Our heroine bikes to work 4 out of 5 days a week. (She's like a dentist recommending Trident.)
On the 5th day -- on her Day of Rest -- she takes the bus.
But the bus, for some odd reason, provides her with more than just amusement. And today, of all days, she was able to end her Novel, her Tomb, her Unfinished 600 page Behemoth that she's been working on for the past 2.5 years, from a conversation she happened to overhear.
Now begins the editing and re-editing and doubting and self-doubting and hand wringing.
And then....?
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Whereupon Our Heroine Has Good Karma
Our heroine went to the doctor's office this morning for a shot (poor dear), which meant she was on a much less crowded bus when she finally traveled to the pier. For 3 stops, she had a seat.
Bliss, she thought. This is great.
She thought too soon. At the 4th stop, a church-going woman from a landlocked state got on, and our heroine quickly stood up.
"People here are so nice," the woman said, and our heroine muttered that it wasn't a big deal.
For the rest of the bus ride, she cradled her new book (Sabriel) in her elbow.
But for the rest of the day, our heroine experienced a series of most fortunate events.
For example, she called a literary agency in New York, and spoke to someone from high school. She ate a chocolate fudge sundae in Park Ridge (which came with two cherries.) Her name appeared in the local paper, and a magazine (with Mayan Ruins, like Legends of the Hidden Temple.) She received lovely emails, and discussed Harry Potter. She biked. She laughed at work. She laughed at home. Her roommate gave her a cupcake. She fed her cats catnip, and they were happy, too. She received a list of books about Chicago, and researched a gigantic flood. Even her sheets were freshly laundered, which she loved.
Yes, when she stood on the bus, she did not know it was the trigger for these events. In fact, she was sure it wasn't. But it was nice, nonetheless, to have good things happen all at once -- a veritable flood of good things, which she didn't want systems engineers to plug with fast-drying concrete.
Bliss, she thought. This is great.
She thought too soon. At the 4th stop, a church-going woman from a landlocked state got on, and our heroine quickly stood up.
"People here are so nice," the woman said, and our heroine muttered that it wasn't a big deal.
For the rest of the bus ride, she cradled her new book (Sabriel) in her elbow.
But for the rest of the day, our heroine experienced a series of most fortunate events.
For example, she called a literary agency in New York, and spoke to someone from high school. She ate a chocolate fudge sundae in Park Ridge (which came with two cherries.) Her name appeared in the local paper, and a magazine (with Mayan Ruins, like Legends of the Hidden Temple.) She received lovely emails, and discussed Harry Potter. She biked. She laughed at work. She laughed at home. Her roommate gave her a cupcake. She fed her cats catnip, and they were happy, too. She received a list of books about Chicago, and researched a gigantic flood. Even her sheets were freshly laundered, which she loved.
Yes, when she stood on the bus, she did not know it was the trigger for these events. In fact, she was sure it wasn't. But it was nice, nonetheless, to have good things happen all at once -- a veritable flood of good things, which she didn't want systems engineers to plug with fast-drying concrete.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Accio Aloe!
Our heroine ventured north on Saturday morning with a beaded bag containing her tent, various flasks and potions, pumpkin juice, three house-elves, and a rainbow bandana once belonging to Ravina Ravenclaw's dykey cousin.
Not in her bag? Sunscreen, one of three known deathly hallows (the other two being her Celine Dion boxed set and her Foucault earrings.) Accio sunscreen! she yelled.
Nothing.
She knew The Dark Lord had placed various spells and enchantments on her SPF30. And the word Walgreens, she suspected, was now being used to Mark those in the Order.
She'd go without, and attempt some protective skin charms.
Three minutes later, her protective charms wore off, and she thought she could sense Skin Burners in the area. But she remained on the beach for two more hours (!!) while she planned how she would rescue Celine Dion from Las Vegas.
She shivered, and felt cold, and warm, and cold -- as if she could no longer regulate her own body temperature -- and she knew at once, that they were there. Skin Burners, three of them emerging from under an Invisibility Cloak. Her legs felt as if they were being seared by a waffle iron ready to make butterbeer-flavored hotcakes. Her shoulders glistened. Her back -- normally covered by a t-shirt, but exposed for mere minutes in the sun -- was already red, and blotchy.
"Expecto Patronus!" she yelled, and her Patronus -- a cicada from the XVII brood -- swooped into the Skin Burners and carried them away. But it was too late.
Our heroine Disapperated back to Andersonville and checked her skin. Accio Aloe, she said, desparately, and the aloe zipped into her hands. She slathered it onto her body with the fury of ten thousand Blasted-Eye Newts. It immediately soothed her skin, and she vowed to continue her hunt for sunscreen, even if that meant she had to return to Walgreens, where anyone could be waiting.
Not in her bag? Sunscreen, one of three known deathly hallows (the other two being her Celine Dion boxed set and her Foucault earrings.) Accio sunscreen! she yelled.
Nothing.
She knew The Dark Lord had placed various spells and enchantments on her SPF30. And the word Walgreens, she suspected, was now being used to Mark those in the Order.
She'd go without, and attempt some protective skin charms.
Three minutes later, her protective charms wore off, and she thought she could sense Skin Burners in the area. But she remained on the beach for two more hours (!!) while she planned how she would rescue Celine Dion from Las Vegas.
She shivered, and felt cold, and warm, and cold -- as if she could no longer regulate her own body temperature -- and she knew at once, that they were there. Skin Burners, three of them emerging from under an Invisibility Cloak. Her legs felt as if they were being seared by a waffle iron ready to make butterbeer-flavored hotcakes. Her shoulders glistened. Her back -- normally covered by a t-shirt, but exposed for mere minutes in the sun -- was already red, and blotchy.
"Expecto Patronus!" she yelled, and her Patronus -- a cicada from the XVII brood -- swooped into the Skin Burners and carried them away. But it was too late.
Our heroine Disapperated back to Andersonville and checked her skin. Accio Aloe, she said, desparately, and the aloe zipped into her hands. She slathered it onto her body with the fury of ten thousand Blasted-Eye Newts. It immediately soothed her skin, and she vowed to continue her hunt for sunscreen, even if that meant she had to return to Walgreens, where anyone could be waiting.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Whereupon Our Heroine Should Have Taken a Bike To Work
A coup! An empty bus, which she gratefully entered. She never got a seat in the morning. Ever.
To sit, perchance to read Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix without having to turn the pages with her elbow.
She sat.
The bus stopped. The lights went out. The bus restarted. 15 feet later, Stopped. Started. Another 15 feet. Stopped. Started. 10 Feet. Stopped. Started. 5 feet. Stopped. She decided to get off.
The bus driver couldn't get the doors open. The passengers (there were 7) were irate.
"Let us off. We'll take another bus!" one screamed.
"The doors won't open with the power off," the bus driver yelled back.
Our heroine couldn't believe her misfortune. Only 3 minutes earlier, she couldn't believe her good fortune.
She felt cheated.
She sat for 10 minutes. Finally, the doors opened. She ran off, to catch another bus.
The bus came. It smirked at her, in the way only buses can -- and our heroine jumped on, wedged herself in the aisle, and started reading Harry Potter -- now also wedged, in the crook of her elbow.
To sit, perchance to read Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix without having to turn the pages with her elbow.
She sat.
The bus stopped. The lights went out. The bus restarted. 15 feet later, Stopped. Started. Another 15 feet. Stopped. Started. 10 Feet. Stopped. Started. 5 feet. Stopped. She decided to get off.
The bus driver couldn't get the doors open. The passengers (there were 7) were irate.
"Let us off. We'll take another bus!" one screamed.
"The doors won't open with the power off," the bus driver yelled back.
Our heroine couldn't believe her misfortune. Only 3 minutes earlier, she couldn't believe her good fortune.
She felt cheated.
She sat for 10 minutes. Finally, the doors opened. She ran off, to catch another bus.
The bus came. It smirked at her, in the way only buses can -- and our heroine jumped on, wedged herself in the aisle, and started reading Harry Potter -- now also wedged, in the crook of her elbow.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Whereupon our Heroine Entertains a Bus (Twice) (Accidentally)
1. This morning, the 147 was more crowded than Paris Hilton's (redacted.)
So crowded, that people began to complain loudly that the bus driver was a sadist. That he enjoyed torturing morning commuters. That He Who Must Drive The Bus could not possibly love, which differentiates him from Harry Potter, who can love and emote and feel.
Our heroine was -- she admits -- not completely sure if the Bus Driver could emote, because she was smooshed in the back of the bus. Her bag dug into a grandmother. Her backside was possibly being groped by another individual. To her immediate right was a man who was massaging his hand. She didn't ask why.
Instead, midway through the ride, she lost her balance and toppled into hand-man, who toppled into Woman Reading Chick Lit, who stumbled and fell into the lap of a large man listening to (Donny Osmond? Proust on Tape? Common?) his iPod.
Our heroine turned red. She started blushing. She panicked. She apologized profusely. She apologized profoundly. She apologized for apologizing.
She left the bus, not looking at hand-man, or Chicklit, or Possibly Proust -- and made her way to work.
2. On the way home, someone asked if she worked for a certain company, based on the logo on her bag.
She spent the next 40 minutes convincing a busload of strangers to attend a show the following evening. The bus people became friends, and decided to sit together. Our heroine felt like she was playing the role of matchmaker, and started humming Fiddler on the Roof, at which point she received stares, and stopped.
So crowded, that people began to complain loudly that the bus driver was a sadist. That he enjoyed torturing morning commuters. That He Who Must Drive The Bus could not possibly love, which differentiates him from Harry Potter, who can love and emote and feel.
Our heroine was -- she admits -- not completely sure if the Bus Driver could emote, because she was smooshed in the back of the bus. Her bag dug into a grandmother. Her backside was possibly being groped by another individual. To her immediate right was a man who was massaging his hand. She didn't ask why.
Instead, midway through the ride, she lost her balance and toppled into hand-man, who toppled into Woman Reading Chick Lit, who stumbled and fell into the lap of a large man listening to (Donny Osmond? Proust on Tape? Common?) his iPod.
Our heroine turned red. She started blushing. She panicked. She apologized profusely. She apologized profoundly. She apologized for apologizing.
She left the bus, not looking at hand-man, or Chicklit, or Possibly Proust -- and made her way to work.
2. On the way home, someone asked if she worked for a certain company, based on the logo on her bag.
She spent the next 40 minutes convincing a busload of strangers to attend a show the following evening. The bus people became friends, and decided to sit together. Our heroine felt like she was playing the role of matchmaker, and started humming Fiddler on the Roof, at which point she received stares, and stopped.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
How Our Heroine Accidentally Joined an Older Women Feminist Book Group
When we last left her, our flummoxed heroine was eating a Swiss chocolate bar and struggling to find her niche in her Second City (or seventh, but who's counting?)
She biked to work. She biked back. Her thighs, which once felt as if they were simmering in a large cauldron of bubonic plague and broken glass during these daily rides, were taut. They no longer ached when she saw a bike. They no longer jiggled when she jumped rope. On some level, this was upsetting to her. It was like losing a good friend, after the friend was there during thick and thin (but mainly thick.) It was like distancing herself, somewhat willingly, from a decent-sized portion of her body mass.
(She would be upset, after all, to lose a finger or toe. She saw losing her jiggly thighs as no different, except -- she supposed -- in swimwear, where a missing toe doesn't require additional coverup garments.)
(If she somehow were to survive a South American plane crash with members of her record-breaking national soccer team, they might not choose to eat her first.)
One of her first tasks upon arriving in Chicago some time ago was to find and summarily inspect her independent neighborhood bookstore, Women and Children First. Having once been a child, our heroine felt fairly comfortable entering the establishment (And besides, she was sporting -- not the right word? -- the various appendages necessarily to qualify as a member of the fairer sex.)
Upon entering, she found, next to the latest edition of Our Bodies Ourselves, lists of book clubs, and seeing one that met on the night she was free (Tuesdays), she promptly bought the book and joined.
When she showed up, she figured the people there were old because old people always arrive early (see Fiorenzo et al. 1999) She was wrong. She actually joined a book group where everyone was old.
The End.
She biked to work. She biked back. Her thighs, which once felt as if they were simmering in a large cauldron of bubonic plague and broken glass during these daily rides, were taut. They no longer ached when she saw a bike. They no longer jiggled when she jumped rope. On some level, this was upsetting to her. It was like losing a good friend, after the friend was there during thick and thin (but mainly thick.) It was like distancing herself, somewhat willingly, from a decent-sized portion of her body mass.
(She would be upset, after all, to lose a finger or toe. She saw losing her jiggly thighs as no different, except -- she supposed -- in swimwear, where a missing toe doesn't require additional coverup garments.)
(If she somehow were to survive a South American plane crash with members of her record-breaking national soccer team, they might not choose to eat her first.)
One of her first tasks upon arriving in Chicago some time ago was to find and summarily inspect her independent neighborhood bookstore, Women and Children First. Having once been a child, our heroine felt fairly comfortable entering the establishment (And besides, she was sporting -- not the right word? -- the various appendages necessarily to qualify as a member of the fairer sex.)
Upon entering, she found, next to the latest edition of Our Bodies Ourselves, lists of book clubs, and seeing one that met on the night she was free (Tuesdays), she promptly bought the book and joined.
When she showed up, she figured the people there were old because old people always arrive early (see Fiorenzo et al. 1999) She was wrong. She actually joined a book group where everyone was old.
The End.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Your Mom is a Whorecrux
I. In Which Our Heroine Decides Not To Bike To Work Today
And with good reason, having spent the majority of yesterday squatting 6 inches off the ground in order to hammer tiny nail slivers into poorly constructed Swedish plywood.
The result? A purple thumb, hamstring malfunctions, and an uncontrollable twitch every time she sees an Allen wrench.
II. In Which Our Heroine Eats Two Chocolate Bars in One Evening.
Cheaper than therapy, though therapy doesn't often result in replacing your entire Slim Fit jeans collection with XXL wide-ass sweatpants. (Except when you do aversion therapy, and you're averse to being force fed.)
III. In Which Our Heroine Goes to Many Activities In Which To Meet Like-Minded Souls
Ganache? Bikram? Films Without Words? Films With Words? Filmmakers? A Feeltank? Senior Citizens Discussing Woolf? Senior citizens discussing food? Mousetraps? Stories and wine? Science and wine? Stories and themes? Stories and Viewfinders? Music? Chef training? Volunteering? Hula-hooping? And of course, the biking and frisbee....
She looks up. There's a metal object on the floor. It's L-shaped. Tiny. Twitch. Twitch.
And with good reason, having spent the majority of yesterday squatting 6 inches off the ground in order to hammer tiny nail slivers into poorly constructed Swedish plywood.
The result? A purple thumb, hamstring malfunctions, and an uncontrollable twitch every time she sees an Allen wrench.
II. In Which Our Heroine Eats Two Chocolate Bars in One Evening.
Cheaper than therapy, though therapy doesn't often result in replacing your entire Slim Fit jeans collection with XXL wide-ass sweatpants. (Except when you do aversion therapy, and you're averse to being force fed.)
III. In Which Our Heroine Goes to Many Activities In Which To Meet Like-Minded Souls
Ganache? Bikram? Films Without Words? Films With Words? Filmmakers? A Feeltank? Senior Citizens Discussing Woolf? Senior citizens discussing food? Mousetraps? Stories and wine? Science and wine? Stories and themes? Stories and Viewfinders? Music? Chef training? Volunteering? Hula-hooping? And of course, the biking and frisbee....
She looks up. There's a metal object on the floor. It's L-shaped. Tiny. Twitch. Twitch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)