Lookin’ like a lady: not all it’s cracked up to be

If there is an afterlife, I would be all right with going to hell for the express purpose of kicking the living shit out of the godless whoresondog who dreamed up pantyhose.

The horror!

After three hours of hobbling around the office like a pigeon-toed duck playing dress up, I’m thirsty for blood. So seriously, Lucifer, when it’s my time, lemme at ‘im!

Relics, II

It is 12 a.m. when you come home drunk. You stumble in the door, heeltoe off yellow flats and drop bags, heading without real hope to the kitchen table. If there were mail, it would be here.

There are two things you are expecting: the first comes in a plain, white envelope, bearing ill tidings from the land of standardized tests. The second you do not truly believe will materialize from the West Coast, but if it did, it would hold a number of  things left behind when you flew away five months before. Tonight there are no standard white envelopes on the table, but there is a package. High and brown, it stands shady in the dark. You flick on the Christmas tree–overhead lights are not right for this, nor for tired, dilated eyes–already half knowing its origins, half repining its sender.

The letters on the “sent from” side of the packing label, lashed on with messy, crisscrossing skeins of tape, are light and scarcely legible. There is an unfamiliar area code, handwriting you do not recognize. You are perplexed; perhaps it is not for you at all, but a mistaken delivery to an affable neighbor. But then you make out a “G” printed beneath “sender.” With some amusement, you realize it is in fact only his letters, not his numbers–surprisingly neat–that you recognize. There was never any reason for you to get his numbers; he called you first.

You gaze down at the package, sober. There is finality here, some sort of end you’ve been telling yourself you need for weeks now, but which in the end you are not certain you want. Part of you has been hoping for a Christmas miracle. Part of you has always been an expectant child. But here they are–your gifts, from and for you–arrived 13 days early. Everyone knows that Christmas miracles do not happen early, and they do not happen to you.

There will be no one at your door step, no personal delivery, and no happy serendipity, this package seems to say. You do not live in a novel or a movie or a tidy, happy dream. This you should know by now. This you should accept. Wake up, tiny Who-girl, and grow a nose–or at the very least a viable dream.

By the light of the twinkling tree lights you gut the parcel, slicing through the last thing he touched, brushing against invisible fingerprints. It is the closest thing you will get to holding hands. Inside the package there are three shining Christmas tree bulbs from Goodland, Kansas, a bathing suit, a strange, new copy of a movie you like–a copy that never belonged to you. Perhaps all the gifts are not your own, and you do not know why. And then there is a small note with only 7 words, a single frownie face

Sorry.

PS: Still looking for your earrings.

There is a deep yawn in you, a creaky, aching opening that threatens, for a second, to overtake. You begin to cry, but stop. You will not let his letters do a number on you.

By the dim warm light of the Christmas tree you hang the bulbs upon overburdened boughs. Green, blue, gold, they are all in various stages of cracked hilarity. Peeling and unseemly, luxurious and fine, they are a symbol of something that you do not know–perhaps of all the foolish notions you had about what a future might have been like in which you spent all your Christmases holding his hand.

“Sorry,” it says. But sorry for what?

You stand back to regard your work. The three new ornaments are out of place, strangely wrong on the tree that has been decorated now for a week. In an act of humbleness, perhaps of apology, you remove the bulbs and nest them like three delicate baby birds back in the box, flicking off the lights as you go. You bear the box upstairs, sit down with it in your lap, do not cry. Stare. Finally, you shove the box between the desk and the bureau, draping a tee shirt, a bag, a large file folder over it.

Some cracked and golden things must remain in the dark.

The Most Exciting News on Either Side of The Atlantic!

…(gulp)

In a month from today (well, in a month and 18 minutes from today) I’m going to Spain!

While lazily perusing cheaptickets.com last Friday during my lunch (yes–this is something I do for fun whenever I dream about Iberia, which is often), I came across something so shocking as to choke me on my Earl Grey: a roundtrip ticket from Bradley to Madrid for less than $500. I don’t remember what happened between my first glance at the air fare and the arrival of my flight confirmation to gmail ten minutes later, but I do know for a fact that I’ll be going to my second home for nine days in January.

Elated, I made inquiries and discovered that not only will I see my sweet Morgan and Rachel–two of my fellow former Fulbrighters now pursuing schooling in Spain’s capital–but David, my dear, smart Basque friend, will be home for holidays from Scotland where he now resides and, somehow, miraculously, in Madrid. To slick just a little more icing on my slice of sweet, rich, soul-filling cake, Ali, on vacation from Germany, will get into Barajas the night before I fly out. There will be enough time for dinner, for acquainting our friends with one another, for hugs, and for stories. I will set up an appointment to visit Ramiro de Maeztu and hope that Nicolás and Angela remember me. And even if they rub small, insidious Spanish germs on me, I don’t care. Bring on the besos and bring on the love. I’m ready and more than willing.

Oh my God! And I can get a Spanish haircut from Adrian! (No–I refuse to even consider that he won’t be right at the salon where I left him!)

My heart feels so good right now I’m not sure what to do with myself. Something deep down in the center of my being responds to Madrid–to the people I’m to find there, to everything I left behind and arguably ought not to have–and sings. I’m going to bed happy, anticipatory, and smiling.

Mama’s Got a Brand New Bag/Slightly More Troubling Things

“K-4.5!” he shouted. For a moment, I had my doubts. All of a sudden, I felt a bit like I’d entered into a game of Battleship in which I was not entirely sure I wanted to take part.

“That’s your seat height, okay? Remember it.” He turned from me, walking back toward his own machine. “Ready people? Good. Let’s go!”

And we were off. Hills, resistance, crazy, whirring, wind-milling speed, set to pumping dance tunes. I sweated. I panted. I, quite frankly, pwned. And 45 minutes later I exited, feeling like a champ–albeit a champ with a very sore ass. Tonight I vanquished my first ever gym class: spinning.

Now. Gym rat I am, but “joiner” I am not. I tend to revile group workout classes, probably due to some sort of deeply ingrained hatred/phobia of high school gym class and the ensuing flashbacks. As such, despite a full year of belonging to two separate fancypants gyms with real, qualified instructors, I’d never tried a class. Suffering from a recent workout malaise, however, I sucked up my skepticism and gave class a spin. And boy, did I love it. The jury’s still out as to whether my right hip loved it, but I suppose that’s a story that’ll be told tomorrow morning when I endeavor to stand, walk, and later, do a passel of lunges to firm up the Thanksgiving jiggle. Sometimes, I think I enjoy beating up my body a little too much–but I suppose it’s healthier than allowing someone else to do it for you.

Apart from a reunion over tea with Molly, my former desk mate, the weekend was quiet. I am my household’s Christmas Spirit this year, so in honor of this role, I painstakingly strung about 12 sets of lights on a 7 foot tree. This amounted to about 6 hours of work and a lot of Drambuie and beer with dad–and yes, the whole shebang DID go out and I DID have to scrum around in the morass of lights and boughs in search of the bad seed! Later, I bedizened the fronds with my grandmother’s shimmering vintage glass bulbs, and wrote out a half dozen horrifyingly unattractive (but amazing!) Christmas cards. Sunday I was supposed to have gone to both a Fulbright networking event in New Haven and a potluck at Anthony’s house, but being a carless bum whose mother is afraid to lend out her little autobaby in any conditions that are not patently perfect (yes, I discovered this weekend, imperfect conditions DO include wind!), I ended up disappointing Amp and staying home. Now I  have a shitton of rosemary garlic white bean dip and gluten free crackers that I will never be able to consume myself, and to top it all off, did not get my fix of the cutest child in the entire world.

Now that I’ve mentioned Amp’s name, I suppose it’d be an appropriate juncture to more fully expound upon a shipwreck of a situation to which I alluded a few posts ago: Two days before Thanksgiving was the darkest day in the history of my place of employment. Not only were Stefania and Porto laid off–two truly fantastic individuals whose acquaintance I’d just made this July–but Anthony and John–my homies, my boys, two of my favorite people in the world–were sent packing.I didn’t believe it until I walked over to the other side of the office and saw toys, magazines, CDs and pens flying into cardboard boxes beside Anthony’s cubicle. I couldn’t help myself. I burst into tears.

Since 2006 Amp and John have defined my workplace. To some extent it was they who made it…well…like home. Not only are they tremendously talented, insightful, clever designers, but they’re decent, fun, kindhearted people. We have a long history of slurping noodles, slinging foul wisecracks, and cackling grinnily together at company luncheons. They were the people I chowed down with. They were the people I drank coffee with. They were the people I sent home Christmas presents from Spain; and they’re gone.

I worry for Amp and his baby and babymama–now all without health insurance–and hope to some higher power that John can soon secure work that’ll allow him to use his talent. It would be tantamount to lying, though, to pretend that their loss doesn’t also make me feel a little sorry for myself. I miss them every day and, though it’s been offered me, can’t bring myself to sit at John’s (nicer, warmer, better-outfitted, but empty) desk. Walking around on the designers’ side of the office, I feel a little like a cat padding about the darkened, empty floor of a house after its people have tucked themselves in bed or gone on vacation, yowling querulously at nothing, wondering where everybody went and how it’s going to play ball now all by itself.

Times are dark. The Tribune is bankrupt. I don’t know why I came back from Spain. This country’s burgeoning future puts fear in my heart that I hope inauguration day and an array of good policies backed by good leadership may dispel. I am very, very thankful I have a job and a family I love and good friends. I just hope everybody turns out all right.

For now, though, Porto, Stefania, Amp and John, I love you guys. I miss you a lot and vehemently hope you all do astoundingly well. I’m sorry to speak of you as though you’re dead! I know you aren’t–which means we should continue to hang out. I’m rooting for you–and more than available to read and edit cover letters.

Oooh! Wait! Two more! Because I can’t get enough LM quotes!

Again. Anagrams. It’s a wonderful, bewildering, poignant novel.

By this point we’re all aware that I’m obsessed and sing praises of this woman and her work quite frequently to the moon. As if you needed more fodder, more reason to get out and buy a book, here are three more Moore snippets. I don’t think I have to explain why I love them so much–though I am no longer nearly as bereft as Benna.

“I was not large enough for Gerard. I was small, lumpy, anchored with worry, imploded. He didn’t want me, he wanted Macy’s; like Aeneas or Ulysses, he wanted the anonymity and freedom to wander purchaseless from island to island. I could not be enough of the world for him. A woman could never be enough of the world, I thought, though that was what a man desired of her, though she flap her arms frantically trying.” (35)

And:

“It was like some principle of physics: Things flowed naturally back and forth between the two apartments until the maximum level of chaos was reached. I had his can opener, but he had my ice-cube trays. It was as if our possessions were embarked upon some osmotic, conjugal exchange, a giant french kiss of personal effects, which had somehow left us behind.” (35)

And one more. I swear it’s the last for a goodly while!

“He also had a habit of charging after small animals and frightening them. Actually, the first time he did this it was with a bird in the park, and I laughed, thinking it hilarious. Later, I realized, it was weird: Gerard was thirty-one and charging after small mammals, sending them leaping into bushes, up trees, over furniture. He would then turn and grin, like a charmed maniac, a Puck with a Master’s degree. He liked also to water down the face and neck fur of cats and dogs, smoothing it back with his palms, like a hairdresser, saying it made them look like Judy Garland. I realized that life was too short for anyone honestly and thoroughly to outgrow anything, but it was clear that some people were making more of an effort than others.” (19)

Lorrie Moore–if ever you read this whilst Google searching your name–I thoroughly, completely, totally admire you. If you need boots licked, children wet-nursed, dogs walked or help moving heavy kitchen applicances, I’m here and I’m willing. Lugging your fridge? It would be an honor.

Lorrie Mooreisms

This is the quote I ought to have posted for Thanksgiving. It (and the beautiful snippets that follow) are, in general, more gems from Lorrie Moore, in particular, from a novel called Anagrams. Here, the protagonist, Benna, watches her daughter repeat Thanksgiving grace and ponders children, the past and gratitude.

“You cannot be grateful without possessing a past. That is why children are incapable of gratitude and why night prayers and dinner graces are lost on them. “Gobbles Mommy, Gobbles Grandpa…” George races through it. She has no reference points. As I get older the past widens and accumulates, all sloppy landlessness like a river, and as a result I have more clearly demarcated areas of gratitude. Things like ice cream or scenery or one good kiss become objects of huge soulful thanks. Nothing is gobbled. This is a sign of getting old.” (116)

This is a particular favorite of mine. It hurt the first time I read it; I identified. I didn’t necessarily want to. I loved it all the same. This one is thought/spoken by Benna, too.

“Words, I think, words are all you need for love–you say them and then just for the hell of it your heart rises and spills over into them. My idea in a love affair is that if everyone makes enough declarations, one of them is bound to come true. Words are interesting that way.” (148)

And the last–which I appreciate, but certainly would have appreciated more ’round March of 2007 whilst penning ye olde undergrad thesis.

“How can she say that she has begun to think that all writing about art is simply language playing so ardently with itself that it goes blind?” (56)

Who can resist an invitation from a friendly banana?

On the TV downstairs teen stars are enthusiastically butchering Christmas carols. Upstairs the cats are howling and harrying one another into an epic feline grabass tourney, and here in my room, there is a weary-eyed dame dutifully sculpting Word docs of her own prose and smiling over a decidedly playful banana.

I don’t know who it was at Chiquita that decided bananas are playful, but I deeply appreciate his/her brainwave. Who, after all, could refuse this? C’mon, you cylindrical sweetmeat! you bauble of baboons! you tempting tropical tasty! Let’s play!

The precocious, curious, sniffing banana.

If you must know: yes, I just ate it. In an extremely manly, post-gym protein shake.

*Note: I am now back up to almost full pushup prowess! I project one more week until I can pump out the kinds of badass, Lady Hulkian sets I was doing this time last year in Spain. W00t!

All earnest application of self to tasks and no play makes Caitlin a dull, lax blogger

It’s December 2nd. And I’ve been dreadfully, dreadfully busy. If you want to know more about the source, you can ask, but I shan’t divulge here. And yes–before you ask–I am a sly, witholding minx, thankyouvermuch.

On the topic of Thanksgiving, suffice it to say that Grandma’s still as cranky and rambunctious as only a self righteous 83-year-old with a pacemaker can be. I did my part contributing to the sagging Schiller sideboard by crafting a bangin’ pumpkin walnut pie, vanilla and orange zest whipped sweet potatoes, and my favorite– shredded and stir fried caramelized brussels sprouts with nutmeg and toasted pecans. All you cole-family haters I CHALLENGE you to eat this dish and not immediately adore the sprouts! Seriously. It’s on. Bring me your broccoli haters, your cabbage-phobes, your sprout-denouncers: I shall swiftly convert them all.

My first Thanksgiving as a vegetarian was utterly wonderful and far less gluttonous than it’s been in  previous years. My mom was sweet enough to make me spinach squares, and the thing of which I enjoyed the greatest portion was a bottle of atrocious wine. Counter intuitive, certainly, but I kept drinking more to smite the taste of the previous sip.

In all, it was lovely to be home with my family, but part of me ached a little for last year’s ragtag Fulbright Orphan Thanksgiving at Talia’s apartment, replete with faux roast turkey and, you guessed it, jamón. I wasn’t as reflective or thankful this Thanksgiving as I was last–probably because of late I haven’t had enough time TO be reflective–so I’ll link you to 2007’s truly blissed-out Thanksgiving post. I swear I’m equally grateful to the universe this year–just for some slightly different things.

As my stamina is rapidly flagging, here are some tiny, delightful little tidbits–in list form, because I love you (and because my eyes are tired):

1) New England winter sunsets as seen through the skeletal, twisted husks of leafless maples. Tonight’s display melted from grape to raspberry, then to pale, dainty lemon. Watching it out the window during my bus ride home awakened in me a deep yearning for sherbet.

2) Workouts that render me sweat-slicked and, later, unable to raise both of my arms to blowdry my hair.

3) Lentil Barley soup and honey fig salad dressing (both Schiller-crafted)

4) Sweet children on the bus who flock to me for no tangible reason and allow me to teach them about plants and bus safety.

5) Receiving awe-inspiringly histrionic emails. They’re at the very least good for a laugh–after they’re good for a cry.

6) Deploying a box-worth of aesthetically offensive holiday cards to my friends with great senses of humor (watch your mailboxes!).

So there. Positive things! I’ll update on the rash of not-so-delightful recent shiz (including but by NO means limited to a creepy, malodorous older man on the bus and losing the sustained company of two of my favorite people in the world in the matter of an hour) this weekend or sooner.

P.S. Today a shaman called me a genius and declared that I was truly “on purpose.” I’m uncertain as to under what to file this, save “aroo?” and “cool!”