Spread

As it is gay and chaotic.

Why does it make me happy that, according to my blog stats, somebody translated the "I'm an aunt" category of Spread into Russian? Even more fun: translating it back into English. For example, this: Anecdote from four years. Georgia does indicate that yesterday, that one boots to say, in another foot-wear? "I speak: "What?" She speaks: "Give to be removed hence!" "Good, dear."

 

Or this: During the first training day was long, although my night class it did not go on wholes three and one-half of hour. On Mondays they will be rough to me for a while. But this first Monday transported, since I obtained the pair of hours during the day to my nieces. Here video I made randomly, when I thought that survey. Never forget, that. I cannot send video. But here is the shorthand record of this video: Georgia [after arriving into the camera with the chalk]: teacher will be everything confused. To me, I know.

 

Or this: It returned to another room in order to find the large of "G" all [zalyapany] and thick tomcat on its way to the basin. I said to it, he does not help and it thought about obtaining of paint from the cat fur, but only for the minute, until I sees my own sweater hem covered with red. I so am bad on the crafts, which are not connected with yarn. (Pardoning the Middle Ages. You can make unpleasant things, but this is very complicated in reality not to spoil yarn itself. Or take itself by dirty with it.)

 

Or this: I cannot wait for in order to hear them. I was g-conversation from my nieces, or as they there you call to speak through gmail of video chat room. As it is gay and chaotic. I to desire I to can catching screen to grip these small girls in the constant am happy motion. (Someone he knows, if this is possible, and as?) Of Georgia described to me history three suckling-pigs of the past at night. When I asked it, if she knew that it is more than any histories, she said, no, but I grew in order to learn more than [istorii]. You place you, dear child. She also revealed that the replacement of any random the letter, when spoke alphabet with the word of "[utka]" it was gaily ridiculous. This is truth. Try this themselves.

 

My blog's title -- Распространение – translates back into English as "Propogation." A whole meaning of "spread" I never really even considered.

I feel like a Pearl Drops ad.

I know you've been waiting for it: biannual dentist blog time.

After the cleaning, the dentist – not my usual, but my usual's husband – came into the room, sat down facing the lightbox with my x-rays and said, "What beautiful teeth!" And I was like, dude, I'm over here. Turn around, I'll even smile at you.

He also said, "I see you had braces." Which, no, I haven't. But since I didn't know what about my x-rays would have made him say that, I didn't know how to make him feel better except to admit that I *wanted* braces when I was younger. He consoled me by saying you have to wear the retainer forever afterwards anyway, so I'm lucky I didn't. But I don't think that's true, is it? And then, he told me that nobody looking at me straight on would even know that my bottom teeth are crooked, that the only angle that would give that away was if someone was looking at me from above, with my mouth wide open.

It was all very awkward. I hope his wife's back in the office next time.

Never mind.

It is so dark out. Up-way-too early dark at 6:00 p.m. I'm thrown off my game. Though my game tonight is simply to read a manuscript, so really, the lamp next to the couch takes care of everything.

The Dicks: trooper company.

Written inside the box top of my current jigsaw puzzle: "1989 – summer – John and Brenda Dick, stayed up until 1:30 to finish – never again."

The box also contained a Business Reply Card to the Consumer Affairs Department of the puzzle company with a survey on the back and the option to request a catalog. From the address, it appears to have been printed back before we started using two-letter state abbreviations, so I don't have high hopes that Battle Road Press is still located in Newton, Mass., if it exists at all, but I'm going to send it in anyway. On it, they ask for subject suggestions. And I feel so privileged now, knowing I could get a puzzle made of any dang picture I took to Walmart. I've even seen puzzles you could order where you send in your address and they make a puzzle of a satellite view of your town or house. But back in the day, no sir, you put together whatever hot-air balloon festivals or French Impressionist art you could get your hands on. Those must have been dark days.

Just wait till Thanksgiving.

My therapist is a Packers fan. I can't decide whether this makes her unqualified to offer me advice, or if she's just the kind of nemesis I've been looking for.

The magic fingers of the new millennium.

Best part of our hotel stay this weekend? Sleep Number beds. We just kept messing with them, sinking down, being pushed back up to flat. I finally settled on a sleep number of 30, 35 or so – pretty soft. Just FYI in case I visit and you want everything just right for me.

We also got room service, which my parents never let us do. Though what I'm I talking about: we camped. But it seemed a special thing to try, and new to us, so we had them send us up food and ice cream sundaes on a rolling cart so we could watch Torchwood with dinner.

And I found out the one city that actually made my girl say ok when I suggested visiting: Cardiff, Wales. Sounds like a plan to me. So I'm off to do some research.

Like a band of gypsies.

Road trip: kiddo and I are exploring Grand Rapids for the short weekend. Which means a live production of The Wizard of Oz, a library exhibit on the Renaissance medicine and science embedded in Harry Potter, maybe the contemporary art museum, some book shopping. A hotel, a swimming pool. Perhaps, if she's up for it, reading through a pile of fiction submissions? (I hope that appeals to her, to be an editor for a day.) Think sunshiny thoughts for both the weather and for us.

No see.

The worst thing about being sick for a week: not enjoying my morning coffee.

But I'm finally on the mend and will start paying attention to the world again any minute, I'm sure. Until then, here's a story from the latest PANK.

My tissues are too room temperature.

I'm home sick with a cold for the second day in a row. Although I'm getting more done here than I would at school. Today: six kajillion letters of recommendation to write. Three down already.

On a trip to Walgreens yesterday for Thera-Flu and Nyquil, I found myself drawn to the shiny metallic teal packaging of Kleenex's Cool Touch tissues, which – get this – feel cold against your nose. It's true. I never even knew this was something I wanted – a cold Kleenex?! – but it turns out to be quite pleasurable. Consider this a recommendation. Though, consider it a recommendation from a sick person who can't really taste anything or go anywhere public, so the list of things I'm enjoying today isn't terribly long to begin with.

How do you catch a kitten?

The backstory: about five years ago, Neighbor Kid built my cats a hotel out of old vacuum cleaner boxes (yes, somehow his family had more than one to contribute to the cause), with little doors and windows cut out, the three stories held together with twine. It was too big for my living room, so I put it out in the garage, and it's been there, uninhabited, ever since. Cut to this summer, when my cat Creed ran away and I put up lost-cat signs. Cut again to last weekend, when I got two phone calls asking about my lost cat, my phone number still being up at the EZ Stop. Some woman had found a black and white female, probably with kittens, living under her shed. This couldn't have been my grey boycat. I wished her the best.

Cut to yesterday, an hour before I had to go to class, when I discover (slowly, over a series of visits) that there are cats hiding out in my garage. A black and white mama and two kittens, I think. A cat family, or a clan of little Trowbridge warriors maybe. First, I just saw one wander in, and it didn't give me too much pause, since I see neighborhood cats around sometimes, but this one was little so I went to check on it. And once inside the garage, where did I find them huddled up? Seriously and literally, in Neighbor Kid's cardboard cat hotel. I'm a fiction writer, and I say, you can't make this shit up.

I've given them some food and water, and at Heikks' suggestion, some sleeping bags to keep warm in until I can catch them and take them to the Humane Society. But I can't catch them. They are fast, and not at all into me. And they can hide somewhere I can't see or reach in the garage's attic space. The littlest one kept running into things, a total spaz. I stopped chasing out of worry about damage to his tiny brain. Tips on luring them out appreciated.

But now I'm weirded out by the weekend's phone call. Was the woman saying she'd found a black-and-white cat with kittens telling me what she saw, or was she predicting my future? Was I calling myself from two days later with a heads-up? I wish she'd call again so I could pay attention to her voice, to see if she sounds like me.

Turns out it was just midnight.

Finally bought an alarm clock for my bedroom. (I usually use my iPod, but it's not always reliable – too low on power by bedtime, or the sound is off for some reason. I don't know why I'm being defensive about this. So I bought myself a $10 clock. Deal with it.) Anyway, I set it yesterday afternoon, and it was still on the coffee table next to me late last night, thinking about bed. And I looked at it, and it read "12:00," and – far too quickly pessimistic – I thought, fuck, my new clock is broken.

Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight.

I woke up this morning and all my clocks said 7:30, or thereabouts. I was confused. How could my phone and my DVR, both of which switch automatically, and my stove, which hasn't yet learned that trick, all be on board with falling back in sync? I figured it didn't really matter – I didn't have anywhere to get to at a particular time – but there's satisfaction that first day after when you get to think, "I really slept till 8:30; it's just called something different today." But then the world reminded me it was still only Saturday. 

In other news, this shadow has been appearing behind my curtains in the afternoons. I see nothing that shape outside. 

And then, I went to my EZ Stop today and the woman there asked if my man worked at the Landmark. I said what? She said, you guys have three little boys? I'm like, I do not know what you are talking about. And she said, oh, because it's always weird that you guys never come in here together. You're like ships in the night. He's here, then you're here at some completely other time. So: she thinks I'm with this guy, this dad, *because* she's never seen us in the store at the same time? She's a weird one.

Why does nobody gripe about the Zamboni monopoly?

I discovered the key to making people think you live an idyllic life. When they ask what you're doing tonight, just say, "I'm going to a hockey game with my dad." I swung by school tonight to pick up some things and had this exchange with a few different people. Each time, the person got weirdly dreamy, like it was the nicest way ever they could think of spending a Friday night. And I was happy to be going – to see my dad, to have plans, to see the game – but I hadn't considered my agenda to be particularly impressive. After all the "treasure these moments" responses and melancholy looks from the people on the hall, though, I guess it seemed a bigger deal. Part of me wanted to note that things were amiss in my life – my daughter too far away, too much work to imagine getting done, an inability to take care of my own yard – but I decided against arguing and made sure to enjoy myself.

And I did, although hockey isn't my favorite. The exciting thing can happen at any moment, without warning, so it's either all tension or no tension, depending on how much I'm paying attention. There's no storyline of driving down the field, or of being down 40-love. It feels chaotic. Though the game tonight ended in a shoot-out, which is just the part where it got good for me. Now that's a climactic moment.

Where does *this* go in my promotion app?

I shot myself in the foot by agreeing to be interviewed by a student today and making her promise not to bring a tape recorder. Because – while I will continue to take a firm stance against being recorded speaking after once seeing myself transcribed and realizing how completely incoherent I am when I talk – in a way it might have been easier than waiting for this girl to write down my responses longhand in her notebook. I kept thinking, Is it rude for me to get some other work done while she's doing that? Plus, her questions seemed culled from a generic list: "Do you work alone or with a team?" Do I write stories with a team? Hm, nope. And I can't imagine anything more miserable.

Or: "Do you ever find yourself writing in a genre you didn't expect?" Like, have I suddenly typed myself out a poem or a screenplay? Guess I'll go with no on that one too. I didn't mean to be, but I think I was terribly unhelpful to this poor freshman just trying to finish an assignment for some other class.

Maybe that last one could have come from someplace sincere, but she didn't really talk to me so much as shoot questions, and then tell me what her answers to them would have been after I replied. And when I peeked at her notes, I saw she was actually writing down everything *she* said in response to my answers, rather than what I said. So I think she probably could have written all about me without us ever having met. I could have slept in some.