four a.m. obsessions
Monday 16 April 2007 | 3 cookies in the jar
The hot psych drug with the smarmiest name ever: Abilify. (Though the Gorgon points out that Wellbutrin is just as bad.) The flashy new bipolar med that supposedly will not make you balloon from a size two into a size eight in a matter of weeks: Abilify. The hellishly activating happy pill that wires you so bad you will never sleep again, at least on day three: Abilify! And then there’s the April-wind-whipped allergies; and a fraught experience night before last with some fiery red chili, the repercussions of which are still being felt.
So in the middle of the night we roam around the house, eat things (merely leftover Zyprexa cravings, we tell ourselves staunchly, unwilling to face the fact that when you eat chocolate straight out of the cupboard and blueberry toast straight out of the toaster whilst standing up at the kitchen counter it’s officially a binge), and surf the interwebs. A bicycle, we think blearily; that’s what we need to get back into all those size-two summer dresses. Cycle to school every day, with books and lunch and tea flask strapped on back. A commuter, but a classy one. For after a lifetime of horrid Wal-Mart bikes, not to mention the ancient Sears and Montgomery Ward bikes of grandparents carefully lubed and spray-painted afresh by our enterprising father—and the two-hundred pound, unintentionally single-speed British monstrosity—we want a real bicycle. One that does not outweigh us or give us wrenching back and hand pain. We want, in fact, a Vanilla Bicycle. Oh yes.
As the Vanilla maker points out, however, “If you see another bike out there and it makes you want to freak out and do whatever you can to have it then that’s the bike for you.” A close competitor might be Margo’s Luna Cycles. We love this cute little Eclipse pre-built, though it’s patently too small for us.
And never mind where we’d get the two grand for one of these drool-worthy beauties. Alternatives? Don’t know. Wish Mandarin were here, to saunter down to Rob & Charlie’s and try to find some financially tenable compromise.
And we also wish she’d been here to help us eat the rice pasta with arugula-walnut pesto, red lettuce with avocado, strawberries and goat swiss, and the pièce de résistance, the gluten-free cherry pie—all because Persephone doesn’t do so hot with wheat lately. The latter was a sudden inspired moment upon espying the can of Oregon cherries and realizing that it’s cold and windy and horrid and the last thing we wanted to do was to struggle with cutting up the whole pineapple we impulsively bought today.
CHEERY [sic] PIE
1 stick unsalted butter
lots of GF flour
1 tsp cane sugar
1 tsp cinnamon1 can cherries in light syrup
1 tsp each alcohol-free vanilla & almond flavoring
goodly squirt of agave nectar
obligatory cornstarchCut butter into flour and add enough ice-cold water to make pie crust. It’s impossible to knead and/or roll out, so press about 2/3rds of it into pie pan. Bake for 10 minutes or so until slightly firmer, while you’re bringing the cherries and their accompaniments to a boil. Pour filling into crust and top with judicious wads of remaining crust, then sprinkle everything with cinnamon sugar. Bake in 375º oven until topping bubbles and crust is firm, or until the Brujo appears and begins sniffing inquisitively around kitchen.
The final middle of the night obsession is also Mandarin-related; a few summers ago she discovered the perfect journal-sketchbook, which we’re too cheap to buy (and also can’t find in Santa Fe) by Cachet, which is not only a) wirebound b) unlined c) of a suitably hefty paperweight and d) has a useful elastic, but comes in scrummy colours. Someday when we are a wealthy poet AHAHAHAHAHAHA we will buy these by the boxful. In the meantime it’s whatever’s on sale wherever we happen to be, which has resulted, over the years, in sixty wildly divergent journals—which at least makes it easier to find the one with, say, the cheery pie recipe, or what have you.
All this pursuit of the beautiful object (to say nothing of the reappearance of the first-person-plural affectation) is really a lot of gorilla dust tossed about in the air to disguise graver preoccupations. Today I had to tell La Reina and Don Diego that I’d be moving out of the flat on July 17. It was disconcertingly difficult. I drove up Cerro Gordo suffused with proleptic nostalgie—the mountains gleaming bright white, the grape hyacinth and forsythia abloom, the little birdies tweeting—and realized I’ve been more contented in my little one-bedroom flat than possibly any other living situation I’ve had as an adult. (With the exception of the six months or so it was double-occupancy with a permanently disgruntled Young Monk.) I’ve loved having my own wee kitchen, loved my bathroom and tub and my blue muslin shower curtain, loved the grapevine hanging fragrantly over the doorway, the lilacs and climbing rose, the big shady locust tree in the back garden, loved climbing in and out of the window in summer to sit in the cool green grass and scribble. And what unknown future residences lie in wait, murkily at present—where will I be when teacher training starts on July 30? Will the Brujo and I cohabit in the Phoenix suburbs, with an air conditioner and a washing machine and an icemaking fridge? (And he bought her a dishwasher and a coffee percolator….) Will it be as disastrous as former experiments in domesticity have been? Surely not, when we car-camped for nearly three weeks in Baja and never had so much as a squabble over who would wash the plastic dishes. If he were here, he’d wrap his arms sleepily around me and say, Good things can happen. With saguaros and palm trees in the front yard, perhaps.
My other au-milieu-de-la-nuit worries revolve around friends, both those from whom I am incommunicado and dear Kimba, from whom I received a sad email about the loss of a deeply beloved family member. I do all I can think to do, which is weave her a rosary of handlooped gold chain, rose quartz, amethyst and a tiny purple goddess figure. It’s not enough. It’s barely something. And in the case of other absented souls, I write fragments of poem, respond volubly to imaginary sorties; but nothing is definitely not anything, much less does it approach enough.
Which reminds me to mention how I love my faithless readers, especially y’all who leave comments (a lot more than barely something). Comment (ha ha) j’adore tous le vous! I’d love you anyway, but your responses keep me writing sometimes—I could never have imagined this in the lonely silent years of crypto-bloggerating, years during which only Mandarin and I cackled and commiserated over one another’s posts. Like the wise half of my brain (okay, maybe the wise 1/20th of my brain), you always remind me of the truths I’d otherwise forget after a lifetime’s worth of self-reinforcing hysterical pessimism. Ten thousand deep prostrations to you all; and a large wedge of virtual, still-warm cherry pie.
PS—the Angrish prize for today goes to this miserably translated French copy attempting to describe the Waterman Ici et Là fountain pen in Lilas Douce or sweet lilac, a pen which I actually own—wild! NB however that its lipstick case-styled pouch does not accompany it everywhere, contrary to assertion.
The pen for the Eternal Woman, a faithful companion for all occasions and a reflection of every personality. The modern clip marries perfectly with the fluidity of its lines. It can be wild in Lilac with a look of wild silk, highlighted by its chrome plated trims. A wild silk pen pouch, styled like a lipstick case, will accompany it everywhere.
3 cookies in the jar
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Darling–Ooooohhh pretty bicycles.
Am researching Abilify before going to work work work.
LOVE LOVE LOVE
Dearest Eternal Woman,
That’s a very sexy pen.
Abilify, as you said, is activating for most people and it seems like tapering off Zyprexa can cause sleeplessness, too.
LOVE
.. and to think I have only set my heart on the ridgeback nemesis
http://www.ridgeback.co.uk/index.php?seriesID=42&show_bike=TRUE
.. just as soon as i have a new job at a new, more bike friendly northern latitude