excellent wedding-day hairstyle
Monday 12 January 2004 | I like a cookie
I’ve been reading The Bottle Shop and its great genius both inspires and daunts me. Those blogging Brits! But then everything daunts me on a day when I’ve somehow accidentally stolen a car (Miss Thing’s 1994 red two-door Honda Civic DX—she left for Boston unwittingly taking title and registration with her) and someone’s $75 cleaning deposit (tale to follow)—and, a tiny grey hysterical mouse actually LEAPT OUT OF THE TOASTER SLOT when I walked innocently past. I think we both screamed. There was a time when I thought they lent a festive soupçon of bohemian bonhomie to the joint. Now they have done too far and I shall trap them and turn them loose in the nearby pasture where coyotes hunt on full moons.
Not to mention that this morning I had the unpleasant pleasure of driving aforementioned Miss Thing (in the Honda) to the shuttle at 8 am, whereupon she hugged me dutifully, we both started tearing up and she clambered in the bus and was off, wearing her ski jacket and felt cowboy hat and looking absurdly like someone bound for Montana rather than the insanity of her parents’ suburban Boston home. She’s one of those girls who still thinks going home is a good idea, restful and whatnot. She hasn’t yet realized that her dad is senile and watches television approximately twenty hours a day and that she will go stark raving if she stays there long enough to need to buy groceries from Star Market.
Perhaps I should explain that Miss Thing has been, firmly past tense thank you very much, one of the non-husband people on whom I have suffered recent raging crushes, and with whom I went to the Japanese baths last night. I felt quite grateful that I didn’t know about her statuesque curvy everything until the night before she left for Boston forever, otherwise I would have spent more nights like last night, staring into the fire and brooding and drinking du ouiskie and feeling about twenty-three all over again. I actually stood up a couple of times and was tending, as trees list in strong wind, to go to her guest room door and knock softly—these episodes invariably ended with me smacking myself on the forehead, muttering Jesus Fucking God are you completely insane, or just slightly, and then subsiding to the sofa once again. Hate the bloody sofa.
It is at times embarrassing to write about the non-husband love objects, considering that, since approximately the fall of 1993, one of them has been Mandarin. The one here yclept the Librarian and I have just completed a chunk of rather racy scribblings and are planning to submit them to Factorial Press, who express an interest in unusual collaborations, which ours certainly has been; and I have to build a fire to make my hands warm enough and drive off the mice long enough that I can print out cover letters for this effort. Ah a poet’s life is just too goddamned romantic for words.
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