tuckova

My Summer Vacation

Well, helLO there, soldier. Buy me a drink and I will tell you all about my summer vacation. Or anyway that's been my last week, minus the soldier part. Lots of drinks, lots of recaps, lots of how you doing no how you doing. And in the midst of this return there was a Rocky Horror party, and that was fun. And now I'm home, settled, checked in with my people, getting ready to get back to the business of, you know, life.

The summer was... well. Squire and I flew to California with his friend; Squire and Friend went to Grandparents, where it was believed to be more fun (and probably was: at Grandpa's they made bows and arrows and Grandma took them to a bunch of 3D movies; I wanted them to get up close and personal with the black widows in my sister's backyard while we cleaned it out, so). For three weeks the kids bounced back and forth between the lap of luxury and the school of hard knocks (though we also took them to Six Flags and stuffed them with hamburgers, so it wasn't all bad), and then Friend finally bounced back to the Czech Republic, where his parents that he basically hadn't bathed for three weeks and were quietly horrified. What? You try arguing hygiene with a teenager and tell me how it goes. We had a lot of visitors, which I enjoyed tremendously. Look, I flew eleventy thousand kilometers, and you can make me feel like a Special Guest Star by traveling a mere hour (and if you travel further? Then I am really really really happy). This is true. 

I did think a lot about how television shows work, and how normally it is My Show, the Anne In Brno Show, which is like a sit-dram, but this summer was totally sweeps week on other people's shows. I brought in viewership like whoa. I will so be getting an Emmy. Because you like me, you really like me.

I will NOT be collecting any awards for the Rocky Horror party (although I did absolutely win a costume contest, a hundred years ago, at a convention). Oh, my misspent youth. Remember when my editorial pointy-headedness was applied towards correctly quoting the movies I'd seen a hundred times? We had fun, though, throwing rice and confetti around the classroom with wild abandon, and then sweeping it up immediately afterwards like the good little adults we are now. Cards for sorrow+ water gun rain+ great scott toilet paper is kind of sticky, for future reference.

So now I'm home. Following the massive Summer Furniture Rearrangement of 2011, I felt pretty inspired to Change My Life, too. So I came home and got over the jet lag instantly (the trick: take short naps even if you can't sleep or if you want to sleep more, the whole day and the night before you travel; by the time you get where you're going you won't know which end is up, and you will sleep all night the first night = instant cure), so my body got a cold instead to make sure I was sufficiently miserable. I think I might have preferred the jet lag? Hard to say. Anyway. Got home, started working again, and in breaks dismantled my bed and made it into a new desk/office area. I kind of rock, with the hardware and stuff. It's a nice office. Maybe I'll take a picture.

Anyway, that was my summer. Photos are up here. I hope your summer was splendid too.

 

places I have slept this summer

a sofa bed

a spare mattress

a bus

an airplane

Nell's bed

a bed in the garage

my sister's bed

the couch

pillows on the floor

the parking lot of a produce stand

behind a coffee shop

the riverbank

next to Suzanne's pool

a hotel room near you

same as it ever was

So, California. Here we are. I am a bundle of confusion and yet clearer in my head in many ways than I have been in previous visits. Sometimes I think about moving here, because the houses are sweet and the weather is lovely and there are so many things that please me here and that are important. Family. Food. But then I remember that back home I have a job I love, and health insurance, and friends who make me laugh until it hurts. So I think this is tourist lust.

I like the signs I see everywhere that are certainly nouns but I pretend they are verbs because my mind is nothing if not amusing to me. Waste. Change. Produce. Dump. 

I've been thinking a lot about guests and hosts. "Looks like some kind of guest/host relationship to me." I want to be a good guest; I want to be a better hostess now that I've had some great modeling. I wonder how it is that some people are able to make others feel comfortable, valuable, and others seem to not even consider that important. Whether it's something that can be learned as an adult.

Also various forms of communication - how it is so easy to talk to some people and others require real Dale Carnegie skills.

I am strong in my likes and dislikes and yet hate to think anybody could ever dislike me. If you dislike me because I am fussy and clever and gorgeous, I guess I don't care, but it keeps me up nights wondering if I am being judged for something I didn't do, or didn't mean to. "I want all my hurts to be intentional."

There have been swirling sounds in my head regarding who needs what, who gets what. It is my own thing that I don't ask for what I want or even need because I am afraid I will not get it, and this convinces both me and everybody else that I don't need or want anything, and I get by just fine but sometimes I feel like I want it anyway. And then I get all tangled in wet hair and longing. It bothers me horribly to see my brain go traipsing down a road that I know ends in tears and yet be only able to control how little we cry. Like, couldn't we just focus on what we have, couldn't we just NOT DO THIS. Gack. 

I've been wine tasting twice, to amusement parks twice, rafting once. Got one massage so far and should get another. Got a tattoo. Painted my fingernails too many times to count and my toes twice. Painted half of a room. Rearranged furniture a few times. Went shopping for clothes a few times. Went shopping for house stuff also a few times and nearly sat in an aisle at one weeping because of what I could accomplish with so many things. Isn't it pretty to think so, that it is the availability of stuff, rather than my own lack of creativity, that stands between me and some sense of personal completion. See it doesn't take me very long to bring my empty hand around and slap my own face. 

Made the trip from Sonora to Sacramento with some old CDs I pilfered from my friend, Talking Heads and REM. What a pleasure to be on a road trip with Squire, listening to the music that I used to depend on for road trips 20 years ago. Driving up 108, God's country I told Squire, and I am still so satisfied by the sight of one lone tree on any horizon. Still pleased when hills make me think of a woman's body rolling itself out before me. Still glad to sing along, to know the words. I'm not supposed to be like this, but it's okay.

cranky morning

Walking in the center of the sidewalk

Sitting in the aisle seat of a crowded tram

Standing in doorways

Shouting outside my window

Cutting in line

You are a face asking to be slapped,

stomach asking to be punched,

eyes to be poked out.

Or maybe that's too much violence, I don't know. I have so much anger, and like my other feelings it is cumulative. This one is to do with unawareness of others and I know that, but it feels so deliberate, it feels like "I know you're there but I can't be bothered to be courteous" and so wanting to call attention to my existence seems hopeless, because a blindered horse is not helped by being startled, and the fact that these blinders are self-imposed means nothing. So I curl my fingernails into my palms, spare the rod, and wish instead that you will be ignored, utterly ignored as you're ignoring me, but that it will be something that counts. Yes, you there hugging the ticket punch so that nobody can use it, you with your dirty look when I ask you to step aside so I can stamp my ticket: I am ready to hope your heart gets horribly broken if it will teach you a little empathy. Failing that, I will hope the door closes on your fingers if it will teach you the courtesy of holding it open for others.

Frank's Wild Argument of Insidious Intent

When Squire was born I thought he was the most amazing thing on the planet, and then when he got to be about a year old I couldn't BELIEVE I had thought that, because obviously one was so much more interesting and fun. It's been like that pretty much every year since.

This afternoon I was telling him the marvelous story of how I memorized the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and recited the first bit to show how awesome I continue to be at storing all kinds of things in the brain pan. He said it sounded to him a lot like Tom Waits and went on to demonstrate how Waits would sing about sawdust restaurants with oyster shells.

In short: still the most amazing thing on the planet to me. So lucky to live with him. Let's all remember this at the end of the month when grades come out: somebody who can sing Tom Waits parodies is almost certainly more fun to live with than someone with a good grade in physics.

oh dear me.

Dear Cat,

Listen, I'm sorry I don't like you at all. But I feed you with food I make with my own sweet hands, and I brush you and buy you periodic toys and change your litter box. The reason I am not letting you out on the balcony in this sweet sunny weather is because last time you JUMPED. So it is for your own good. I suggest you try the INDOOR sunbeams. And please stop complaining or I might actually let you out there again, you toothless self-defenestrating idiot.

Dear Dog Owners in My Building,

I don't like my cat. I HATE your dogs. Please shut them up. Please please please. Or would you like to show them the balcony, maybe?

Dear Phone Company,

Why are we still talking when we broke up over 6 months ago? I have been nice up until now but I swear I will get violent soon. I'm an American. Have you heard about "going postal"? Imagine what I might do to your more modern form of communication.

Dear Travel Company Start-Up,

No, copying text is not the same as writing copy. I hope the Lonely Planet sues you into oblivion. Sorry for refusing to be complicit but it turns out I do have some inflexible morals, and signing off as an editor on something that was stolen remains one of them.

Dear Angels at My Table Last Night,

Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you. Don't forget to tip your waiter.

 

Dear Drunk Man at the Neighboring Table,

No. And ew. 

 

Dear Body,

I love you and I'm sorry for not taking care of you. I really am. 

Dear Brain,

I miss you. I'm sorry we don't hang out as much as we used to. I'm sorry for taking it so personally that you haven't been around as much. I guess we've drifted apart; maybe even these sorts of relationships have a shelf life, and the best thing to do is just hold the chin up (easier now, now without ballast) and move on. I'll always remember our good times back when we were closer, and I promise to always be grateful when you stop by, however briefly. Ungrateful, traitorous... oh, I'm just kidding. You know I love you.

 

spray sunshine all over the place

So much, hey. The weather is gorgeous. One could almost accomplish anything. This weekend we cleaned house, Squire under threat of "If you can't clean your room I'll be forced to clean it for you!" --this is adolescence, I guess, when that sounds like a threat instead of a treat. And how interesting that there's just the one letter "h" between the two, and yet a vast difference. A vas deferens. Oh, health class, I remember you so well. I remember everything.

Today I saw an older man wearing what maybe was supposed to be a hipster ironic shirt, or maybe it was truly vintage. "Boogie till you drop!" it said. Okay, mister. But he had varicose veins and had to walk down the hill sideways so it was a different kind of irony. Maybe he needs a trucker cap.

I like it when I exercise and an hour later my arms are all "HI! WE ARE YOUR ARMS! REMEMBER US!" trembling like a girl in the Twilight books with their newfound power. I haven't actually read any of the Twilight books; I like my romance a little pornier I think. One year for Christmas I gave people Harlequins with the interesting bits highlighted (interesting bits being both spelling errors, egregious dialogue, and stuff like "She felt his masculine desire against her." I don't wish I were poor again but it does seem that I used to be a little more creative with gifts. Now I'm all HERE'S A BOOK YOU ACTUALLY WANT TO READ, YO. HAVE SOME FLOWERS.

My windows are so shiny. Sometimes when I am cleaning I have a little narration going on in my head in which I give instructions so that other people can clean as awesomely as I do. I've done this since I was a little kid, when I used to walk my fascinated invisible biographers through my day. Being an only child means sometimes you have to create an audience. By the time I finally earned a sister I had established some interesting and fixed habits. And so here I am still, imagining that somebody is interested in my window washing tricks, but at least my narrations are mostly internal now. Also I mop a mean floor.

 

So a month until we go. Wrapping it up. Making sure the bills are paid through September, finding a subletter for the summer, making huge vats of cat food. Realizing what I simply won't get done before we leave, which is hard but allows me to focus on what HAS to be done. And in the midst of this, closing the doors of the rooms to which I will not be returning, so to speak. 

 

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

facts cut a hole in us

Here is a post where I talk about facts! How about that?

Squire was flunking 8th grade because a lot of reasons including but not limited to both of us got really involved in the fourth season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. He seems to be pulling out of that nosedive and there is much relieved wiping of foreheads. Distractions are only good in moderation, perhaps. He's awesome in general and the most fun person in the world most of the time and it's been kind of assy to have to go all parental on him with Worry and Concern and Some Yelling and With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility which is sort of funny because eighth grade isn't really a lot of power when you think about it but I guess ninth grade is like whoa. Anyway things seem better. I have a meeting with the teacher next week to discuss How Things Are Now and I don't know but I'm hopeful.

Friar moved out in November because of mostly one reason; I may have mentioned that? It's been a rough six months. Seven. I hope you all invested in tissues, because I drove that stock up like crazy. The list of places I have burst into tears is now only slightly shorter than the list of odd places I have fallen asleep (and there is some intriguing overlap) and I hope to keep it that way. It's getting better, and every month I say "Oh, now I'm ALL BETTER AND PERFECTLY FINE for real, not like last month when I merely thought I was all better and fine!" and now I have finally gotten around to realizing that I am going to get better and finer, but probably never all better or perfectly fine. Which is probably okay. We would have been married ten years this month, making it by far the longest partner-type relationship I've had, and honestly the best, too. And I think we're still friends, in the true way that you rarely get to be with an ex, so that's very good.

Work was patchy for rather too long for my comfort and I got kind of scared but now it is coming in as it should: enough to keep me busy, not so much to make me crazy. It is ridiculous how much happiness I can get from just doing a job, doing it well, getting the periodic pat on the head for a job well done. And I love editing so much, the more rigid assertion of rules, the delicate smoothing of a phrase, the focus and attention it requires. I'm expanding into different things, not just medical papers, and while I do like a good stereotactic needle in the foramen of Monro, I'm also really enjoying learning about Benedictine monks, and fracking, and how to calculate a fair tax on smoking. I know so many things, you guys! You totally want me at your next cocktail party. 

Last night I went to "night at the museums", which was apparently attended by the entire population of Brno. I met some old friends and made some new ones. There was dancing. Also I may have eaten some KFC around midnight, and found it both disgusting and delicious. Then there was foozball, at which I sucked 20 years ago and continue to suck today. I got home at 4, and woke up to breakfast in bed at 11, which was lovely. And Squire and I played "Can you answer this question about me?" which was ridiculously fun. It turns out we know each other pretty well.

Watching Doctor Who (FINALLY) and Community and season 6 of Buffy. Reading "1984" with Squire and "On Beauty" by myself. Sleeping in the middle of the bed. Generally doing well. And you?

p.s. that was kind of hard.

at leatht you don't lithp

And here we are at the foot of the hill, leaned against the boulder, having a cigarette break. The saddest thing about this is now, when you're at the bottom and know you have to go up, that huge distance ahead of you. All that work. Put out the cigarette and throw the filter away responsibly because you don't want to be careless anymore. You don't want to be careless again, ever. Shoulder to the rock and up we go, slowly. Pushing against the forces of gravity. On the plus side your calves have never looked better. Let's think about those things for a while, the things on the plus side. On the plus side there's time to think. On the plus side it beats having nothing to do. When you get to the middle you can take another break. The saddest thing about this is now, when you're in the middle and you can't help but start to feel optimistic and glass-half-fullish even though you know how this ends, how it always ends. Well best not to focus on how things end. Best to get back to work. The journey is the destination, they say, and the journey is up, and up is always good. Better air. Nice view. And the struggle itself towards the heights, etc. Push, pause, a handhold, footing. Push, pause. And now we're at the top, and for a moment there is birdsong and endless possibility. For a moment a deep breath of pure air, of how sweet things could be all the time if you could stay here. The saddest thing about this is now, for a moment, when you've let your chest fill with hope. And then it all comes down. Rolls over your toes, smashing, hurts. Suddenly the only view you can see is how everything you worked for has ended. The saddest thing about this is now, when you realize that nothing you've done so far counted, and your toes worse than stepped on. No time for that though; now it is time to begin again.

And here we are at the foot of the hill, leaned against the the rock of our particular ages, having a cigarette break. What has been done to deserve this? No: what have you done to deserve this? You don't remember? You told a secret that wasn't yours to tell. You thought too highly of yourself. You didn't want to die; you didn't want anybody to die. Well who's a naughty naughty then, eh. Put the cigarette out and throw the filter away responsibly and take a second to think about this: You don't actually have to do this. You could stop investing muscle and bone and thought and tears into this. You could give up. You could walk away. And this is the saddest part, really, this part here. When you have to decide between thankless labor and possible boredom. When you have to choose whether to risk yourself in hope or in the unknown. Listen, don't look at me; I've got my own rocks to push. Busy busy busy.