feet across the floor. He has come out from under the dishwasher;
18) Jean screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and runs into the living room and leaps onto the couch and nearly cries;
19) James and Liz look for the mouse under the oven, but they find nothing, Jean moves over to the dining room chair in the kitchen so she can watch them perform this feat;
20) Nothing;
21) That night: James sets up the trap--really squishes that cheese down and puts the trap out in the open, in the kitchen;
22) Jean wakes up at 4:00 on Monday morning because she has a lot of work to catch up on before school, and she walks into the kitchen, and she sees a dead mouse in the trap, and she screams, but it's not loud, and she tiptoes past the mouse in order to get to the bathroom;
23) The mouse's tail curves a bit around the refrigerator, and it looks like a slippery earthworm that has been forced to come out by a cold rain;
24) Jean writes James a note, as he has told her to do, but she has not put a towel over the mouse as he has told her to do, because then she'd ruin a towel and every time she dried her hands, she'd wonder if it were the "mouse towel";
25) The note says: James, ish and on it, Jean has drawn a dead mouse and we know it's dead because its eyes are really xs;
26) James disposes of mouse promptly after Jean has gone to school. He leaves the traps out, in case the mouse has "a friend,"
27) Two days later: James says, I think our mouse has a friend that cheese from both traps is gone;
28) Jean feels fear in her heart, but first that fear has passed through her stomach and esophagus like bile;
29) James continues to set up traps. Jean wakes up this morning and notices a mousetrap has moved at least a foot from its original position, that the cheese is gone, and that there is a mysterious white substance on the floor--food, perhaps?;
30) James wakes up, because he had to wake up early this morning; Jean points at the floor and says I had nothing to do with that;
31) James touches the white, and it is, we discover, foam. It is a foam substance from the soft mat he has in front of the oven, and upon inspecting the soft mat, we discover teeth marks and a missing corner;
32) Jean emails Liz, Liz tells her the mouse is a lesbian for "eating rug";
33) Jean concludes that this mouse is a super-rug-munching mouse--he has the power to manipulate traps of all forms, he can leave ginormous teeth marks in a rug, and he probably knows math;
34) He is deemed Algernon, although she once called the first mouse Algernon. It is decided that that mouse was more likely a Ralph like the mouse who had a motorcycle, or Stuart Little, the mouse who grew up to have Parkinson's or Pinky from Pinky and the Brain. This mouse is Algernon. He is too smart for his own good, and someday, he might give a retarded man (likely James) some sort of hope and the chance to have sex with Miss Kinnion, who is engaged and an inappropriate teacher;
35) Jean tells James the cheese probably isn't working because it is so fucking cold in this house that the cheese probably freezes and just falls off the trap so Algernon can get it, so James elects to use peanut butter this time;
36) Jean is not looking forward to the possibility of seeing another dead mouse tomorrow, but then again, a dead mouse is better than an under-the-stove-living mouse;
37) The only way Jean is bringing flowers for Algernon better be at his fucking funeral tomorrow, meaning when James chucks his body into the backyard, across the field, and it hits the freezing ground with a soft thump and light thrash in the long, brown grass.
***
P.S. I am quite convinced that this has been the laziest week of my life. I bring clothes for the gym after school, and I still don't go. Instead, I come home, eat a bunch of cookies that I baked last weekend. Today I ate about 20 cookies, then I had two bowls of Apple Jacks for dinner, then I went to bed at 4:00 in the afternoon and woke up at 5:30, and then I decided I was still tired and went back to bed until 8:00, and then I watched The Office, and then I ate another cookie and then I opened a glass of wine, and then I blogged and there you go. My original plans--my only plans for the day were: DON'T BE A FUCKING FAT ASS, and it turns out that was the only thing I did. Why does it have to be so cold? Why do I have to have such chronic, disabling fatigue? Why can't I just make myself run? Why can't I do it, when clearly I care that the fat around my waist grows like a protective tube-like flotation device? Winter, I hate you, and I hate you even more, wind from the North, and lack of motivation, I hate you the most. Sonofafuckingbitch I have to change. But it's so hard to change your routine when you're happy with everything else in your life. Work is great, and amazing, and I'm learning a bunch of shit everyday; therefore, I must be fat. This ain't done no fair.
Same shit, different outfit.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
reasons I love teaching today
one: I said to A, after she said, I love your shoes! where do you get all those shoes! that: oh, thanks, I make all my shoes in my basement at home.
Really? said A. You know how to work with leather?
two: The students are doing group projects about parts of speech. The pronoun group is mad at me because "pronouns are really, really boring." I say to this: what? pronouns are amazing! yeah! go pronouns! they are so so cool! Yeah! And I punch the air a couple of times.
Then I bend over and give them this line in a totally different teacher persona:
Okay, guys. I'll be honest with you. A pronoun is really just the noun's ugly cousin. Like, a noun is all cute and flirty and then you look at a pronoun and she's frumpy and her teeth are weird and she has no social awareness.
And then I walk away.
Really? said A. You know how to work with leather?
two: The students are doing group projects about parts of speech. The pronoun group is mad at me because "pronouns are really, really boring." I say to this: what? pronouns are amazing! yeah! go pronouns! they are so so cool! Yeah! And I punch the air a couple of times.
Then I bend over and give them this line in a totally different teacher persona:
Okay, guys. I'll be honest with you. A pronoun is really just the noun's ugly cousin. Like, a noun is all cute and flirty and then you look at a pronoun and she's frumpy and her teeth are weird and she has no social awareness.
And then I walk away.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
The first of probably many mental health days.
Yesterday the fog was so thick that I could've taken a bite out of it and left teeth marks.
At the beginning of fifth hour, I'd sent Mr. O an email that said: Please come see me in my office, or if you are busy, just answer this question if you can: Um, can I go home and take a "mental health" afternoon?
He'd come over to my office, my head was down, and he'd said, Is everything all right? And I said it was, but it's just that I was mad at myself and having a bad day and I needed to go home.
I drove back to Elgin, chugged the giant bottle of Advil, and lay down until the headache vaporized. This took three hours. At four, I woke up, feeling refreshed. And then I went for a 5.5 mile run. It's the first run I've had in the day time for awhile. And I'd needed it. Of course, the irony is that the fog blurred my vision for everything landmark ahead of me, but I was at least able to see my feet.
I miss Lake Nokomis. I miss the gentle nods to other runners, I miss watching the tiny, white waves lap at the shore, I miss the planes flying overhead. In Elgin, I like the dirt roads, but only when they're not wet. Last night was a weird run. The dirt roads were a muddy quicksand from melting snow, but the white snow on the sides of the roads had mixed with loose dirt--to create a soft surface that looked like white sand from Seal Beach. So with the fog, it was like I was running on the beach and just couldn't see the water. But, instead, I was just jogging along those hills on the back county road.
At Nokomis, I never had to watch where I was stepping, but I had to watch out for rapists or murderers on late night runs. In Elgin I have to watch out for all of the gopher holes along the dirt road that could easily catch my foot and twist my ankle.
In Elgin, the smell of diesal is everywhere. I like that. And at least the country folk give me waves. Plus, there are so many men in big overalls doing dirty work. I like to see that too, see people outside doing farmy things or fixing pipes or starting fires in their wood stoves.
In Elgin, I have to look for cars. I run along County Road 25, and she's busy. In Minneapolis, I just had two intersections--with cross walks. And people expected runners there. In Elgin, people probably wonder what I'm doing out there, running. They probably think I'm a deer. They probably think I'm crazy.
At Nokomis, you see garbage: cups, condom wrappers. In Elgin, you see roadkill at least every 1/4 mile. That cat that died a couple of weeks ago is still on the side of the road, near that mailbox, and he's been there so long, flattened so many times, he's as thin as paper--even his skull--and I imagine if you picked him up and held him to the lsunlight he'd be transparent.
Yesterday I counted three dead deer in the ditch, just in two miles on one side. In the dark, I worry I might trip on one of these deer, recently hit, and land face first in rotten, bloody flesh. One deer had been there awhile--he's body was bloated, fat, and he'd been decapitated. I was certain that this deer was a seal, somehow, on the side of the road. I even did a double take. On closer look, I realized that this deer had lost his head somehow, and it looked just like the cartoons do, with that short piece of spine, or bone, coming out at the neck. The melting snow, the moist fog, had caused his fur to stick to his body, giving the appearance of blubber.
At the beginning of fifth hour, I'd sent Mr. O an email that said: Please come see me in my office, or if you are busy, just answer this question if you can: Um, can I go home and take a "mental health" afternoon?
He'd come over to my office, my head was down, and he'd said, Is everything all right? And I said it was, but it's just that I was mad at myself and having a bad day and I needed to go home.
I drove back to Elgin, chugged the giant bottle of Advil, and lay down until the headache vaporized. This took three hours. At four, I woke up, feeling refreshed. And then I went for a 5.5 mile run. It's the first run I've had in the day time for awhile. And I'd needed it. Of course, the irony is that the fog blurred my vision for everything landmark ahead of me, but I was at least able to see my feet.
I miss Lake Nokomis. I miss the gentle nods to other runners, I miss watching the tiny, white waves lap at the shore, I miss the planes flying overhead. In Elgin, I like the dirt roads, but only when they're not wet. Last night was a weird run. The dirt roads were a muddy quicksand from melting snow, but the white snow on the sides of the roads had mixed with loose dirt--to create a soft surface that looked like white sand from Seal Beach. So with the fog, it was like I was running on the beach and just couldn't see the water. But, instead, I was just jogging along those hills on the back county road.
At Nokomis, I never had to watch where I was stepping, but I had to watch out for rapists or murderers on late night runs. In Elgin I have to watch out for all of the gopher holes along the dirt road that could easily catch my foot and twist my ankle.
In Elgin, the smell of diesal is everywhere. I like that. And at least the country folk give me waves. Plus, there are so many men in big overalls doing dirty work. I like to see that too, see people outside doing farmy things or fixing pipes or starting fires in their wood stoves.
In Elgin, I have to look for cars. I run along County Road 25, and she's busy. In Minneapolis, I just had two intersections--with cross walks. And people expected runners there. In Elgin, people probably wonder what I'm doing out there, running. They probably think I'm a deer. They probably think I'm crazy.
At Nokomis, you see garbage: cups, condom wrappers. In Elgin, you see roadkill at least every 1/4 mile. That cat that died a couple of weeks ago is still on the side of the road, near that mailbox, and he's been there so long, flattened so many times, he's as thin as paper--even his skull--and I imagine if you picked him up and held him to the lsunlight he'd be transparent.
Yesterday I counted three dead deer in the ditch, just in two miles on one side. In the dark, I worry I might trip on one of these deer, recently hit, and land face first in rotten, bloody flesh. One deer had been there awhile--he's body was bloated, fat, and he'd been decapitated. I was certain that this deer was a seal, somehow, on the side of the road. I even did a double take. On closer look, I realized that this deer had lost his head somehow, and it looked just like the cartoons do, with that short piece of spine, or bone, coming out at the neck. The melting snow, the moist fog, had caused his fur to stick to his body, giving the appearance of blubber.
Monday, November 10, 2008
The fun never, ever ends in Elgin, even if you want it to.
I just answered the doorbell, at nine at night, to find a steak salesman standing on my porch and his van with the headlights on in our dirt driveway. Normally it's people with tiny Bibles and a "greater" agenda, but tonight it was cold, raw meat.
Let me ask you this, he said. Do YOU LIKE STEAKS?!
Um. Yup. I said. Steaks are all right.
Great! Because we have a special--normally 10 dollar steaks for three bucks. Let me run into my van and get some for you to look at.
I had no idea what to do here, because I certainly didn't want to paw at cold meat in the dark night. I don't even know how to look at a steak. The only thing I know about steaks is how to eat them, and that's after they've been prepared by someone who is not me, who knows how to cook them. So while he was ambitious in grabbing those steaks from his non-windowed steak-mobile, I told him that we probably weren't interested and wished him a good night. Of course, now I wonder a couple of things--like: Why. Why is someone selling steaks from his van. Or, what if I'd told him I was a vegetarian? What if he really had cattle in his van and was going to butcher a cow in front of me to show me that steak? What if he was the Mister Steak, from the restaurant?! Should I have asked for his autograph? More importantly, did this just happen? Was a man just on my porch offering me cheap meat?
No, even more importantly: Will I, now, for the rest of my life have forever-regret for passing up my probably-only chance to buy meat from the back of a mysterious van?
*
Mouse poop, in case you're curious, looks exactly like little human poops. Of course, it is smaller, and I would argue that it's probably darker. But if Thumbelina or Tinkerbell took a shit, it'd look like mouse shit, as they are little humans.
I know this because I found mouse shit in my food cupboard yesterday. I'm trying to ignore your laughter right now. I'm trying to pretend that you don't know that two years ago moths invaded my food cupboard and mine alone, that it took me months to get them out, that those moths served the sole purpose of procreating near my food and laying their little moth maggots in my cereal. Now it's a mouse.
I'll be honest. I suspected, but I ignored. I was unwilling to accept the fact that my food was near the teeth of a hungry mouse. When that bag of tortilla chips had a little tear in the corner that looked like it could've been gnawed through by a mouse (possibly a mouse wearing a sombrero) I just took it out and threw it in the garbage. I didn't "check" for anything. And when my little pouch of instant potatoes gushed little potato flakes on the floor when I picked it up--thanks to a big tear in the corner of the bag--I convinced myself that it had been a flaw in the packaging. That Betty Crocker food servers neglected to check that one pouch in that one box and made me make a big snowy instant potato mess all over my floor.
I owe Betty Crocker an apology.
It wasn't her fault; it was the mouse's fault. Those chips didn't get a hole by themselves. There's a reason that when I open my cupboard I do it with a secret fear, that I refuse to dig around in there, that I wonder if I hear things scratching even if it's only in my imagination. There's a reason I slam that door shut, that I don't organize my food, but instead, when I buy a new box of Mac & Cheese, open the door, literally throw it in, and then slam it as quickly as possible. It is as though I'm a zookeeper feeding a scary, hungry bear by having to open his cage to throw the meal in and simultaneously avoid an attack.
I've secretly known. And yesterday I had to confront that fear: I found the poo. I found the poo.
I took the risk of organizing my food, then I found it, and then I waited until James came home. Mouse. Cupboard. Poop. I said. I went for a 4 mile run in the 20 degree weather, asked if he'd take care of it while I was gone. (You know, like a 40-year-old boyfriend leaves for awhile when his 17-year-old girlfriend takes "care of" the pregnancy.) When I got home, my food was organized, and James reported no mouse. But I'll have to get some traps. Don't know how he got in there--maybe you left it open one night?
I'm sure that's what happened. I'm sure he's not secretly hiding in there, waiting to attack the next time I want some Saltines. Scratch. Scratch. Squeak. Poop.
*
Saturday was one of those days of unexpected fun, one of those days when you're watching cartoons and the news somehow simultaneously and your roommate comes down and says: Dammit, we're hauling garbage to town today.
We don't have garbage service; we have a lot of garbage. Lots of beer bottles, lots of Lean Pockets boxes and wrappers, lots of old bananas that I thought I'd eat before they'd gone bad and that I'd once thought would become bread long after.
And we've been keeping it in the old chicken coop.
This is the luxury of Elgin. You don't have garbage service, you just throw bag after bag into the garage, and then when you realize there's no more room to keep your car in there, you move the trash over to the chicken coop, right alongside the empty boxes from the day you moved in last May, right next to the box that says "Winter Clothes," and the plastic bin where you keep all of those candles that you bought on clearance the Christmas season you worked at Pier 1.
The non-luxury of Elgin is the day your roommate comes downstairs and says: We've got garbage in that chicken coop since the fourth of July. I figure that garbage service is $90 every three months, but we can haul it to Red Wing and get rid of it for $20.
I brew coffee, download new songs on my ipod for the trip, and James puts on his dirty clothes and old gardening gloves and starts throwing our wet, slimy black and white bags of trash and recycling into the back of the truck.
I put on my dirty clothes, then join him. We have a lot of garbage. We are the King & Queen of garbage. I feel disgusting. I feel so disgusting. And it's cold outside, and I imagine the garbage steaming even though that's just our breaths.
We take back roads to Red Wing, 45 minutes away, and because the truck is full of garbage, we drive slowly and check rearview mirrors for bags that have escaped and left white tufts of paper towel and crushed cereal boxes on the road. James has had to tie the garbage down with bright orange bungie cords. It's as though we have an important haul. We're on a garbage barge, hauling trash from New York, except it's all our own, and we have to take ownership of this human mess. I feel so disgusting.
We can't find the incinerator, so we call and drive around until we do, but not after I almost talk James into illegally dumping our trash in a mysterious dumpster we find alongside Busch Street. It will cost $20 to get rid of our pickup load. We pay the woman, she tells us where to dump it, and then she tells us that we'll have to sort all of our recycling.
We have a lot of plastic and a lot of glass, and right now, they're all mixed up in a lot of bags. his will be sticky.
James climbs in the truck on top of the garbage--I told you, King of Garbage--and starts whipping bags freestyle into the dumpster, over each shoulder, like a jumpshot, and I say Ew, ew, ew, ew about 100 times and start to separate the recycling. It takes a good twenty minutes, but it's cold so the garbage doesn't stink, and we feel good about not being douchey and actually recycling instead of throwing those recycleables in the garbage dumpster, which would've been the easy thing to do.
Plus, I got to see a trailor that was called Maxi-Dump on the side, and that made me laugh for a good five minutes. I'll let you imagine what I thought of on your own.
We'd originally planned to go to Red Wing that night, for a trip to the casino, but since we were there--well. We elected to have lunch (at Randy's, a Red Wing tradition, of course) and then to drive to Treasure Island. We were covered in trash; we looked like trash.
James hated Randy's and wasn't afraid to tell me so, and I hated that he played the stupid slot machines at the casino and wasn't afraid to tell him so. I pulled up a chair to a five dollar Blackjack table, cashed $20, and eventually walked away up $70. The best part, though, was that I managed to keep a straight face, and gamble--in the outfit I was wearing. A colorful stocking cap with a giant yarn-like ball on the top, which I refused to take off because my hair was a disaster, and my big puffy green vest. They shouldn't let people like me in there. But, luckily, they do. James walked out $40 up from those damn slots, which I still argue don't pay. He says he can read them because they're computers. I say I flirted with the Blackjack dealer, but now I realize how ridiculous this is, as I looked like a hobo with her last $20 ever.
The ride home: we, in James' big red Big Horn Dodge Ram hit a deer. It was actually more like the deer hit us. We're driving on County Road 2, back from Red Wing. Miles before, we see a whole family of deer, the three of them crossing together. A driver coming East blinks his lights so we see them. There are no drivers coming East the second time. We're driving, talking about--who knows, probably some president, because that's all we ever talk about it U.S. History--and I feel James slam on the brakes, and I see the fawn near the headlight. But James doesn't slam to a stop, he slams to slow down. And then the deer looks like it might turn around and not be a stupid deer caught in headlights--but then we hit her with the big red man-truck.
Actually, given that the dent was only on the driver's side door, I would argue that that stupid deer ran into us.
James got out, assessed the damage. It was dark, but through the light of our red tailights in my big square rearview mirror, I could see the dead fawn lying in the middle of the road, half side in each lane. No blood. But I felt her skull crack, I really did. I felt her body fall apart as she was hit by that truck, the bright lights the last thing before a poor decision. Why are deer so stupid. Why couldn't she just see all of it coming? Why did she run into this disaster, this empowering beast, when she had that split second to turn back the other way?
Stupid deer. Why can I relate to you right now, why can I almost see myself in red tailights, my body split between the East and West direction, my last breaths a puff and then a softer, foggier puff in the cold November dark? Damn, deer, why did you have to be crossing then? And if you hadn't, would a hunter have found you? Was this just your better way to go? Where is the reason. Where is it.
Let me ask you this, he said. Do YOU LIKE STEAKS?!
Um. Yup. I said. Steaks are all right.
Great! Because we have a special--normally 10 dollar steaks for three bucks. Let me run into my van and get some for you to look at.
I had no idea what to do here, because I certainly didn't want to paw at cold meat in the dark night. I don't even know how to look at a steak. The only thing I know about steaks is how to eat them, and that's after they've been prepared by someone who is not me, who knows how to cook them. So while he was ambitious in grabbing those steaks from his non-windowed steak-mobile, I told him that we probably weren't interested and wished him a good night. Of course, now I wonder a couple of things--like: Why. Why is someone selling steaks from his van. Or, what if I'd told him I was a vegetarian? What if he really had cattle in his van and was going to butcher a cow in front of me to show me that steak? What if he was the Mister Steak, from the restaurant?! Should I have asked for his autograph? More importantly, did this just happen? Was a man just on my porch offering me cheap meat?
No, even more importantly: Will I, now, for the rest of my life have forever-regret for passing up my probably-only chance to buy meat from the back of a mysterious van?
*
Mouse poop, in case you're curious, looks exactly like little human poops. Of course, it is smaller, and I would argue that it's probably darker. But if Thumbelina or Tinkerbell took a shit, it'd look like mouse shit, as they are little humans.
I know this because I found mouse shit in my food cupboard yesterday. I'm trying to ignore your laughter right now. I'm trying to pretend that you don't know that two years ago moths invaded my food cupboard and mine alone, that it took me months to get them out, that those moths served the sole purpose of procreating near my food and laying their little moth maggots in my cereal. Now it's a mouse.
I'll be honest. I suspected, but I ignored. I was unwilling to accept the fact that my food was near the teeth of a hungry mouse. When that bag of tortilla chips had a little tear in the corner that looked like it could've been gnawed through by a mouse (possibly a mouse wearing a sombrero) I just took it out and threw it in the garbage. I didn't "check" for anything. And when my little pouch of instant potatoes gushed little potato flakes on the floor when I picked it up--thanks to a big tear in the corner of the bag--I convinced myself that it had been a flaw in the packaging. That Betty Crocker food servers neglected to check that one pouch in that one box and made me make a big snowy instant potato mess all over my floor.
I owe Betty Crocker an apology.
It wasn't her fault; it was the mouse's fault. Those chips didn't get a hole by themselves. There's a reason that when I open my cupboard I do it with a secret fear, that I refuse to dig around in there, that I wonder if I hear things scratching even if it's only in my imagination. There's a reason I slam that door shut, that I don't organize my food, but instead, when I buy a new box of Mac & Cheese, open the door, literally throw it in, and then slam it as quickly as possible. It is as though I'm a zookeeper feeding a scary, hungry bear by having to open his cage to throw the meal in and simultaneously avoid an attack.
I've secretly known. And yesterday I had to confront that fear: I found the poo. I found the poo.
I took the risk of organizing my food, then I found it, and then I waited until James came home. Mouse. Cupboard. Poop. I said. I went for a 4 mile run in the 20 degree weather, asked if he'd take care of it while I was gone. (You know, like a 40-year-old boyfriend leaves for awhile when his 17-year-old girlfriend takes "care of" the pregnancy.) When I got home, my food was organized, and James reported no mouse. But I'll have to get some traps. Don't know how he got in there--maybe you left it open one night?
I'm sure that's what happened. I'm sure he's not secretly hiding in there, waiting to attack the next time I want some Saltines. Scratch. Scratch. Squeak. Poop.
*
Saturday was one of those days of unexpected fun, one of those days when you're watching cartoons and the news somehow simultaneously and your roommate comes down and says: Dammit, we're hauling garbage to town today.
We don't have garbage service; we have a lot of garbage. Lots of beer bottles, lots of Lean Pockets boxes and wrappers, lots of old bananas that I thought I'd eat before they'd gone bad and that I'd once thought would become bread long after.
And we've been keeping it in the old chicken coop.
This is the luxury of Elgin. You don't have garbage service, you just throw bag after bag into the garage, and then when you realize there's no more room to keep your car in there, you move the trash over to the chicken coop, right alongside the empty boxes from the day you moved in last May, right next to the box that says "Winter Clothes," and the plastic bin where you keep all of those candles that you bought on clearance the Christmas season you worked at Pier 1.
The non-luxury of Elgin is the day your roommate comes downstairs and says: We've got garbage in that chicken coop since the fourth of July. I figure that garbage service is $90 every three months, but we can haul it to Red Wing and get rid of it for $20.
I brew coffee, download new songs on my ipod for the trip, and James puts on his dirty clothes and old gardening gloves and starts throwing our wet, slimy black and white bags of trash and recycling into the back of the truck.
I put on my dirty clothes, then join him. We have a lot of garbage. We are the King & Queen of garbage. I feel disgusting. I feel so disgusting. And it's cold outside, and I imagine the garbage steaming even though that's just our breaths.
We take back roads to Red Wing, 45 minutes away, and because the truck is full of garbage, we drive slowly and check rearview mirrors for bags that have escaped and left white tufts of paper towel and crushed cereal boxes on the road. James has had to tie the garbage down with bright orange bungie cords. It's as though we have an important haul. We're on a garbage barge, hauling trash from New York, except it's all our own, and we have to take ownership of this human mess. I feel so disgusting.
We can't find the incinerator, so we call and drive around until we do, but not after I almost talk James into illegally dumping our trash in a mysterious dumpster we find alongside Busch Street. It will cost $20 to get rid of our pickup load. We pay the woman, she tells us where to dump it, and then she tells us that we'll have to sort all of our recycling.
We have a lot of plastic and a lot of glass, and right now, they're all mixed up in a lot of bags. his will be sticky.
James climbs in the truck on top of the garbage--I told you, King of Garbage--and starts whipping bags freestyle into the dumpster, over each shoulder, like a jumpshot, and I say Ew, ew, ew, ew about 100 times and start to separate the recycling. It takes a good twenty minutes, but it's cold so the garbage doesn't stink, and we feel good about not being douchey and actually recycling instead of throwing those recycleables in the garbage dumpster, which would've been the easy thing to do.
Plus, I got to see a trailor that was called Maxi-Dump on the side, and that made me laugh for a good five minutes. I'll let you imagine what I thought of on your own.
We'd originally planned to go to Red Wing that night, for a trip to the casino, but since we were there--well. We elected to have lunch (at Randy's, a Red Wing tradition, of course) and then to drive to Treasure Island. We were covered in trash; we looked like trash.
James hated Randy's and wasn't afraid to tell me so, and I hated that he played the stupid slot machines at the casino and wasn't afraid to tell him so. I pulled up a chair to a five dollar Blackjack table, cashed $20, and eventually walked away up $70. The best part, though, was that I managed to keep a straight face, and gamble--in the outfit I was wearing. A colorful stocking cap with a giant yarn-like ball on the top, which I refused to take off because my hair was a disaster, and my big puffy green vest. They shouldn't let people like me in there. But, luckily, they do. James walked out $40 up from those damn slots, which I still argue don't pay. He says he can read them because they're computers. I say I flirted with the Blackjack dealer, but now I realize how ridiculous this is, as I looked like a hobo with her last $20 ever.
The ride home: we, in James' big red Big Horn Dodge Ram hit a deer. It was actually more like the deer hit us. We're driving on County Road 2, back from Red Wing. Miles before, we see a whole family of deer, the three of them crossing together. A driver coming East blinks his lights so we see them. There are no drivers coming East the second time. We're driving, talking about--who knows, probably some president, because that's all we ever talk about it U.S. History--and I feel James slam on the brakes, and I see the fawn near the headlight. But James doesn't slam to a stop, he slams to slow down. And then the deer looks like it might turn around and not be a stupid deer caught in headlights--but then we hit her with the big red man-truck.
Actually, given that the dent was only on the driver's side door, I would argue that that stupid deer ran into us.
James got out, assessed the damage. It was dark, but through the light of our red tailights in my big square rearview mirror, I could see the dead fawn lying in the middle of the road, half side in each lane. No blood. But I felt her skull crack, I really did. I felt her body fall apart as she was hit by that truck, the bright lights the last thing before a poor decision. Why are deer so stupid. Why couldn't she just see all of it coming? Why did she run into this disaster, this empowering beast, when she had that split second to turn back the other way?
Stupid deer. Why can I relate to you right now, why can I almost see myself in red tailights, my body split between the East and West direction, my last breaths a puff and then a softer, foggier puff in the cold November dark? Damn, deer, why did you have to be crossing then? And if you hadn't, would a hunter have found you? Was this just your better way to go? Where is the reason. Where is it.
WOULD YOU RATHER...
...let out a loud, long, stale fart in front of your entire class of students--in a very obvious manner--so that it stinks for the entire class period and leads to the name "Professor Stale-fart" for the rest of the year,
OR
not have to do your own laundry for an entire year, and when you came home, it was warm and folded and hung and put away?
Because I'd choose the latter. I'd probably rather fart every day in front of people than do laundry. I fucking hate laundry way more than I am embarrassed by farts.
OR
not have to do your own laundry for an entire year, and when you came home, it was warm and folded and hung and put away?
Because I'd choose the latter. I'd probably rather fart every day in front of people than do laundry. I fucking hate laundry way more than I am embarrassed by farts.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Phew. Phew!
Last night I had a beer and then James and I went into Elgin around 6:30 to vote; a man with a Band-Aid for a mustache (really!) named Bob registered James, and then James voted--he then came over to me to act as my witness so I could vote in Elgin, and while I was voting, James chatted with Bob--Bob said, Well if Obama wins Virginia, it's damn over, and that's such a shame.
But Wabasha County voted blue, so maybe Bob's alone on those views. Maybe all the farmers got out and supported the DFL, the party sporting the name of their early morning professions.
Other people in the Elgin fire station said, Who knew all those people lived in Elgin. Elgin! Where do dey live here?!
Oh, you know, back in all dose subdivisions, ya know.
I feel better. I feel good. I feel excited. I know all of us don't share the same views--or maybe we do--but I'm jazzed. And I'm not saying that in a racist way. I feel some sort of positive energy running through my veins right now about the future of our country. And nothing has happened yet, but still, I can be proud of us. I can say: Hey, everyone. We're capable of voting for a black president. We are the country who is capable of that. And I can say, hey everyone. Thanks for taking heed to that Palin part of the ticket and voting Blue. Thanks for voting for someone who is half black, not half fucking retarded. Go 'merica! Brains are more important than looks! Lovely observation, us.
I sort of want to sing. I sort of want to be in the same room with Obama, feeling his energy radiate through the microphone. I believe what he says. Not all of it, but most. It feels good to be part of a historical election. It felt good to wake up to the sound of NPR this morning when my alarm went off at 4:30: and, of course, the biggest news today: America has elected its first African-American president of the United States.
It felt like I was in the movie that will be made of this in 5 years.
Most importantly, though: No more political ads. It's over. Do you know how much, how long I've been listening to political coverage. Like 2 years in preparation for this. The coverage isn't going to stop, but at least that sickly feeling in my gut is going to go away.
Soon: goodbye, NCLB! Let's reform the shit out of education. Let's give teachers more money and give students more opportunity to get edu-ma-cated. Let's lower healthcare costs. Do you realize that all 8 years I've been in college that Bush has been the man in charge? At least for the last semester, I get to be in the blue. It's going to take a long time to get there, but at least our car is finally pointed in the right direction. Our energy efficient car.
Are you there, God? It's me, Jeano. Thanks for letting this happen. Barack and Roll, baby. Barack and Roll.
But Wabasha County voted blue, so maybe Bob's alone on those views. Maybe all the farmers got out and supported the DFL, the party sporting the name of their early morning professions.
Other people in the Elgin fire station said, Who knew all those people lived in Elgin. Elgin! Where do dey live here?!
Oh, you know, back in all dose subdivisions, ya know.
I feel better. I feel good. I feel excited. I know all of us don't share the same views--or maybe we do--but I'm jazzed. And I'm not saying that in a racist way. I feel some sort of positive energy running through my veins right now about the future of our country. And nothing has happened yet, but still, I can be proud of us. I can say: Hey, everyone. We're capable of voting for a black president. We are the country who is capable of that. And I can say, hey everyone. Thanks for taking heed to that Palin part of the ticket and voting Blue. Thanks for voting for someone who is half black, not half fucking retarded. Go 'merica! Brains are more important than looks! Lovely observation, us.
I sort of want to sing. I sort of want to be in the same room with Obama, feeling his energy radiate through the microphone. I believe what he says. Not all of it, but most. It feels good to be part of a historical election. It felt good to wake up to the sound of NPR this morning when my alarm went off at 4:30: and, of course, the biggest news today: America has elected its first African-American president of the United States.
It felt like I was in the movie that will be made of this in 5 years.
Most importantly, though: No more political ads. It's over. Do you know how much, how long I've been listening to political coverage. Like 2 years in preparation for this. The coverage isn't going to stop, but at least that sickly feeling in my gut is going to go away.
Soon: goodbye, NCLB! Let's reform the shit out of education. Let's give teachers more money and give students more opportunity to get edu-ma-cated. Let's lower healthcare costs. Do you realize that all 8 years I've been in college that Bush has been the man in charge? At least for the last semester, I get to be in the blue. It's going to take a long time to get there, but at least our car is finally pointed in the right direction. Our energy efficient car.
Are you there, God? It's me, Jeano. Thanks for letting this happen. Barack and Roll, baby. Barack and Roll.
*photos courtesy of Time
Finally, watching election coverage on CNN is probably the most frustrating and annoying thing ever. First of all, Wolf Blitzer is a grossy. Secondly, these "projections" that they make, written in tiny font "projection" about the phrase BARACK OBAMA ELECTED FOR PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES is really stupid. They think that we're not going to see projection and just believe them? What does that help them gain. It's stupid. With all of these projections (which are fine, if they're made with decent evidence, but they're what got us into trouble before) I can't help but wonder how far they'll keep going. I thought they were just going to start making predictions for 2012 for crying out loud. Dumb bastards.
But I was happy (and a little drunk) that it ended early, and I fell asleep on the couch while listening to the low tones of Obama's acceptence speech, the new puppy the girls will get to bring to the white house, the time and investment it'll take for us to get started on this right path. And I thought--I thought of my own projection. A projection about the losers. A projection that Sarah Palin was just some weird blip on the nation's map, there, and then gone, the light going dim until it fades and we forget it was there. People will say, remember when 20% of the nation supported her? Man, were we high, or what? Remember when she said she was "womanly" because she was a mom, as though having procreated is what makes you a woman? What the fuck were we on, man?!
Anyway, my projection is this:
1 year and one month from today--December 2009--Sarah Palin is on the cover of Playboy. That's right. You'll be searching for that little bunny head in her American Stripes bra and panties set, and she'll be inside, naked, and you'll think: oh, yeah, that lady. Making another mistake. Cunt-astic.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Dammit, Jean, you done did this to yourself.
I'm fat. Because I'm fat, I've decided to put myself on a running schedule. This is much easier than an eating schedule, because the reason I'm fat is that I like fattening food and candy that goes on clearance after Halloween. (Going to Target tonight. Will I restrain myself? Depends. Will White Fudge Oreos finally be on the shelves?)
My running schedule is quite simple: I will run 15 miles per week.
I was going to say 3 miles per day for five days a week, but that doesn't make as much sense. Saying that I will run 15 miles a week allows me to procastinate, as I am wont to do, but to then suffer for said procrastination.
For example.
For example, I started this running goal last week, week starting on Monday. Last Monday, I ran three miles. Then on Tuesday, I didn't run. And on Wednesday, I didn't. And on Thursday, there was no running. I had twelve miles to cover in three days. On Friday, Halloween, I woke up at 5 in the morning and ran three cold morning miles. They felt good. I was planning to run three again that night when I got home, but Halloween in the high school--and with all the students and all that sugar--is exhausting. So I came and slept for three hours and then woke up and ate a bunch of shitty food. I had 9 miles left for two days, and I ran three miles on Saturday morning because Liz was here and James said three was all I could do. Then yesterday I had to pick up the slack, so I ran six miles. Well, 6.5. I even went over the goal.
I didn't want to go running yesterday, I wanted to sleep on the couch all day and not shower and eat cheese. But I ran and I couldn't be mad at anybody but me. I took it easy, slow. The wind was warm. And I'm off to a good start. I'm taking the strides necessary to get me back where I was.
It's just that I miss those morning runs in Mankato, the ones before the earliest 1:00 class, that were second nature to me. Wake up at 10:00, little grad student, and then run down Warren and up Stadium and back home via Highland Park. Three miles, that's nothing. In January, the gym, lifting weights and running two miles 'round the track, then a mile on the elliptical. Sunday night, water aerobics with a penguin and fat freshman girls who go home and make lasagna after. I know this is the next best thing, but I miss routine. I just gotta stick to this. I just, just, just gotta.
My running schedule is quite simple: I will run 15 miles per week.
I was going to say 3 miles per day for five days a week, but that doesn't make as much sense. Saying that I will run 15 miles a week allows me to procastinate, as I am wont to do, but to then suffer for said procrastination.
For example.
For example, I started this running goal last week, week starting on Monday. Last Monday, I ran three miles. Then on Tuesday, I didn't run. And on Wednesday, I didn't. And on Thursday, there was no running. I had twelve miles to cover in three days. On Friday, Halloween, I woke up at 5 in the morning and ran three cold morning miles. They felt good. I was planning to run three again that night when I got home, but Halloween in the high school--and with all the students and all that sugar--is exhausting. So I came and slept for three hours and then woke up and ate a bunch of shitty food. I had 9 miles left for two days, and I ran three miles on Saturday morning because Liz was here and James said three was all I could do. Then yesterday I had to pick up the slack, so I ran six miles. Well, 6.5. I even went over the goal.
I didn't want to go running yesterday, I wanted to sleep on the couch all day and not shower and eat cheese. But I ran and I couldn't be mad at anybody but me. I took it easy, slow. The wind was warm. And I'm off to a good start. I'm taking the strides necessary to get me back where I was.
It's just that I miss those morning runs in Mankato, the ones before the earliest 1:00 class, that were second nature to me. Wake up at 10:00, little grad student, and then run down Warren and up Stadium and back home via Highland Park. Three miles, that's nothing. In January, the gym, lifting weights and running two miles 'round the track, then a mile on the elliptical. Sunday night, water aerobics with a penguin and fat freshman girls who go home and make lasagna after. I know this is the next best thing, but I miss routine. I just gotta stick to this. I just, just, just gotta.
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