How Long Can You Make Thanksgiving Gravy Last?
Long. Through the weekend and hopefully the first couple days of the work week. I'm on a steady diet of turkey gravy and white rice, and it has been heaven. Accordingly, each new serving tastes less appetizing than the last, which will properly wean me from the delicacy. Turkey is fabulous the day of, and every day after that, that strange, distinct, strong poultry flavor becomes ever so nauseating with the next bite. I have nearly depleted my ration of gravy, brought from the Forrest residence, but the timing is perfect because it will not spoil my experience for next year.
I've had day after day of doing nothing. I carry it around like a secret. In conversations with others, I present myself as a dutiful, responsible girl who is always on the go. The only thing I am always on is the couch.
I'm going to the mall today. I'm excited; I'm going to fill a large purse with rocks to hit other shoppers with when they get in my way.
Bedtime
I get so many phone calls a day that it's irritating. At the end of each night, I usually cannot recount all the people I have spoken with throughout the day. So it's weird that I'm about to go to bed feeling very lonely.
Waiting for Damon
The girl wondered why they had chosen to sit outside. The wind was sharp and sort of blew up the hem of her skirt, which she was constantly adjusting. At least it felt that way; maybe she was just nervous. It was the kind of first date where she became overly cautious of every minor detail.
She didn't really know where to look -- when she looked at him, he averted her gaze, and when she looked at her sandwich, she felt that she was rude. She wondered for a second why he didn't want to look at her. She had always fantasized that in those types of situations, her gentleman companion would be so captivated that he couldn't keep his eyes off of her.
But he had no trouble keeping them off, chatting idly about the goings on of his very perfect life. She sensed that they had a lot in common and should be getting on nicely, and so the flat conversation puzzled her. Might as well get personal? she thought, and threw out of left field, "So why don't you have a girlfriend?"
He answered easily, placidly, revealing that he did indeed have one and they had recently split up. It had been a long-term thing and they were on a break. She studied his face for reactions and expressions, looking to elaborate his story on her own. No remorse. No doubt. Not even any sheepishness for basically admitting that this date here was to help him sow his wild oats.
She regretted having asked him. The sense of casualness had dissipated, as neither one of them knew if one should probe a little more or if the other should volunteer a little more. He threw the question back at her, a little disinterested. "How about you, why don't you have a boyfriend?"
She realized that she had no prepared answer. It was another moment she had fantasized about before, a chance to be saucy and vixenish. And yet, in reality it was only awkward.
She laughed, wondering if she sounded nervous, or cynical, or both. "I don't know," she answered earnestly, "I guess that's the million-dollar question." She thought about saying that she was picky, but already knew the consequences of that cliche -- being read as high-maintenance or melodramatic.
There was no sunshine, and the wind had subsided. Everything around her suddenly looked very still and she stared ahead as if she were looking into a blankness that was her soul. She realized then that she could not really share the true answer to his question. That there was heartbreak in her past, which never quite healed. That there were feelings that were only buried, not gone. That dating, and all of this, was now incredibly silly next to this heaviness in her heart.
Both of their glasses were empty. One of them fidgeted and the noise of the chair scraping signalled an end to the lunch. "Shall we go?"
"Yes," she said, "Let's go."
Return to the Land of the Living
How good would life be, if you could have a wonderful, spacious house with plenty of natural lighting, an open kitchen with a large gas range, and a set of very good cookware? Then you could just cook delicious foods all day long, enjoying the changing aromas that drift all day long, and as the day progresses you bask in the different kinds of light coming through the windows?
This is how I perceive real life, and I'm very happy today that I am back into it. I think I am almost fully recovered now. Proof of that was a long overdue visit to the gym. To just have the energy to go through the streets and the good mood to enjoy it all, really helps a person value their health and understand what a difference physical well-being makes. What this really means to me is that the next time I am out sick, I will stop feeling so defeated and pessimistic, and just let nature take its course. What they say is true. If you really are sick, just take the time out to relax and veg. It's really no use trying to resume your normal life because you would not enjoy it anyway. It's best to live your life when you're able to enjoy it.
So, things are resuming normalcy: I've got my afternoon cooking shows going and 3 kinds of beverages on the coffee table at my disposal. It isn't odd to me at all that I am drinking a glass of chocolate soy milk, a double iced mocha, and a Pellegrino all at the same time. It is my return to the land of the living!
Paper Roses and Red Wine
Nice things happen, when you least expect it. I have been a sourpuss all week because of this crippling cold. I'm the kind of wimpy sick person, that, despite a mental good-faith effort to beat the damn thing, nevertheless ends up feeling dejected and defeated. All week I have been in a bad mood because I hated that inevitable combination of knowing that you're wasting precious time recuperating and yet you feel too shitty to buckle down and get work done in spite of your condition. People didn't believe me when I said I had jet lag, and already people have raised eyebrows at the fact that my cold lasted beyond 3 days. Well, for you cynics, I just want to say 1) I do not feel that I have to defend my sick state to anybody, and 2) I do not have the best of immune systems, especially when it comes to my stomach and my respiratory system, since I had a severely bad respiratory infection back in 2000. That lingered for many months before I finally saw a doctor and got the proper antibiotics. So much for the Chinese insurance plan: "No doctors until you start hacking up organs."
But tonight, Natalia made a last-minute plea for me to play wing woman, and I very reluctantly complied. She didn't exactly coerce me; I will say that wheedling and indeed basic persuasion were involved, but ultimately it was me sensing that this was very important to her that finally made me throw in the towel. She was full of disclaimers like, "You don't have to go if you don't want to" and "Don't worry about me, I can just take a cab home" but you know those phrases have entirely the opposite effect. I dressed simply, without my usual concern for the fabulous, and very resignedly made my way to her house, and then downtown. We ended up at The Field, which has been a pleasant surprise for the second time in as many days.
I did not expect to feel so flattered or receive so much positive attention, especially when I felt that I was appearing in public at 75% health and 25% energy. I suppose I was not exactly inconspicuous in my temperament, because the manager, a very nice gentleman named Richard, promptly made me a rose out of a napkin and handed it to me, saying, "You're the prettiest girl in this bar, so please stop looking so sad!"
I did feel guilty at that moment. After all, if you make a decision to go out, then you should certainly put your best face forward. The last thing that the manager wants are scowls decorating his festive establishment. Pleased by his compliment, encouraged by a simple biodegradable gift, I made a concerted effort to brighten up.
The rest of the night involved being fatally bored by Natalia's friend's wing man's hopeless conversation. I forgot his name, so I hope he forgot mine and does not have the good sense to ever find this and read this. But Richard came again to the rescue when he brought two glasses of Cab over later on, and playfully called our company, "Lucky bastards."
Overall, it's a very pleasurable feeling indeed to know that you can sometimes go out there, the one time you're being yourself, the one time you have no intention whatsoever to try, and you can reap more than when you're "in character." Once in awhile, it's nice to remember what simple and sincere really mean.
Boo Hoo Hoo!
I've been sick. I'm bitter, too, because I know where I got it. I saw Phantom of the Opera with my parents over the weekend (which was amazing) and the bitch I was seated next to hacked away for all of Act One. I'm talking about that really resonant, guttural cough; the kind where you can totally visualize all of the germs swarming about her throat. For which you'd invite Disney to animate another Fantasia. I remember squirming in my seat, as if moving infinitessimally to your right can effect a difference in your already doomed trip to the sickbed. My beef with this girl is twofold: 1) that, in said condition, she should not have brought herself to a theater to infect a score of healthy patrons, and 2) that she should have kept her dank shoes on during Act Two! I mean, goodness, who
are these people? Is all decency lost? Bad enough that people are inconsiderate enough to brazenly go in public as one large, nasty germ; and inscrutable that they would expose their feet at the Ahmanson Theater.
I couldn't even taste Spam today. It's that bad.
Boo!
Happy Halloween, everybody!
(after the fact)
