Mrs Figby

Alternate reality

Today, my first day of leeeeeeeisure, I went to the mall.  Damn, that was fun.  I haven't been to the mall on a weekday in like seven months.  It was empty, too, except for the mob wives with weirdly stretched and plumped faces dropping big lettuce at Neiman Marcus--and they're always entertaining to watch.  (And a little scary.) (Like animals at the zoo.)    But I DID get a glorious rain trench for Paris.  I have no idea whether it will rain while I'm there, but it may be a tad chilly at times, and I really needed a lightweight trench anyway, and it has some fashion-y but not too trendy details, and it's a gorgeous shade of silver-gray.  Sooo pretteh.  It'll be adorable over absolutely everything.  Plus you can wad it up in it's own little bag and it still looks great.  And it's machine-washable.  How practical is that?  (Do I sound like I'm justifying?  Maybe a little.  I didn't buy it at H&M.)

One thing I do regret from my little excursion is that I wore my pink Prada sandals.  They are platform wedges, but very high ones, and so my feet slide forward and get all squashed into the toe-area straps.  (WHY must I ALWAYS wear agonizing heels to the mall?  I ask you.)  But see, they haven't been out of their box since last September, and when I removed the lid, a beam of light shone out and a chorus of angels began to sing.  It was glorious and spiritual moment, and justified the pain.  Until I forgot what floor in the garage my car was on and had to do a lot of extra walking up and down stairs.  And then I had to go straight to Apples' school to pick her up and pretend I wasn't limping so the other parents wouldn't know what a dork I am.

In other news, my afternoon/evening plans to nap, then eat bon-bons and read fashion glossies while some muscle-y young stud paints my toenails were totally thwarted by the fact that 1. D has to work late, leaving me in charge of childcare (like I'm somebody's MOTHER or something, GOD), and 2. Apples has swimming tonight and I have to take her.  Sigh. 

Perhaps tomorrow.

(And also tomorrow, Hypochondriac Friday wherein I am dying of some rare Congo fever!  And how I might end up with a prosthetic earlobe!)

Public Service Announcement No. 17-ish

When running on the treadmill, one should remember that whilst one's earbud cord is run from one's ears, down inside one's shirt, and then across to the little book holder on one's treadmill where the iPod is resting, playing air guitar could result in crashing noises and cursing.

Also, it's always a good idea to keep a protective cover on one's iPod. 

Heh.

BOO-yah!

After three full days sweating over a hot laptop, I have FINISHED THE GODDAMNED REVIEW.  Sweet Jesus, does it ever feel good.  And with that review, I have completed the academic requirements for my Master's degree in Fine Arts.  (Assuming that I pass my last class, that is, and that my thesis is acceptable, but since I'm currently carrying something like a 3.99 GPA, and my work this semester is the highest quality I've produced yet, I'm assuming it's all good.)  Oh my God.  Three years.  Agony.  Self-doubt.  A LOT of self-doubt.  A whole year off, thinking I would never go back.  Making an ASS out of myself, publicly, at every last residency, sometimes twice.  Except for the last one, actually, which I still can't believe I dodged that bullet.  And I've done it.  I can't even tell you how totally relieved and proud and GLORIOUS I feel tonight.  We're celebrating, let me tell you.  I even made D read my review, which believe me is not his cup of tea.  He gamely got through the whole thing, though, and then said, "You obviously put a lot of thought into that."  Hee!  In sickness and in health, people, and that includes dry academic material.  (Not that I read his thesis, lo those many years ago, but come on--it was engineering, for God's sake.)

Anyway, we went out to dinner and Weight Watchers went out the window (again.  shut up.)  and I now I'm gestating a food baby.  Ugh.

So now I have a couple weeks off, and then I get to start my elective teaching class that goes over the summer.  Because it would be nice to get a teaching job somewhere totally not impressive (because I don't want to have to be stressed out about it) at some point.  And because I learned these past two weeks during Brainiac and Zen's poetry units at school that I'm pretty good at teaching poetry, even with poems I've never laid eyes on before, and even with completely poetry-clueless, totally unmotivated, sullen 15-year-olds.  So that's encouraging.  Obviously I've learned some major shit during this MFA, although I still get confused about what objective correlative really means.  I mean, how is it different from metaphor?  That it only refers to something Big like emotion?  I don't know.  Ah well, that's what Google is for, right?  Also, it's occurring to me that this post probably belongs on my poetry blog, not here.

Man.  What am I going to do with all my extra time?  The mind boggles.

I need a nap

Wow, I feel a little burned out.  But!  I'm more than halfway through the Dreaded Review, and the rest is in my head, so there's light at the end of that tunnel. 

Oh my God.  D just put on a pair of white Chuck Taylors with his work clothes and then hoicked his khakis up to his armpits, giving himself a wicked case of moose-knuckle.  Then he said that when the pizza guy comes, he's going to answer the door like that.  (Why, God?  WHY?)

And Weight Watchers is going fine. JUST FINE.  Pizza guy notwithstanding.  It's just that PMS week is hard to get through, you know?  Without extra food?  That's greasy?  Or contains chocolate and refined white sugar?  DON'T JUDGE ME.

Oh hi.  Welcome to my stream-of-consciousness.

So my mother continues with her passively suicidal behavior.  She doesn't use her walker, and therefore ends up falling and in the ER constantly, she massively understates her issues and therefore does not get appropriate medical help, she doesn't wear her Life Alert button, and she skips medical appointments and tests.  Oh yeah, and she smokes, drinks, takes pills, and seems to think eating is optional.  I've been EXTREMELY FRUSTRATED because I keep thinking I need to fix this.  I have this idea in my head that it's my responsibility to Make It All Better.  Today my therapist reasonably pointed out that perhaps I  need to accept the fact that she's got a death wish and, short of moving in with her and watching her 24/7, there's not a whole lot I can do about it.  I can only do what I can do, you know?   Wow.  What a revelation.  I can't fix it if she thwarts me at every turn, and that's okay.  (Stuart Smalley!  I'm your biggest fan!)

Done, yet not done

My thesis is due this week, and yesterday I printed out a final, clean copy with all i's dotted and t's crossed and clipped it together with my "Request To Be Done, Please Jesus Let It Be Over" form, or whatever it's called, and slipped it into a clean manila envelope, which immediately tore from the binder clip holding the damn thing together.

(Sigh.)

Then I let it sit on the little round table in my front hallway all day today instead of taking it to the P.O. and putting it into a nice, sturdy Priority Mail envelope and mailing it off.

Meanwhile, I still have a 12-page review to write before Friday, which I'm sure you all know because I've mentioned it about 54,397 times.  I mention it repeatedly as a way to keep the demons away.  It's sort of a superstitious thing.  So I spent the weekend cleaning the house and doing laundry in blatant procrastination.  And yesterday was Mother's Day of course, so it would have been illegal for me to work on the review.  Although, the day ended up in a soul-crushing maelstrom of teenaged angst and rage on the part of Brainiac, so I would have just as soon skipped the whole day.  The good parts of the day:

1.  D getting up and making coffee, perfectly timed for my natural awakening.

2.  Presents!  Apples gave me a card (which the day before she had asked for paper to make a card and then vehemently said, "BUT IT'S NOT A CARD FOR YOU, MOMMY" then gave D a wink and a thumbs-up) and a painting she made at school.  "The boys" got me a gift card for a massage and facial at the local spa.  The quotes are because D both thought of and paid for it and my loving sons couldn't be bothered to even sign a card, the little ingrates.  (Seriously, though, I know they love me.) (Most of the time.)  And lastly, D gave me a skirt and top from Banana Republic.

3.  The trip to the mall to exchange the skirt and top, which were designed for a body other than mine.  This was great fun, as I've been on shopping hiatus for what seems like months, so this was my first mall trip in FOREVER.  I got a few things for spring, including something to wear to Paris.  And I tried on a fashiony blue Burberry trench that would be THE BOMB in Paris and I would look soooo chic and fashionable, but it's Big Bucks (not Huge bucks, but Big bucks), so I came home without it.  I've been visiting it online, though.  Every time I do, it cries for me and holds out its arms.  Its floppy, empty arms.  It needs me, to complete it.

4.  The trip out to dinner with two of my three children (the eldest having been left at home because of his FOUL demeanor -- and I wasn't sorry we'd left him when I saw him flip us off out the window as we drove off) during which we made up blues lyrics.  One of the songs had to do with Santa wearing a red Speedo in the Southern Hemisphere where it's summer at Christmas.  Also, I was so stressed by Brainiac's unusually horrid behavior that I fell off the wagon and ate deep dish apple pie with ice cream.  Thus, I didn't lose any weight on Weight Watcher's last week.

Today it's rainy and Brainiac is in a better mood, but I'm in a foul mood instead.  And I feel like I spent the ENTIRE DAY coaching both him and his brother through their various poetry assignments for school, and while I usually enjoy teaching poetry to anyone who will listen, I'm a little burned out.  Also, the specter of my review pokes me in the ass every time I stand up.