note to self
A quick post-it to myself until I can find a better place to store all these random post-its... and then I will delete it. Hopefully, soon... before I forget... Thad reminded me just now that if I don't chuck them into some kind of long-term memory, I'll forget (or become a revisionist historian to convince myself that I've been cooler and less klutzy in my life and miss all the good details), and none of these moments will make it into my memoir when I'm rich and famous and living with David Sedaris (platonically or not. It's completely his choice).
Today is a memoir moment day.
Not a chapter, but a moment.
Woke up after a very strange dream about living in Paris with a friend from Longmont and a bunch of mean, beautiful girls my age-- one of whom had started a list of who was most popular in the house, and I was very relieved to have been listed in the middle... forgotten and out of the line of fire.
Looked at my clock, decided that 8:50 was a glorious time to get up on a Saturday... started to sit up, couldn't move. I did a systems check... still felt cheerfully shitty from the general shittiness that comes with being sick, but something else was wrong.
It felt like I'd swallowed a lead weight, and it had gotten stuck in my chest.
I really barely felt like I could move.
So I hung out for a while, just watching the branches of my tree bed and the crack of light that had snuck in under my blinds. I practiced breathing like we do with the foster kids... we put a stuffed animal on their tummy and teach them how breathing deeply makes the animal go up high and then down very low.
In, out. The lead weight stayed. My legs and arms moved fine, but I felt pinned to my mattress like an exotic beetle in a shadow box.
Half an hour passed... I managed to get up and start my day, but the lead weight stayed. I felt awful. Totally zapped of energy, of cheerfulness... I felt like anybody but myself. Very low. Fuzzy, like I was underwater.
Had a glass of juice and started cleaning the kitchen. Then moved to the living room before getting overwhelmed... my apartment's still a war zone after I had to move everything out to paint. I spent 20 minutes looking for a tiny screwdriver for my broken towel rack, and then just fell horizontally onto the couch. The lead weight won. Remote in hand, I succumbed to an hour of zoning out. And the shittier the television, the more relaxed I felt.
That's when my inner monologue started a little chant:
Just 35 more minutes of watching Lifetime, and then you need to go buy vaccuum bags.
Ok. 20 more minutes of Lifetime to find out if fat, balding Freddie Prince, Jr. chases the girl after discovering she has Cystic Fibrosis, and then you really need to shower so that you can go to Longmont and buy vacuum bags.
Good girl! You showered and dried your hair! (Ignoring the fact that I stood in the shower for 30 minutes on autopilot without remembering to reach for the soap, shampoo, or conditioner. But these are minor details. Tepid running water is still good for you.) Now you have to put on clothes so you can Go. To. Buy. Vacuum. Hey-- what happened to the Cystic Fibrosis story, and what is Meryl Streep doing on this channel?
Thad called to invite me to a late lunch, and things were going fine until my voice cracked halfway through "I'm not sure". Naturally, it seemed appropriate to keep applying mascara to my upper lashes as I stood in my living room crying, with the sun streaming through and illuminating the brilliant chrome sheen of my ancient, heavy, bag-less vacuum (size A. Circa 1935.)
This is what we call a domestic Saturday. Washing my blue bandanna so I can wear it when I mop the floors tomorrow. Trying to apply mascara to the fat tears brimming under my lashes as Lifetime churns out one more cliched line after the next. (Uma Thurman to love interest: So, how long have you two been dating? Girl next to love interest: (falls silent) Love interest: Dating? I wouldn't call it that. I mean.... Uma Thurman: But you're together? Love interest: I don't think I like defining what we are. Girl next to love interest (blushes and looks like she's about to cry) Jane: (gouges mascara wand into her eye and curses the extra 10 minutes this will cost as she tries to get out of the house and away from the nefarious evils of television geared toward weepy single women)
Off to find socks.
To wear with the bright pink sneakers.
And the hideous sunglasses with rhinestones.
Must go find vacuum bags.
Today is a memoir moment day.
Not a chapter, but a moment.
Woke up after a very strange dream about living in Paris with a friend from Longmont and a bunch of mean, beautiful girls my age-- one of whom had started a list of who was most popular in the house, and I was very relieved to have been listed in the middle... forgotten and out of the line of fire.
Looked at my clock, decided that 8:50 was a glorious time to get up on a Saturday... started to sit up, couldn't move. I did a systems check... still felt cheerfully shitty from the general shittiness that comes with being sick, but something else was wrong.
It felt like I'd swallowed a lead weight, and it had gotten stuck in my chest.
I really barely felt like I could move.
So I hung out for a while, just watching the branches of my tree bed and the crack of light that had snuck in under my blinds. I practiced breathing like we do with the foster kids... we put a stuffed animal on their tummy and teach them how breathing deeply makes the animal go up high and then down very low.
In, out. The lead weight stayed. My legs and arms moved fine, but I felt pinned to my mattress like an exotic beetle in a shadow box.
Half an hour passed... I managed to get up and start my day, but the lead weight stayed. I felt awful. Totally zapped of energy, of cheerfulness... I felt like anybody but myself. Very low. Fuzzy, like I was underwater.
Had a glass of juice and started cleaning the kitchen. Then moved to the living room before getting overwhelmed... my apartment's still a war zone after I had to move everything out to paint. I spent 20 minutes looking for a tiny screwdriver for my broken towel rack, and then just fell horizontally onto the couch. The lead weight won. Remote in hand, I succumbed to an hour of zoning out. And the shittier the television, the more relaxed I felt.
That's when my inner monologue started a little chant:
Just 35 more minutes of watching Lifetime, and then you need to go buy vaccuum bags.
Ok. 20 more minutes of Lifetime to find out if fat, balding Freddie Prince, Jr. chases the girl after discovering she has Cystic Fibrosis, and then you really need to shower so that you can go to Longmont and buy vacuum bags.
Good girl! You showered and dried your hair! (Ignoring the fact that I stood in the shower for 30 minutes on autopilot without remembering to reach for the soap, shampoo, or conditioner. But these are minor details. Tepid running water is still good for you.) Now you have to put on clothes so you can Go. To. Buy. Vacuum. Hey-- what happened to the Cystic Fibrosis story, and what is Meryl Streep doing on this channel?
Thad called to invite me to a late lunch, and things were going fine until my voice cracked halfway through "I'm not sure". Naturally, it seemed appropriate to keep applying mascara to my upper lashes as I stood in my living room crying, with the sun streaming through and illuminating the brilliant chrome sheen of my ancient, heavy, bag-less vacuum (size A. Circa 1935.)
This is what we call a domestic Saturday. Washing my blue bandanna so I can wear it when I mop the floors tomorrow. Trying to apply mascara to the fat tears brimming under my lashes as Lifetime churns out one more cliched line after the next. (Uma Thurman to love interest: So, how long have you two been dating? Girl next to love interest: (falls silent)
Off to find socks.
To wear with the bright pink sneakers.
And the hideous sunglasses with rhinestones.
Must go find vacuum bags.
posted by JustJane at
1:13 PM
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