morning email to mandarin
Tuesday 15 May 2007 | I like a cookie
As far as the brief electronic reappearance of the Young Monk…It seems he’s temporarily back in New Mexico? Maybe for the whole summer, but hopefully just to visit friends and then go back to Boulder or on to Tj or Altogether Elsewhere. But when I think about it, I finally don’t care if I do run into him. I am an incredible curvy poet-goddess with flame-red toenails, cute sandals, thrift-store dresses that fit me like I’m Anita Ekberg, bunches of new writing, two flower gardens, a spoiled black cat, a full teaching fellowship and a boyfriend who do me so goooooood (squeal of satisfaction while social worker raises hands to cover ears)—so whatever. I don’t hate him, never dream about him, and neutrally wish him well but from a great internal distance, generally and gratefully quite untouched by affect.
I just received The Satchel via UPS, and it seems perfect—my Grail-like quest for the ideal bag may finally be over. All thick chocolate leather with lovely leather smells. Many nice pocketses and zippered bits—doesn’t quite hold a file folder or legal pad without some cramming, but I’m hoping this makes me less likely to cart teaching stuff home. Anyway, I’ve conceived a genius plan of leaving it all—papers to be marked, course prep, everything—in my shared office, and just picking up whatever I need before classes. And (most importantly) only working in the office, never at home. Great idea—we’ll see if it flies. The Satchel was a horrifying $79 but as this is a huge savings off the list price of $160…and it’s awfully handsome.
And you? Did you finally get to flop at the end of the day? Yesterday was terribly floppy for everyone involved, I noticed. The Brujo went napless and was therefore hilariously cranky, whereas I kept tiredly trying to take naps and literally not being able to lie still. Ah Abilify, I love what you do for my mood but not for the rest of my jitterbugging brain. I did just sleep from 9:30 to 4:30 which was pretty good for me; I still don’t understand WHY Pyewacket wakes me when she never gets to eat before 6:30 at the earliest and usually closer to 7-7:15 (not so easy to set the kitty feeder exactly on the hour).
Today I meet with the Gorgon and his classical music colleagues to talk about the redesign of their website, which is so plug-ugly and Web 0.1 that I should be okay as long as I keep telling myself, “Anything you do can only make it look better!” As the Brujo accurately notes, the artists seem to be swimming in French’s yellow mustard (annotated by dazzling turquoise, fuschia and bright red font in a nauseating variety of typefaces). And tonight I either see the Stasi movie or Hot Fuzz, I have promised myself as a reward for doing a scary thing. I’m not quite sure why, but this meeting feels plenty scary. I’m reassured by the Gorgon’s calm presence and by the knowledge that he’ll be doing all the back end stuff (ticket reservations, membership/joining, etc.).
Alors, finally Herself paid me! Nous sommes riches! Then I broke the news to her and the Boston publishers that I would be pretty much unavailable after July 1. So far no screams from afar or wringing of electronic hands. The publishers are putting the Dying Book through their submissions committee again, which is freaking Herself out, but will probably be just fine. Their editor is doing a close read now and suggesting changes chapter by chapter, which I will once again incorporate. Still not blue-slipped; but getting there.
Now I go to eat fig yogurt and to try another bit of a nap before therapy. Where exists the mood stabilizer that will make me neither fat nor totally jacked and sleepless, I wonder me? The DBT dubiously proposes Risperdal; but crazymeds offers that this is a libido-killer. Any hot drug tips?
LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE
LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE
PS—I keep thinking about the short film “Social Worker: The First Sixty Days” and laughing my ass off—YouTube fame awaits! NB that the DBT laughed harder than I’ve ever seen her laugh, until her cheeks were quite pink, over the dropping-a-pineapple-out-the-fourth-floor-window incident.
PPS—if ONE. MORE. PERSON. says to the Brujo, “Are you crazy? Why on earth would you go to Arizona with her?” instead of “That’s so cool, I’m really happy for you both, how do you feel about it, it must have been a hard decision to make, what kinds of things will you be doing there?”—I may throw a full-throttle coloratura screaming-Mimi fit. Instead we joke that the next time it happens, his response will be to sigh, “Yeah, I guess I’m just a pussy-whipped idiot moving to a hellhole. So how are you doing?”
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