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I took the subway home after stretching for a little while. I sat near a mom and her two little girls. This pair of sisters were loud and cheerful and everyone in the car was watching them and smiling. They appeared to be singing a song to their mom they learned in preschool. The mom was carrying a Disney Princess backpack. It was pink. You know the one. The older sister looked to be about five, and the younger one seemed three years old, except she was little. The song involved clapping and slapping their knees and chanting words I could not quite understand. In the middle of a line of the song, one would interject a completely random thought, and then the other one would continue the conversation until the song turned into handclapping and knee-slapping and a bunch of cutesy outbursts and wonderful giggles. Their little voices and laughter held my heartstrings in a vicegrip, and I nearly fainted from an overdose of cuteness. I heaved a happy, yet longing sigh that spilled my melted heart onto the subway floor. Thanks a lot, biological clock.
***
Well, dadgum, people. Everyone so far has been very gracious in their comments for the About Me page. You have even made me cry. And not that I mind, but what's with everyone except Karissa being anonymous? I kind of can figure out who everyone else is, but a few I'm unsure of. I kind of have to rethink what I'm going to write on Saturday. I kind of was expecting everyone to be a little snarkier, but I can definitely work with what you've given me. Friends, you have presented me with a challenge, and I gladly accept. It will be an honor to attempt to turn the writeup into something entirely about me, but probably less blatantly than Tyra Banks or Oprah Winfrey would do it. If I fail, it is because I can't think about myself without thinking about the people who have influenced who I am.
***
And, more from the fanmail files. This was to another author of an essay in the dad anthology I've mentioned. Her name is Alice Bradley. I only went to her site the first time to get her contact information, and I also happened to catch a glimpse of a Twitter post about Barbara Kingsolver. This is what I wrote:
And then I went back to read her blog. And it made my heart hurt for her. And then I felt bad, so I wrote her again:
Alice, my email to you on Sunday was based solely on my impressions from your essay in the dad book. It might have been too peppy, too unaware. Please don't kick my teeth in. (I thought I was the only one with that preference of violence.) I hadn't yet begun to read your blog. I'm new to your blog. I'm sorry if I seemed insensitive in that email, but mostly, I'm sorry you're going through a hard time right now. I cannot imagine personally what it feels like to experience such loss, but I can be supportive. I don't know you, but I support you.
Then, she actually wrote back:
Oh, May, you weren't insensitive! No problem, truly. Thanks for
understanding that I can't write the most detailed response right now.
Thank you for your emails, too. Both were kind of adorable.
Best,
ab
It continues to blow my mind what kind of a world is out there. All those people, the lives they lead. And to think a lot of the people I don't really know out there have similar experiences to the people I do know. They remind me of my friends. And I think, hey, maybe if I give so-and-so the link to this other person's blog, maybe so-and-so can offer some relevant advice and encouragement or take comfort in not being alone in this world. Just in case. Present the opportunity which they can both turn down, but at least it's out there. The option exists.
Okay, I'm diving into my computer to find a faux-toe to post.
The park was beautiful this evening. I can't believe how out of shape I am. I did three sets of 10 pushups, and I know I won't be able to do so much as open a door in the morning. That's okay. Tonight's run has made me realize how much I need to clear my mind. Or at least focus my thoughts.
I saw two things on the subway today. This morning on my way to work from seminary, I saw what must have been the hairiest man I have ever seen. Probably of thousands of jokes exist about the missing link, but this man, he was no joke. I was standing right next to him on the 2 train. He was wearing a polo shirt. He had dark hair that was greying. I happened to look down at his arm, and then I was confused, because my mind went to a kitchen place where they keep steel wool under the sink, you know, in the case of those especially tough stains. That man's arm could scour my pots and pans. Oh man. He had little tufts sticking out from the vee at the front of his shirt, and even at the back of his collar. I did not even want to think about his back. Ew, people.
On my way to the park after work, I was just minding my own business on the train when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a friend from all the way uptown. We talked for a couple minutes until she had to get off a couple stops later. I was glad to see her. If I still lived up in that neighborhood, it wouldn't be as big of a deal. But, when you've joined a couple million commuters at the end of the day, it really helps to see a familiar face.
72 degrees today. It's hard being cranky on a Monday when it's so, so beautiful outside.
- Mood:
nervous
my apartment is having a 90s party friday night. while downloading some really fun and nostalgic songs, i found a cover of the "rainbow connection." of course, kermit the frog's version will always be dearest to my heart, but i have a feeling i'll also like sarah mclachlan's take.
speaking of muppets, here's a quick episode of what i saw on the subway: a wig. it wasn't a ridiculous wig; it was an unassumingly obvious wig. that is, the guy had no idea how much his wig really looked like a wig. it had perfect, tight curls, but it would have been convincing if no there weren't the slightest gap between the guy's scalp and the wig's lining. plus, there was just no way that could have been his real hair. the guy had big eyes and glasses, and his quiet and unaware absurdity just added to the effect. muppet. like one of the blue extras with a brown, curly wig. i know you've seen him before.
- Mood:
nostalgic - What's Playing?:90s!!!
We'll start off with a double treat, since I'm super excited about it.
What I saw on the subway today:
As I was boarding the train on my way home, I saw this guy who looked like he was about twelve years old board with me. His face looked very smooth and cleanly shaven, probably because his facial hair consists of a few strands of fuzz on his upper lip. He managed not to nick himself. Hoo. Ray. That's saying a lot for the pre-pubescents out there. Alas, he was not twelve. He was a grown-up. Like, a man, but with a kid's face and body. He was just getting off of work and probably on his way home to his young wife and maybe a kid. I did not see a ring, but I didn't look for one, either. I usually look for one. He was all done up: nice hair cut; dark, pin-striped double-breasted suit; pink power-tie with a strong Windsor knot. I found myself thinking snide thoughts about him. Why does he look so young and successful? No one's allowed to be that young and have his dream job in the Financial District. I saw him scramble for a seat on the train, because why? His strong, young and able legs couldn't hold him up for the duration of the trip? And that suit. How can he get away wearing a suit with breasts better than mine?! Come on. Of course I felt self-conscious. I wrapped my coat tighter around me and looked away, bitter and self-absorbed, until I remembered just a few weeks ago a very nice man from church mistook me for a high school student. Oh well.
This is a short intermission to let you know the Flickr photos are loading. There will be captions and categories. I'll have them sorted by day and tagged according to the particular event. And there will be captions, because I will not be doubling the work by writing about it here and then over there. No need to be redundant.
The photos are only 49% loaded. 50% now.
The Rabbit and Chinchilla Chronicles, Installment Two:
The rabbit has gotten pretty good at fielding external phone calls. She received a call from a certain chinchilla who said she turned in some banana cupcakes to the rabbit's office. The rabbit looked in her system to see if they received the banana cupcakes. She explained to the chinchilla that her particular office handles only red velvet cupcakes. However, because the rabbit didn't just want to pass off the chinchilla to some other person who also didn't know about the banana cupcakes, the rabbit kept the chinchilla on the phone. The rabbit heard the chinchilla's exasperated sighs through the phone, and she thought the chinchilla was getting mad at her. The rabbit had to brush off thoughts of "hey, lady, I don't have to help you at all" and "if you were paying attention, ma'am, you would have sent the banana cupcakes to the banana-cupcake-handling office, and not us, where we handle red velvet cupcakes" and slamming the phone down in utter frustration. Instead, the rabbit told the chinchilla what she was thinking, "The banana cupcakes aren't coming up as banana cupcakes in the system, and I want to make sure I'm communicating the right information to the rodent who's supposed to be handling your cupcakes. I don't want there to be any confusion." The chinchilla asked if anyone's going to call her back. The rabbit took her contact information and started wrapping up the call in such a smooth way she doesn't remember how it happened. Then the chinchilla sounded like she was actually smiling through the phone when she said, "Well, the banana cupcakes have to be somewhere." And the rabbit said, "Yes, they are. I know it's frustrating." They exchanged goodbyes, and the rabbit prayed the chinchilla's problem would be solved soon. The rabbit could sympathize. The cupcakes were time-sensitive and it would be extremely stressful to FedEx cupcakes to the incorrect office. Goodness knows she's done it before.
I’m usually very polite getting on and off the subway. And it doesn’t matter to me if people reciprocate. Most of what people do isn’t a personal attack. Most of the time it’s a matter of unawareness, or they’re so focused on getting to an empty seat, they just don’t see who they push to get it.
My train this morning was delayed. No biggie. Situation out of my control. People were irritable. Right now I’m reading Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life, and it’s amazing. It seems to have put me on a higher plane mentally. I also read my scriptures while I waited on the platform for the train. That definitely contributes to my calmer self.
When the train pulled into my stop, I squeezed my way through a crowd of people, saying “excuse me” and “thank you” and “sorry” for my bag bumping into people. When I got to the subway doors to exit, I saw people standing outside, looking very eager to board. Sometimes they don’t wait to let others off the train before boarding. It looked as if this very thing might happen as I neared the threshold. I paused briefly, considering that I might get popped out of the car instead of simply walking out.
Then, a lady spoke up. She was waiting to board, too. She was average height, had dark curly hair, dark, kind eyes. She motioned to me to come off the train and said, “Go ahead.” The platform was noisy, but I clearly heard her voice. I stepped off the train, and as I passed her, I said, “Thank you.” And she said, “You’re welcome.” Imagine that, an actual friendly exchange between stranger-commuters. She actually made my day.
The Writing Life:
Putting a book together is interesting and exhilarating. It is sufficiently difficult and complex that it engages all your intelligence. It is life at its most free. Your freedom as a writer is not freedom of expression in the sense of wild blurting; you may not let rip. It is life at its most free, if you are fortunate enough to be able to try it, because you select your materials, invent your task, and pace yourself. …
The obverse of this freedom, of course, is that your work is so meaningless, so fully for yourself alone, and so worthless to the world, that no one except you cares whether you do it well, or ever. … There are many manuscripts already—worthy ones, most edifying and moving ones, intelligent and powerful ones. If you believed Paradise Lost to be excellent, would you buy it? Why not shoot yourself, actually, rather than finish one more excellent manuscript on which to gag the world?
--That smirks of intelligence. Man alive.
***
I’ve had a really calm weekend. A great week last week.
Monday: Therapy
Tuesday: Gilmore Girls at a friend’s; also Arrested Development
Wednesday: Helping a friend going to massage therapy school practice her shiatsu
Thursday: A friend’s birthday that included dessert up at The View, and Grey’s Anatomy
Friday: Session at the temple
Saturday: 3-hour hike with a good friend of mine, other stuff
Sunday: Church, appointments with missionaries, Christmas devotional with incredible talks and phenomenal music; mint brownies with some other friends; deep discussion with roommate past midnight
- Mood:
blessed - What's Playing?:In my head: "The First Noel"
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