Skip to content


Don’t hate me

The last days of June slipped between my fingers and July is upon all of us. Some of you (the Loyal Eleven, as I lovingly refer to you) noticed my absence during the last near-week, and some of you were pissed. I know I’m a delinquent, and everyone hates blog entries that start off “I know it’s been a long time since my last post, but I’ve been so busy!!11″ But this really isn’t my fault: my life has turned into a John Hughes film. For the culturally moribund, John Hughes directed Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, and more that I’m forgetting. Lately I feel like a stoic camera man treds softly beside me as I rush around Seattle, never quite on time, and during action sequences (running down stairs, shot gunning beer, pistol-whipping the homeless) I can almost hear the zoom lens whirr in on my flailing form. He’s never there when I whip around to look, but that doesn’t change my knowledge that he is there. At parties and other social interactions, a boom mike hovers just outside my peripheral vision, recording my copious witticisms for posterity. As I wander from room to room, I sometimes hear the marker snap shut and someone call “action!” It could be my imagination (no one ever responds to the commands of “quiet on the set!”), but why would I make myself out to be even vainer than I’ve already revealed myself to be?

What activities of late lead me to draw this conclusion, you might ask. More on that a bit later, perhaps tomorrow, as putting that story into words will require quite a lot more energy than I currently possess. I’m coming up for air at the moment, doing laundry as a matter of fact. I have quarters stacked in neat piles of three on the desk in front of me, waiting for me to slide them one by one into the coin grooves of my building’s lovely washer-dryer combo. I brazenly ignored the basket full of clothes that clearly served as another tenant’s placeholder in the laundry queue, but the sacred laws of laundry don’t explicitly forbid my actions. If you’re not there to claim a machine as it opens up, you forfeit your place. That’s the rule, but it can still be awkward when someone walks in on you as you’re removing their lacy unmentionables from the dryer.

After my own unmentionables have been placed in the darkest reaches of my top dresser drawer, I’m going to sleep. I haven’t been doing that much lately, as there are simply too many eyes-wide-open activities crammed into each long day to waste time with them shut. I just saw Marta off on a four-day camping trip with her family, so I plan on reading a few novels and sleeping a lot in the space she left. I’ll keep you posted as to how that goes.

Posted in Musings.


0 Responses

Stay in touch with the conversation, subscribe to the RSS feed for comments on this post.



Some HTML is OK

or, reply to this post via trackback.