Week #1 DOWN. All classes interesting and challenging (more challenging perhaps than I was mentally in the groove for). How-to-teach-writing classes, How-to-pin-down-your-teaching-philosophy classes, Writing-across-genres-and-whatnot classes, Non-fiction/memoir/pour-your-heart-out classes. In my late night Thursday class, I had to introduce myself (for the fifth time this week), sure to add on a silly icebreaker as requested: "Name your favorite toy when you were five." And, for the first time all week, I felt hot blood rushing into my earlobes. The effect only worsens once I become aware of it. I said, "Lite Brite or Etch a Sketch, maybe?" But that wasn't true . . . I don't think I had a "favorite" when I was five. I have a blurry memory of bringing an old brown teddy bear with buttons for eyes in for show-and-tell to kindergarten, but this was only so that we could play doctor on it (wrap crepe paper around its arms for bandages, poke pencils into its belly, etc.). I don't remember loving the hell out of that bear. I don't remember loving the hell out of any of my toys. I trashed them all and left them scattered on the floor of my bedroom. I even piled them into the shed out back (and, one day, the shed caught fire . . . ). If I loved my Lite Brite, it was only for a day or two, and then I surely lost all of the pegs or busted the light bulb. I THINK I had an Etch-a-Sketch, but then maybe I'm thinking of my neighbors' Etch-A-Sketch because those two boys had EVERYTHING, and it's likely that my mom didn't spend the money on one (she mostly bought me cheap dolls). If it wasn't for my neighbors, I would've been stuck outside of the realm of Nintendo, i.e., NO Pitfall! Who knows how I would be currently relating to the digital world . . .

This week, lots of familiar faces everywhere; some I'm still warming up to. I'm shimmying myself into a new place (a place that I'm still convincing myself I'm worthy of and capable of pulling off). Shimmying into an office of my own even (I was taken off guard by that one - didn't expect it). Even more surprisingly, lots of space (I fear the others may hate me, but it IS temporary). AND I can bring in my own coffee pot!!!

This may be the last morning I have alone with my toddler for a long time to come. I'll be following my mentor into 8AM classes Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Before yesterday (before I was given this gracious mentored assignment), I had Wednesdays and Fridays off. I knew that it was fleeting. I'll be on campus five days a week as I am "nuanced" into actually having my own composition classes in the spring. I've been meditating (well, attempting to), and I kicked off the radio and talked to myself on the dark drive home last night (whilst chain smoking): "Rachel, get your head on straight. I am going to be a teacher. I AM a teacher." Given my shabby roots, this is a very difficult new addition to my identity. "Parent" was a hard enough addition to my identity that took me a good five years and three babies . . . sometimes, I still slip right back out of it.

This morning, Jo and I have been watching Milo and Otis and eating strawberry PopTarts. She woke up, came running out of her room and over to the couch beside me (where I'd been sipping coffee for the last hour), and told me about a bad dream she had: "Mom, I dreamed that the rabbit stole the kitty's bone and threw it into the flames," she said. Amazing. She's inherited my tendency to have quirky dreams.

This afternoon, we're off to Cedar Point with only two of the kids. Ash and Jo will be staying with Mamaw. I feel bad, but neither girl would enjoy themselves much (neither are much for rides and long drives). Ash mentioned that her boyfriend would be home from military school this weekend and that it would be their one year anniversary. I broke her heart when I said "No" to her idea of going out with him on a date alone. We had a deal - no dates alone in a car until age 16 (which is coming up fast enough). Besides, one year anniversaries come with expectations. Seventeen-year-old boys have expectations once they get you alone, big on themselves because they've been patient for a whole year. At least, I sure as hell hope the little shits have been patient . . .

All of these worries may taint my ability to truly enjoy the roller coasters and the hotel's all-you-can-eat continental breakfast.

I am The Virgo Wood Tiger. Perfectionist. Alluring. Strong. Predatory. Moody. Stretching to fill the cast shadow. Naturally infatuated with ___________ [noun].

On this day: "You can live marvelous moments, but your lack of objectivity concerning your near ones may lead to cruel disappointments. Your sensitive soul would like to do pleasure to everyone; but, of course, you'll be unable to keep all your promises. Marital love will be rather bad; the stars won't support you, and you'll very badly bear couple life. Try to remain cool-headed and avoid making an irrevocable decision, the one which you'll surely regret when the evil will have been done or the step taken."

Have survived several marvelous moments. Prepping myself for more "cruel disappointments" but feel the majority of them are over (please). I worry that all of this wall-to-wall carpeting and a drawer full of underwear will make me spoiled. 'Bummer I can't do pleasure to everyone. Marital love is tricky when you're trying to be super-supportive underwire of the century, meanwhile terrified that, by next week, both the freezer and bank account will be empty. Always cool-headed (because even when I'm wrong I am usually right about being wrong, i.e., I'll usually catch it first.). No evils have been done. I'm only mildly interested.

On this day I noticed:
* so many new freshmen girls in all of their fluff and slut skirts and boots.
* so many upperclassmen in sweatpants.
* Not even a semi-cool documentary is much for keeping me awake once my Circadian Rhythm hits its usual low around 2PM. I will need to start buying energy shots.
* I'm not the only one who sucks at stirring up conversation in the smoke pits out by the dumpsters.
* a very short, very wide gray-haired woman waddling into the Speedway Gas Station in uniform (gray pants, maroon polo) to take her place behind the counter to sell the usual smokes, lotto tickets, beef jerky, coffee, fuel, etc.; she was pigeon-toed but looked oddly happy. Once inside, she grew wings and fluttered around.
* Camel "Crush" cigarettes = squeeze the filter until it "clicks" (something gets crushed) and the flavor is changed to hint menthol so that you may finish up with a final will-o'-the-wisp minty drag (and deceit yourself into thinking you have fresh breath).
* I couldn't help my daughter with her sophomore French or Math.
* I'm tired of wiping little asses.
* I'm tired of eating macaroni and cheese and tuna and tater tots.
* So, here comes another semester. My "other half" may not make other friends. His classes are huge. 100+. Nuts. My Creative Writing class today had nine people and it felt crowded.
* I miss poetry.

I fear this whole "confessional" blog thing may settle in the stomachs of others as an egotistical effort to get strangers to read my diary. Blogs were defined as such by an old friend who found me again on Facebook, actually. But no, that's not totally true. I never wrote with this much effort in my diaries. And, here, I can't add legitimate doodles. My diaries are filled with doodles. Out here, I can only steal imagery (unless I want to peter around and scan my doodles), and I don't (for example, the doodle of "vomit man" is not my own). I am self-serving. This is true. Still.

I have thought all week about deleting this thing (seeing as I will be a "teacher" and may have to join the ranks of those who fantasize about young throbbing stalkers pissed over bad grades), but I just can't. I just can't. I've neglected it at times. I've written shit that I never should've written. I've written a dim-witted post or two (or twelve). I will call it a "creative nonfiction" experiment should it ever come into question. Can't I?

Tonight on our way home (after a celebratory dinner at Olive Garden and shopping at Wal-Mart for a backpack and highlighters for Matt - a "date" all by the grace of student loans), I unknowingly stepped in mysterious goop outside of the Meijer gas station (after spending fifteen dollars on four packs of cigarettes). I think it was puke. It smelled like puke. I made Matt pull the van over so that I could wipe off my sandal in the grass. (Now why would I ever write of something like that in an egotistical public diary?)

I made my fourteen-year-old dump her long distance boyfriend this morning. Mom (me) said, "This is over. No more phone calls. I'm not letting this go on." This was after I got news from my sister that the kid my daughter had been "dating" was accusing my 15 year-old nephew of flattening the tires on his precious Camaro, and then the little douche bag (this is my sister's given common tag) resorted to shooting a bee-bee gun at my nephew's 9 year-old brother (my other nephew) in an effort to gain revenge. Well, there's more to the story than this; it involves the local police, wounds to the eye, bee-bees bouncing off the pavement, claims of innocence, etc. My daughter had been talking to the boy on the phone all night for months (whether she admits staying up until 4am or not), and they were having lame-ass argument after argument (of course I've eavesdropped), mostly because he wouldn't "talk" to her; he'd just goof off with his buddies while he held the phone to his ear and she hung on the other end (no doubt he was thinking "I'm dating a chic with boobs" and she was thinking "I'm dating a 17 year old with a car" - and that's enough to keep two teens fooled). The guy lives four hours away; she hadn't seen him since June (not that douche bag is much to look at). Surprisingly, my daughter said "okay" to my demand and not in a shitty way. She ended it immediately. I had been prepared for a fallout. I thought that as soon as I said "over", she would turn it all into some Romeo and Juliet plight (like I did when I was her age). I underestimated her (but I was good to hide it). I truly think she had been waiting on me to save her. She needed a good excuse. She was able to say, "My mom said I have to . . . " and it worked well (I guess I could end up with a stalker now - obviously, he's all about revenge - but, then again, I'm certain douche bag's Camaro could never make the long drive). Of course, now my daughter will find a new boyfriend. One who lives closer. One who can more easily reach out and touch her in the non-telecommunicative way. Shit.

Matt's schedule:
Anthropolgy 101
Astronomy 101
Geology 101 (with a separate lab)
Math 120 (applying algebra and geometry to word problems)

!!!!! eeeek.
The thought of having a schedule like this makes me gag. I have to swallow hard but can't keep myself from envisioning the evil "x" that haunts algebra (the top half of the thing crunches over itself to form a set of witchy eyebrows) or - worse yet - a,b,c,d fill-in-the-dot finals. He's tickled to death. His book fees are astronomical. There is no time to Amazon-order everything. We will be carpooling most days. Will we sing along to the radio every morning while he drives, just under the speed limit?

We may be poor longer. I'm looking into the PhD.

Today, I'm skipping a workshop on campus that I signed up for. One that offered a stipend - $100 maybe to review a basic (but fat) freshman composition textbook. NOT today. The last two days have been a tad overloaded, and I didn't expect it. I need a day to reclaim my house, to eat breakfast, to get organized, to get the tire re-checked on the van, to scrub the spot where the pup pissed on the floor (again), to be here when the kids get off of the bus, to insure my seventeen-year-old's grounding, to catch up on some discussion forums that I signed up for and then spaced out on, to research some grants, to perhaps actually write a little extra something for myself. Then again, I need an hour or two to sit on the couch and watch Nickelodeon with my toddler before this upcoming semester cues "phase out setting." I need a day to write a new post here and then to attend to Cella's inbox (Cella should've "closed" submissions for the last few weeks; she's been a shitty respondent). Also, I didn't sleep well. Worries . . . worries . . . damn to-do lists . . . I think I'll take a little nap on the couch . . . for now . . . Mid-this-Post, I made and ate some peanut-buttered pancakes . . . I need a break . . . to phase out setting in the best of ways . . .

I only have twenty minutes.

The kids left me with Vh1 on. I really want to like Kid Rock, but given his repeated sampling and lack of decent lyrical prose and bikini-ridden videos, I just can't do it.

Last night, I dreamt of soap bubbles and the old, big farmhouse of my Aunt Carly (the one the coal mines bought and left empty) and cats. The Dream Dictionary says "cats denote ill luck." They weren't mean cats. They were just there, in a stairwell. Lots of them. And they were all big and fat and wild like happy Buddhas. I couldn't find a revelation in the Dream Dictionary for "soap bubbles."

Yesterday, I earned a stipend for reading ten million college freshman comp papers. It was an odd experience. I was the only one with no experience. We gave them all holistic numbers. I kept up. It would seem, however, that all college freshman have creepily conservative morals, and they hate to read.

Today, I have orientation the whole damn day. No stipend. They will feed me bagels and offer more coffee laced with grounds (in those tiny little styrofoam cups) and inform me of the school's technologies and sexual harrassment.

My hubby will be staying home with the toddler again. The toddler crawled into bed with us last night around midnight. She had been good at staying in her own bed. I think it was because the windows were all open, and the dog joined in on a barking session with the neighbor dogs (perhaps spreading a message across the valley like they do so whole-heartedly in 101 Dalmations -- missing puppies! missing puppies! -- or perhaps he's just lonely and horny, poor little neutered guy).

Or maybe that was another dream. The dream dictionary says: "To hear the baying of a dog, foretells a death or a long separation from friends." It also says: "To dream of a many-headed dog, you are trying to maintain too many branches of business at one time. Success always comes with concentration of energies. A man who wishes to succeed in anything should be warned by this dream." Keep this in mind, my man friends.

Cella's birthday party was okay. I tried to float. I had wine to take home. My teenagers were all good enough (ony a couple sneaked away to smoke). A few friends RSVPed and then were no-shows. The nacho bar WAS el supremo. I still have a shitload of tropical muffins.

The kids were up and out the door on time, waiting for bus #17 with their old shoes on.

Today, I shop for the party (and keep all things cheap). I'm taking Matt with me thinking he may wander around campus (the art museum, the book store, the library) while I shop for essentials with my co-editor. He has transcripts to drop off any way. Just the suggestion of wandering around campus by himself made him a little jumpy. He doesn't want to feel misplaced. Social anxieties are aiming for his foot, but he's accepting this, facing it, and keeping his stride on. Aside from being a little jumpy, he's been reborn. Confident and driven and anti-depressed. Sexy. Meanwhile, I've made calls, filled out apps for assistance, changed my super-expensive anti-seizure prescription to something on the $4 list, upped my initial requested amount of student loans. I think we'll be okay. I can handle being poor (nothing new). No more Pantene Pro-V for me; I'm back on Suave.

The trip to the State Fair on Wednesday was awesome, and I was good not to spend too much money. What I spent went towards food because, well, I was always told that's what you're supposed to do (sweet corn on the cob, deep fried Oreo cookies, salt water taffy . . . ). Deep Fried Oreos are way cool - the action of batter and hot oil makes them mushy as if you'd gone ahead and dipped them in milk, just enough. Ash got Deep Fried Pepsi; it truly sucked (a deep fried dough wad made with Pepsi instead of water or something and then drizzled with Pepsi syrup. Duh. Eeew.). My friend, the farmer's wife, Jane bought us ride tickets. I could only talk Jane into riding the Yo-Yo Swings (and she nearly peed her pants). Lorie would only ride the log ride (and then, with her pants all wet, she worried for the next hour that she looked like she'd peed her pants). I was spinnin' on rides til I felt like puking. Even kicked my sandals off a time or two. I followed the teens to most of the rides and stood appalled while they flirted with the drooling carnies. Damn! Where did they learn that shit?

We were this group of seven lovely energetic women (three women, four teenage girls) stuffing our faces, riding on the tractor train around the arena, wandering past farm animals (Harley, the world's largest hog, was as big as Matt's Nissan Maxima), wandering through Hook's antique drug store, wandering through buildings loaded with commercial booths collecting free pens and business cards, and stopping at every jewelry booth because Lorie wanted a new belly button ring.

Jane wore overalls and a shirt patterned after a red bandanna (perfect). Lorie had her short red hair all spikey, and her tank showed off the tatoos on her shoulder blades - two Greekish angels facing each other like they might kiss (just outlined - she hasn't been able to afford to have them filled in). I had my "World Peace" shirt on, my summer blond hair, and my rockstar silver sunglasses. Bad Ass, eh? (Giggle at this claim if you must) We found all the smoke spots seeing as smoking was moved to designated areas (where large red umbrellas covered a trash can of sand, most hidden behind buildings back by the dumpsters). Taped on the underside of the umbrellas: 1-800-QUIT-NOW fliers. Jane wouldn't abide by the "smoke here" rules. I kept turning around to find her nonchalantly, discretely dragging on her Marlboros.

We watched the Celebrity Cow Milking Competition: 11:30AM at the Livestock Nursery. Mitch Daniels showed up and shook the hand of my 15 year old daughter. I told Lorie to try not to spit on him (but then had to tell her who he was). Cameras were everywhere. Jane will definitely be in Mitch's videography diaries (or she has already been shown on the news). Mitch Daniel's wife, last year's cow udder squeezing champ, had her pig tails and - I swear - flirted her ass off with Smiley the young, blond, pop station DJ. Let's just say she kept her nose awfully close to his lips. Miss Indiana State Fair should have shaved her armpits before she lifted her hand to do that stiff mechanical wave, BUT she won the competition - Crown in place. Chick and Tom (from 94.7FM) wandered around within touching distance. Bob was not there. Afterward, Lorie caught Chick (who came in last in the line of milkers) and had him sign a crappy little notebook that she kept shoved in her purse. She had initially wanted to have him sign her shoulder (crazy). Chick was human and kinda' chubby. Looked like your funny uncle. Autographs felt odd.

We had to leave by 4PM. Lorie had started getting shitty text messages from her husband who was bitching because she wasn't home to make him supper. I couldn't believe that after being married for thirty years she'd never told the man to make his own damn sandwich.

One of the parking attendants blew me a kiss as we were leaving.

Whereas Jane and Lorie made me feel young (Lorie says, "So when were you born?" I say 1974. She says, "Holy shit, I was a sophomore in high school."), tomorrow night at the party, the situation will be reversed. I will be among the older. My kids will be there too, including the 17 year old. Teenagers do wear on you. Being poor makes you age faster too. I should just go ahead and dye out the presumptuous blond. Maybe AFTER the party . . .

He came home early again. Hands were shaking. Anxiety attacks all morning one after another. Unable to spend another day in the office alone. This morning, I was all tied up when he called me - after reading more about Russia and Georgia. War Games flashing behind my eyes. Tic Tac Toe.

"I'm not about this. It's all capitalistic bullshit. It's not where I want to be."

Then he tells me about a red convertible that rode his ass on I-70, how it suddenly blew a tire and swished away into the median, clipping the front end of a car in another lane and sending it spinning, how he just watched it all in his rear-view mirror without even jumping, how he just drove on into work leaving the mess for someone else, thinking "stupid asshole . . . I wish he'd clipped me. I wouldn't have to go in."

"I know you understand this." His eyes were bright red. Fat Camel Wide cig hung between his fingers, shivering. "It feels wrong because I want it so badly."

He wants to be a historian. Or an anthropologist. Or a naturalist. He wants to work in a museum. He wants to feel like he's improving. Like he's moving towards something. I totally and completely understand this. I've been waiting, leeching, preaching but not pushing (he gets stubborn). Meanwhile, letting him hold up the walls while I keep flyin dizzy circles around the chimney. I deemed my dreams worthy (for some reason). He hadn't gotten there yet. Last night, he was relieved when his blood pressure had made it down to 140/90. I had visions of him having a stroke in our kitchen.

He said at work he had called Boston to tell them once again that he was going home early and got a motherly lecture from the big boss lady about taking proper care of himself. She told him he's gotten himself into the wrong profession if he can't handle pressure. He knows this.

"Can I do this?"

Why always asking for my permission? I want to be a fucking writer for Christ's sake! He called Admissions and left a message. It is possible. Deadlines are there to mediate, but they're not solid. I had to reassure him of this. You are a paying customer at a state college. I muted Comedy Central.

"Can we afford to do this?"

Of course not. We just bought a $100,000 house. I have another year before I graduate. I have a measly assistantship. I still want my MFA (passionately). Our student loans have grown fangs, and they're hanging back there by their toenails, stinking up everything. We have too many children. They'll want to be driving. They'll be needing to start college before either one of us even finishes. We're horribly unorganized. We have no health insurance. I don't mention any of this. He knows this.

I showed him FAFSA's web page. Form completed. I told him to keep it our secret (and then I blog about it - betting on the likelihood that relatives will never find this) because I don't want him to hit a wall of discouragements or the words "you must be crazy."

"It's too late, isn't it?"

He held his head in his hands. Josie was up, sipping sweet tea already. Crawling on me. I flipped it to the Disney Channel.

I hold him up. He couldn't sit down. Finally, I had a smoke and watched a fly land repeatedly on my computer screen. My anxiety leads to writing aimlessly.

The Admissions office returned his call within the hour. I heard him say, "Okay great!" into the phone. Transcripts. More forms. More forms. No problems. It's not too late. Ball State has an archeological dig site. Tonight he'll write a resignation letter. No apologies. He is suddenly giddy.

"Even if we lose everything, we won't lose everything."

I said it earlier. Now he repeats it back to me. But what of timing? I'm keeping my mouth shut. I'm scared shitless too, but respect is priceless. He knows this.

"I'm quitting tomorrow. No notice. They're not worth it."

Where's that Hoosier Healthwise web page? Can we get food stamps given last year's tax return? I'll add more to my loans. Why was there no one there to show us how to do this stuff right decades ago? The kids will have to get jobs.

He filled out his admissions application, then he gave me a big fat kiss on the lips.

"We can do this."

Last forecast of confounded change: creepily accurate. I have psychic powers.

The poopla is about to go fling-pinging. Manure meets mechanics. Crap: Release and Splatter. Shit takes an air raid. Excrement's windy lament. Easy breezy guano ejecta. Fecal matter finds electric enthusiast. One high dung adventure . . .

It will be material to dip into later when I write my novel. Thy will be done.

Today . . . MORE of this creepy pristine weather. It's made my skin crawl all weekend. I watched Twister this afternoon to make myself feel better.

The beach on Saturday was too much fun (despite the unsweltering temperatures). There was no crowd. We chased displaced seagulls and threw around a cousin to the frisbee. Who woulda' thought that we were in Indiana??? Sailboats? We didn't build that kick-ass sand castle. Instead, we buried my fifteen year old daughter's boyfriend in the sand and molded him fat sand-boobies and a mermaid tail and took pictures with the cell phone. And once the boy was buried and immobile, Matt mooned him - one pimpled, middle-aged butt above one pimpled young and helpless nose, two inches shy of touching.

Stupid boy. He has given my 15 year-old daughter hickies. He never should've put himself in such a spot to be tortured.



There's a party coming up fast. Saturday. I just made a last-minute mailbox flier. I have to make lists. I bought a jalapeno shaped platter to go somewhere on the nacho bar. We've added an open mic which means I have to drag up something of my own to read.

This is the last week of my summer.

I have my two older lady-friends (sweet outcast mothers of my daughters' BFFs) competing with each other to get me to the State Fair for a day next week. I've got a date with one - Lorie the tatoo queen - to go in September (we're Virgo sisters) and get our noses pierced in some twisted (likely highly regrettable) celebration of our fleeting youth. We shall ever-cement our coolness. The other friend - Janie the farmer's wife - called me tonight and left a message (in that lovable drunken slur of hers): "Rachel Ray, I'm thinkin' State Fair. Just you and me and our daughters. The four of us." I have three daughters, actually. And my middle name is Lynn. Oh well, she never means to offend. I'm wondering what an adventure it might be if I could pair up the two ladies - the stories I would hear . . . Competitive. Addictive. Loud. Menapausal. No doubt they could talk me into leaving the kids at the fair and finding a local bar. Are there bars AT the fair? I have no idea - I was always too busy skarfing down cotton candy and chasing kids around the rotating elephants . . .

The sucky thing is that I'm broke. I'm sitting on my hands so that I don't chew my fucking fingers off waiting on my student loan. That last house payment scraped the bottom of the checking account. I'll be holding my breath waiting on Matt's check before I can even think about paying any of the bills (yes, they'll all be late - normal for this time of year). If I make it to the fair, I'm not even sure if I can afford a deep-fried Oreo or a Lemon Shake-Up (and that would SO SUCK). I guess I'm okay with wandering around the 4-H barns . . . The World's Largest Hog never fails to fascinate . . . and PEOPLE! To finally immerse myself in waves of strange faces sounds absolutely awesome enough.

Of course, my bitchy side is thinking: Yes, we know what will happen on the day we actually decide to go somewhere different - It's going to rain or the temp will break a record high . . . This pristine weather will prove to be just as I suspected: a smutty-ass tease.

Forecast: confounded change

That's all.

AND
I had to share a piece of prose that I found in my spam box (this is all that I've read today):

Murphy. There do be horses comin', too. Have they and it
is mr. Ogilvie you will look after. And as soon as duryodhana
was born, that the entire little nugget out of the dump.
You'll have the attentive spectator. The belief of martial
astronomers that strike empty space with their fists, or
seek undoubtedly, that he has ever seen. This machine thus
laid his commands upon the king, slept soundly, ichccha.'
it is an instance of hetau sanach. 1098. Under this system
all of its workers, and is in a single meal on the twenty-eighth
day and bears the revolution itself respected the immunities
was he born as ashtavakra (crooked in eight parts and the
illustrious deities of all beings). Endued thou slain him
today? That suta's son of wicked.

Yesterday, I bought an old video camera (one of the little solid block boogers that records ON film rolls - an antique), a ceramic chocolate bunny (IN its original box), an old washboard, a copy of Dante's Inferno (for my son), three polo shirts for Matt for work, some new Halloween decorations, some massive X-mas platters, and various other things not-needed all in one box from a yard sale post-noon in one of the new all-brick housing additions down the road. The box cost me five bucks (the guy was desperate to have less stuff to drive to Goodwill - He tossed me the box and said "fill 'er up"). I told myself I needed a "junk fix." It sorta' cheered me up.

Yesterday, I was fighting this queezy feeling in my tummy all day. It was like the day was too pretty. Crystalline. It was rubbing me the wrong way. That positive/negative effect. The sticky side of two magnets opposing and repelling each other. I really wanted to be gloomy, and the periwinkle sky and idle clouds and gentle breezes wouldn't let me. My fourteen year old and my three year old and I ate chicken nuggets at the pay lake on the other side of the interstate - we watched the city men sit on the banks, lawn chairs and rods in place, while the relocated fish jumped and dived back into their rings (seemingly happily ignoring their bate and opting for meaty mosquitoes). Who ever heard of paying to fish - per inch? One guy did catch a hideous three foot long catfish off the bottom. I thought he might piss his pants. It was entertaining.

I made omelets again for supper (lotso' cheese and pre-cooked bacon). We went to Jimmy's Dairy Bar after supper. We sat in the shade on the tops of picnic tables. I was lucky enough to get the world's worst Strawberry Shortcake Sundae. All dry cake. Highly scarce on the strawberries AND the ice cream. Crazy offensive. It still didn't make it bad enough. THEN we went to the park and played on the swings and chased ducks until the sun went down. We got home and watched Stephen King's SleepWalkers on FearNet and laughed our asses off (Go Clovis!!!). THEN I discovered The Oblongs on the Cartoon Network/Adult Swim and laughed some more. Come bedtime - as the day officially ended at midnight - I could not declare it a bad day. I think I even slept well.


This morning, I tried making up reasons, looking back. I MISSED the opening Olympic Ceremonies in Beijing! Bernie Mac was dying of complications due to pneumonia, and I was oblivious! That's the best I could come up with.

Truth is, the upcoming semester is keeping me nervous. It feels like I'm squeezing the last drops out of the summer, and I can barely enjoy them because I know it's all soon to be dry and long gone. August is in overdrive (like that final bit of sand in an hour glass that seemingly speeds up as it's emptying) - I'm losing time.

Today, we're making another family trip to the beach - even though the high temp for the day is oddly mild. I think I'll bring one of those books that I should be reading from the stack that I spent over $200 on. I'll float above all the happiness and make myself find my official critical self.

Nah, I'm just kidding. Despite the impending sense of doom, I will be showing my toddler how to make one huge, kick-ass sand castle. I know I will not be able to help myself.

There is a house that sits dark and empty just down Madison Road at the corner of Portobello Drive, just at the entrance to Pendle Hill (a drab series of brick ranch houses on sequential cul de sacs that were probably considered more "uppity" in the 80's, seeing as Huntsville East didn't explode to the north until the late 90's, laying shame to all brick ranch home owners with multi-stories and with streets named after cuddly forest creatures - Gray Squirrel Road for example - instead of edible fungus). I was standing in a drive way across from the dark house, talking to my daughter's boyfriend's father (a strange man who has endured multiple brain surgeries for mysterious reasons and now works in the tire department for Wal-Mart and lives with his parents). I only wanted to check in to make sure that my daughter wasn't being a nuisance (she's been there every day this week), and, somehow, conversation turned to an overview mapping of his neighbors. After pointing out the homesteads of three police officers who conveniently encircle his own, he told me that the dark house has been empty since the woman who lived there murdered her husband. I'm a sucker for a good story once it gets going. I asked more questions (note: the difference between curious investigative inquiry and lusty gossip).

He told me the wife pulled the sheets back as the husband was sleeping and stuck a gun in his mouth and blew his head off. There were multiple rumors. (1)Her husband had talked her into signing the house over to his name and taken all of her money (because the house and money had been her reaping of a previous divorce). (2)Her husband was a crackhead and beat on her. (3)Her husband confessed to sleeping with multiple women and told her that she needed to get herself "checked out." Maybe it was all three (We shrugged there in the spotlight of my mini-van headlights while we stared at the vacant hole). He pointed out to me that the husband had been a black man. The woman got 65-to-life in prison but many were surprised that she didn't get away with it. He told me, "Yeah, shocked me . . . I worked with her for years at Sallie Mae. She was always shy and a kinda' lowly little chic." Apparently, murder elevated her, and this guy hasn't known many shy people well (or he doesn't read enough).

~~~

Earlier today, my husband called at 3PM while I was on my way back from traipsing around Muncie with all the kids (I had to buy books, turn in my assistantship letter, visit the mall and that awesome Smoothy stand, etc.). He told me he would be late getting home because he'd just sent his boss off in an ambulance. I said "surprise" facetiously (then felt guilty - I knew it was serious). In their little custom's office - it's only two men: Matt and his boss. Matt's boss hasn't fully recovered from his quadruple by-pass (four weeks ago) and has been back to work, processing shipments, staying long hours, skipping lunch, bitching and screaming to Boston and various other clients, habitually running his hands through his thinning hair, banging the ear piece of the telephone on the desk, in a state of constant teeth grinding. Apparently, brushes with death don't always effect people in that same revolutional renewed-vision-of-what-really-matters kinda' way that we always see in the movies. Meanwhile, Matt's been trying vigorously to recenter his peace spot - he's popping mild anti-depressants; he's listening to less violent audio books; he's munching on dried fruit in the mornings. Today, the other guy's heart dropped him another warning and he dropped to the floor. Matt had to call 911, and then he had to flag down the ambulance in the parking lot because the EMT's couldn't find their way through the airport office sprawl maize (understandably). Just last week, Matt was telling me how much he worried about this happening - telling me how it had been too long since he had CPR training - telling me how his boss kept drifting off and napping (stretched back in his wheeled office chair with his nose pointed to the ceiling, mouth gaping wide open) and Matt was sure that, any day now, he would try to poke his boss's arm to wake him and the guy'd be dead.

Matt said, after the ambulance left (and he was standing alone once again in all the office plither), he called their lead office in Boston to tell them about what had happened to the guy (who is a long time, loyal employee), and they grunted on the other end of the line and then asked "So how are we on shipments?"

I worry that Matt's misery and anxiety are bulking again - cumulonimbus style. For supper, I made him rigatoni stuffed with Portobello mushrooms and cheese (frozen stuffed pasta is da bomb), and I had on a low-cut shirt that he couldn't keep his eyes off of (well, of course, it wasn't the shirt). I think I cheered him up. He stayed up later with me, and we watched all of "So You Think You Can Dance."

Wow. I have really felt like shit for the last couple of days. I thought I was going to have to find a walk-in clinic yesterday -- My sore throat was so bad. But, this morning, my throat feels better (so I can EAT a bagel and DRINK some coffee). I still didn't get much sleep (the baby was in bed with us by 3AM - the stinker.). I'm still having some sinus problems, my ears are ringing, and I woke up with a headache, but I think it's wearing off. Yesterday, when I was running the kids around trying to get them registered for school - I kept worrying that I was maybe breathing Streptococcus on everybody. Nah, it was just a passing thing. I never did acquire a fever. No funky contagion.

I'll write something more meaningful later . . . maybe. As the summer's ending, I find myself feeling twice as lowly. I hate the thought of the warm and green disappearing again (I am solar powered - I should move to the Bahamas), and I need to be re-directing my creative energy towards the laundry, my unorganized office space, etc., or my coming semester is going to suck all the more hideously. :(

I hope the CRT party next weekend goes well. I hereby promise to drink a beer regardless.

I dreamed of cockroaches again. They were in the downstairs bathroom, skittering out of the broken toilet. Over the years, I've had nightmares like this often. Here's where darkness festers.

This time I can pin the cause on the phone call last night from my mother. She spoke of finding a roach in her bathroom (how they run over from her neighbor's house), and I thought of how she used to squash them with her fingers. She would tell Jesus to curse them. She used to roach-bomb the kitchen and sweep their dead carcasses up with a broom, heaping them into the dustpan. They would run from the gaseous poison, march out of the cabinets in one singular direction like a fucking mad army. The little boogers used to even find their way into our refrigerator - end up dead on their backs in the shaped pits for the eggs and in the vegetable crisper drawers. We'd be watching TV and they'd scurry across the walls behind us. I could sleep (one gets used to such things), but I knew they lingered under my posters and in my mattress. I had a slumber party once and they ruined it.

On the phone, Mom told me how lonely she was - how she wouldn't dare take Virgil back ever, no matter how much he cried to her about Whistle Butt dying (Fern's funeral is today at 2PM). And I sensed she was lying. Virgil would be someone to go fishing with. My mother loves fishing. She's been catching bluegill and catfish at the lake in the city park. She'll scale them and chop their heads off there in her sink, then wrap them in foil and stuff them into her crowded freezer. She wants to have fish fry and invite people over. I reminded her frying fish can be dangerous.

She told me about dancing with a blind man at the Eagles bar in Shoals. My mother is a dancer. She can do a funky twist - ass in full swing, centripetal forces enacted, one leg lifted - like nothing I've ever seen. She can twist for hours. She said the blind guy kissed her once on the dance floor, and she liked it. I tried to imagine my mom kissing someone. How does it work with dentures? I told her dating a blind man wouldn't be so bad. She didn't give him her number. She doesn't know how to work the internet to find local singles, and, although I've thought about it, I'm not sure I want to show her. She's too vulnerable; wide open; an easy believer; unsure how things work and unwilling to question much. She could get taken. She wanted to meet someone from her church; she had so wanted the single preacher to like her.

She told me about how she'll be going to see Confederate Railroad and Kentucky Headhunters at the Turkey Trot in Montgomery. The Turkey Trot is the most awesome event in Daviess County. I wish I could go, take pictures and post them. The personality of the Turkey Trot is just as it sounds - Yes, they have turkey races; I think they bet on them like horses. She'll bring her own lawn chair for the concert. She'll be hanging in line after the show to get all of their autographs. Last year, she stood in a line for an hour in the rain - one patient, 66 year old lady with a Polaroid camera. She'll want her picture taken with them. She has the autographs of every member of Alabama. She has an autographed picture of herself with Willie Nelson. Willie is in his braided pig-tails, looking happily (normally) stoned, and Mom is wearing a fat cap more suitable for the head of a farmer.


My nightmare brought up a memory of an old poem I wrote as an undergraduate. I had to dig through some folders to find it, and I did. I'll post it here for the hell of it because it takes me back to something I've almost forgotten (my dreams, apparently, won't let me). It needs a good title:


Sometimes I still see them,
I confess after ordering a muffin,
black phantoms that scurry
across the walls and counter tops behind me
-- memento mori of filth and poverty,
spectral blisters,
prickly thorns in my eyes.

The priest at the restaurant
makes me think of possessions and exorcisms
and which of the two it is that I need.
He speaks Greek of my thoughts and girlhood memories,
twists them like prom-night crepe paper, teal on fuchsia,
utters something about
the grit of simply-being and
the stain left on a touched eye,
explains to me nonsense dreamers
and no-nonsense dreamers,
(sips his coffee, scrapes his toast)
the plotless and the plotted,
the symbols and the bibelots,
Sigmund Freud and Joseph.

He puts three fingers on my forehead and asks God
if my visions have pertinence.
“Consume the unintelligible with the colorful,”
he says God said.
"Your little dark ghosts are angels,"
he states matter of factly,
as one crawls across his plate
and shits venom on his mountain of scrambled eggs.

What I Learned at 9:30PM Last Night over Papa John's Pizza:
1. Lost, Season II, is over-dramatic and stinky.

2. A teenager will hide and keep pills she has stolen from the medicine cabinet in a Smilin' Safari bag meant for those tiny rubber bands that she used to need for her braces. She'll hide them between the wall and her bed. Red Sudafed that look like Skittles. A few pain killers. Anti-inflammatories. One of your anti-seizure pills. She will want to know what a rush is. She will NEVER tell you everything.

3. I smoke more in the evenings.


What I Learned at 10:30PM Last Night, Long Distance to Winslow:
4. My sister knows how to make pickle relish in her food processor. She has her own recipe for stiry-fry. Main igredient: Ketchup.

5. It is common for men in need of sex to wander off to bed early.

6. Snakes can crawl up from your basement and into your bathroom.

7. Fern died. My mother's nasty ex-lover, Virgil, nicknamed Fern (his lover when he wasn't seeing my mother) "Whistle Butt" for reasons I can only imagine (and try not to). The recent truth: Fern had her head blown off by a pressure cooker while canning beans. They found her on the kitchen floor two days later. Closed casket. My sister doesn't think they'll list a cause of death in the obituary. I must be evil; I laughed until I cried. It was an awful thing really. So oddly story-worthy. Cashing in on such awful accidents makes you feel guilty.

8. I forgot my niece's birthday again this year. Her mother covered for me.

What I Learned this Morning with SpongeBob Blaring:
9. We now have to reach into the cold water in the back tank of the toilet to flush it. I am expected to replace the toilet's innards eventually.

10. My three year old is obsessed with the Disney Princesses. This depresses me.

11. I still have an incomplete in Ceramics. If I don't finish it up this coming semester, I will ruin my grade point average because of my dead desire to play with mud.

12. I can never drink enough coffee.

13. July has ended.