Maria's Livegerbil

Glee!

Fri, 16 May 2008 18:48:07 GMT

SO getting an iPod Touch! Awesome!

Fri, 16 May 2008 14:53:14 GMT

So last night I had one of those dreams where the semester was ending and I realized I hadn't shown up for one of my classes since before midterm. Ack! Panic! What kills me is, my mom says she still has those dreams. Something to look forward to, I guess. Being 56 years old and still dreaming about exam week.

Yesterday was Senior Dinner. It was nice. Noisy, but nice. As "entertainment" each table had to do a 20-second skit advertising Marlboro. I had the fortune of sitting with Catherine O'Callaghan, who I believe I've mentioned before is sort of like God - academic advising, the go-to person for when your life is falling apart. So my table (a very shy group) left it up to me. And I stand up and say, in a real advertising-like voice, "Does your life suck?" (Laughter.) "Are you... struggling?" (More laughter.) "Are there times when you feel you could just use a little... help?" (Even more laughter.) "Then come to Marlboro College, the home of the one, the only... Catherine O'Callaghan!" (Roaring applause.) So that was fun.

I just my dad a proposal for monetary assistance in purchasing an iPod Touch. Selling point: In Krakow, I'll have to carry my computer around on the tram every time I want to use the internet. Loss! Damage! Theft! With the new iPod, I would have everything I needed in my purse - and I could leave my computer at my home and free up some packing space. Fingers crossed. I think I made a good case.

Ummm yeah. So. Today I will think about cleaning my apartment and watch TV all day instead. I'd better get to it!

As per Mark's request.

Thu, 15 May 2008 15:08:39 GMT

Riding in the Car with Anja

Anja calls; she’s home for the weekend; in twenty minutes she shows up at my house and beeps the horn. She never comes in, just leans on the horn, urgent: hurry up, let’s get out of here.

She’s driving tonight because I can’t afford the gas, and while she can’t afford it either, she likes to pretend she can. She can always charge a tank-full back to her parents anyway. The wind gusts and the rain patters and we both cringe every time the wipers squeak. It’s a cold-hearted February storm; one degree lower and it would be ice. Anja’s not thinking about where we’re going. She takes us back through Swanton, up to Lake Street, Route 36, miles of road merely feet from open, raging water. Summer cottages hover and shake while their owners are snug in Florida or maybe just Burlington.

It doesn’t take a genius to know we shouldn’t be out by the lake tonight, and that’s when I know something’s wrong. Anja has a master poker face and never tips her hand, but I’ve known her long enough to know her tell. It’s these stupid mistakes, little carelessnesses: the wrong road for the weather; her hand on a hot burner; the time she filled her car with kerosene. She never does them on purpose, but her mind is too full for common sense. I know then that she’s thinking about the hospital again.

When Anja got out you could feel her hurting – the pain filled every atom of the room and I ached for her. But when she got out she was different. She realized no one could help her, so she turned herself off, never touching anyone and never letting herself be touched. In high school I and a half dozen other geeks pined for her, because she loved to hug us. She would fawn over the piney smell of our deodorant until we thought of her every morning when we put it on. Looking back I sometimes wonder if she knew what she was doing, if she was messing with us, but I doubt it. Anja has no self-esteem and would never have imagined we might get a rush out of her hugs and her bright, flirtatious inhalations. More likely she was just practicing for someday, when somebody would love her.

Anja was always practicing.

But when she got out she recoiled from my touch; she pulled away and explained, frantically, with a feverish glint in her eye, that she had no soul. She seemed to have forgotten that I’d known her before, when she had a soul and it hurt her, when all she did was hurt. After a while she got better at hiding the pain and her act got more convincing: she’s always laughing now and never seems sad. She encourages a sort of playful mystery about her soullessness. I know it’s an act and I know she’s still hurting, but she needs to pretend so I try for her.

The wind shakes the car, blowing it into the oncoming lane. There’s nobody else out tonight, so she lets it drift.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Anja cries, blushing. I’m not exactly laughing but she’s so embarrassed I can’t help but smile.

“It isn’t my fault,” she says.

She’s talking about Liam. She likes Liam, has a crush on Liam, she can’t stop talking about Liam. She doesn’t think she has a chance and I’m not allowed to tell her she does or else she’ll be mad at me for lying.

She wants to know how to get him to like her, and I don’t know what to tell her because I already love her. I’ve loved her for years, since before she went in and all the time since she got out. I barely know Liam but now I hate him, as she tells me he’s interesting and brilliant and funny and while he isn’t really her type (she insists that no one is, that she’s completely uninterested in sex, whatsoever), he’s so interesting and brilliant and funny she can’t help finding him sexually attractive.

“Seriously, man, how do I get him to like me?”

“Ask him out.”

“But I can’t! I don’t have a chance!”

“Then just go up to him, grab him and kiss him.”

“Fuck you.”

But what else can I say? I don't know the answer. I don't want to know the answer. I don't want him to like her. I want her to like me.

She says, “I can’t stop thinking – don’t laugh! – I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like if the inside of his wrist touched the inside of mine.” My own wrist tingles and I light a cigarette and roll down the window to make the feeling go away.

“I think it might tickle,” she says, and I wonder if she’s really talking about his wrist, but Anja isn’t like that, even though when I think of the inside of my wrist touching hers I’m glad the car is so dark.

When we hit the curve up towards St. Albans I tell her we need to stop somewhere so I can go to the bathroom. I don’t really have to go, but I want to keep her on Route 36 so we don’t follow the lake clear to Georgia Beach. We stop at McDonald’s and I go in and wash my hands and then we head back to 36 and take it up the hill into no man’s land – Fairfax or Fairfield or Bakersfield, the unknown depths of Franklin County.

She still wants to know, “How can I make him like me?” He’s interesting and brilliant and good-looking, yes, Anja, could you rub it in a little deeper? The salt burns the wound alright but how about a little hydrochloric acid?

She tells me he’ll never like her because she’s stupid and ugly and boring; Anja forever thinks she’s boring.

“Goddam it, Anja, shut up! You’re just fine as you are and if he doesn’t like you, who gives a shit?” I don’t mean to snap but I’m starting to itch all over with the desire to wring Liam’s interesting, brilliant neck.

She says nothing until we come to a four-way stop several minutes later. “Where the hell are we?”

I look around. “I have no clue.”

“Shit.”

“I thought we were going to come out in Berkshire.”

“Oh, no, I thought we’d come out –”

“Wait, I know where we are.” I point at a farmhouse that’s suddenly familiar. “Go straight.”

“I thought we’d come out by the bridge where Devyn’s Creemee is.”

I frown at her.

“Or not Devyn’s, whatever the new name is.”

“Anja, that is where we’re going to come out.”

She laughs and says it’s a lot farther than she thought, and she knew that’s where the road went but was nervous because we hadn’t come to that monster curve by the farm yet.

“Yeah, that’s going to be right down here.”

She’s quiet for a while after this but it’s not an angry silence like before. We hit Route 105 and the end of the drive’s coming and the mood shifts. I light another cigarette and wait.

“I don’t know if I can do this again.” She doesn’t need to tell me she’s no longer talking about Liam or rejection or even love.

“I don’t want to kill myself and I won’t, it can’t make me, depression does not own me and the only person who can decide to do it is me and I do not want to kill myself.”

She never wants me to say much so I tell her good, that I don’t want her to either, and wait for her to go on.

“I know I don't want to do it and I know I won’t do it but I just don’t know how many more times I can do this.”

I ask what she means even though I know, and she tells me she’s tired.

And I know she means she’s tired of manic depression and of the sadness coming back, and of having to talk herself out of suicide over and over, but I can’t tell how much she’s tired of that and how much she’s tired of living. With Anja’s new soulless mask it’s impossible to tell how much she’s hurting, and I don’t know how worried I should be. She says she won’t do it and I know she believes it, but she’s forgotten that I know her sadness almost as well as she does.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” I ask. “Can I help?”

“You can’t help,” she hisses. Then, more quietly, she whispers, “I am broken,” and her voice cracks and she’s weeping but she keeps her hands on the wheel and looks straight ahead, and I am not supposed to watch or care or speak of it ever again.

Anja walks a tightrope and makes it look like solid ground, and she tells me she’s tired of it but she can’t show anyone how precarious it is because then she might fall and she can’t do that. “Anyway, the things I try so hard for all come so easy to everyone else. How can I expect them to be impressed with me when my biggest accomplishments are that I’m alive and I got out of bed this morning?”

Anja thinks she’s pathetic but in fact I’m in constant awe of her strength and grace and understanding, of her soul and her humor, her faking and her truth.

I can’t say this so instead I clear my throat and say, “Liam would be lucky,” and I’m not lying and for once she knows it. We take Route 105 to Wood’s Hill, Wood’s Hill to Route 7 to her house, and before we get out of the car she reaches over and brushes the inside of my wrist with hers. I know it’s the closest she can come, not to I love you but to I trust you, which for Anja is the biggest compliment there is.

I say goodnight without touching her, and then I get into my own car, light up another cigarette, and drive back down Route 7 to Wood’s Hill, Wood’s Hill to Route 105, and 105 to home.

!!!

Tue, 13 May 2008 03:32:18 GMT

Yes, well, I guess I'm the only one who's not like "Duh, no shit" about this, but --- I got an A on my Plan!!! My orals went swimmingly, and Franklin (my outside examiner) kept writing down names of places to send my stories for possible publication. And one of the stories, he declined to discuss, saying that it was one of the best stories he'd ever read and there was nothing to say. Holy cow! And Resha, the Spanish professor, said she preferred my translation of the Borges story to the professional one, and everyone said the same thing about the German translation. And then I blew their minds by admitting, embarrassed, that I'd only had a year and a half of Italian. (Which I later realized was untrue; I only did two semesters, never got to intermediate.) And I had them all cracking up over Calvino and postmodernism. And then they sent me outside and in about three minutes Laura came out to get me, and there was this piece of paper with A's written all over it, and handshakes and hugs and then a discussion of where my future will lead me, and then more hugs and handshakes. It was lovely.

Lately I've just got this feeling like my life's just beginning - like the world's at my fingertips and all I have to do is pluck, pluck, pluck. It's this fabulous sense of being at the threshold of "the real world," of "adulthood," and some of my friends are kind of cringing and shying away from it and starting to use wrinkle cream (seriously), but man, this is where it's all gonna come together. The next ten, twenty years - the fucking prime of my life - it all starts here.

God, I sound like a fucking Lifetime Original Movie. But I'm serious.

Mmmmm

Mon, 12 May 2008 02:06:38 GMT

Strange British boy who's well-versed in postmodern lit messaging me on facebook, a conversation about literature, about American versus British school system...

You just plain can't beat that. Or, well, I guess you could beat that. If there were, like, a strange British boy who's well-versed in postmodern lit just happening to get a flat tire outside of my apartment and needing a place to stay and turning out to be inordinately fond of Jack Daniels and sex.

But hey. Gotta take what you can get.

Sun, 11 May 2008 00:18:26 GMT

So I burned myself on a frying pan this evening while making supper.

I guess I've never really had a real burn before. It hurts like a motherfucker.

The Nostalg!

Fri, 09 May 2008 17:43:49 GMT

Today I turned in the last paper of my college career.

Sniffle.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mon, 05 May 2008 18:25:12 GMT

So, Catherine O'Callahan, who's basically Marlboro's God of Advising, came up to me today.

And she said she'd heard that my Plan was "brilliant" and "extremely professional." (With little quotation marks.)

And then she said the person who'd said those things was Laura Stevenson!!!

(Two things you should know, if you aren't a Marlboroite. First, Laura is my advisor/Plan sponsor and is one of the three people who will sit in on my orals and decide what grade to give me for Plan - a.k.a. has the ability to give me a B and crush my hopes and dreams. Second, Laura is the most terrifying, hard-to-please, "Oh my god I didn't do my homework and Laura's gonna eat me," "Oh my god this doesn't deserve an A and Laura's gonna eat me," professor in existence.)

Brilliant!!! Professional!!! Holy shit!!!!!!!! Hamsterdance!!!

So.

Fri, 02 May 2008 15:59:57 GMT

So my paid account ran out and all of a sudden there are ads on livejournal? When the fuck did that happen? I honestly don't think they were there before I got my paid account last year.

Sunlight on the lino...

Fri, 02 May 2008 03:22:35 GMT

It's awesome when you're kinda manic and dying to buy shoes and then get your mom's permission to buy shoes.

<3

But really! Logically! In a new "grown-up" wardrobe of skirts and suits, I can't very well wear either a) plaid velcro sneakers or b) Birkenstock sandals. Which pretty much sums up my perambulatory-shoe collection, save for a pair of blue ballet flats with owls on them, which look nice with the blue skirt but don't really work for anything else.

I could really go for a game of Bananagrams right now. Unfortunately, it's like, nighttime.

And in case you weren't aware. Bipolar disorder != fun.

Randy's verdict:

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 18:32:26 GMT

There's nothing wrong with my car, but call him if something goes wrong again.

Ugh! Well, at least I've got Dad's car until Saturday. I'll have to do something exciting before then. Go someplace far-away in preparation for not having a trustworthy car.

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 22:04:44 GMT

a) The '08 Camry has more blind spots than a, uh, blind leopard.

b) I finished my Plan!!! It's currently at Staples being copied and bound! Hooray!

c) New episode of House tonight!

d) I'm trying to decide what to have for dinner that will be appropriately celebratory. I mean, double-celebration here, man. A Plan-finishing, House-watching supper. Chinese or pizza? (God, I'm a loser.) Hmm. Maybe Quizno's. Haven't been on that side of town for a coon's age.

e) It's raining and feels like it's fucking below zero.

Sun, 27 Apr 2008 01:24:03 GMT

So today Dad came down and we drove down to Hartford to pick up a rental car (yeah, a bit far... but all the rental places around here were out of cars. This is fucking Brattleboro! They must only own like two!). So I am now using Dad's car while he uses the rental.

And on the way down, we discussed my car's prospects. I asked how much he'd be willing to put into it. He asked what I thought. I said I'm probably gonna need a new car anyway because if I'm working ESL, I'll probably be in neighborhoods where I need to lock the car. And since we've already established that we won't pay to fix the locks, there probably isn't much point putting an excessive amount into the car now.

So this sounded logical to Dad. And he said if it's gonna cost more than $300 to fix, ask the mechanic if he knows someone who'll buy it for parts.

Jeeeeesus! I mean, I wasn't expecting a huge figure, but $300's pretty fucking low!

So I guess I'll be getting a new car after I get home from Europe, unless I decide to move over there, in which case I won't need a car. But I honestly don't think I've got the balls to move that far from home. Particularly since my meds don't seem to want to stabilize. (I'm a little bit manic again. And it's only been like two months since we made all the med changes. Two fucking months.)

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 13:06:46 GMT

So in addition to my car's death, I finished off last night with a migraine. Spectacular.

Shit. Again.

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 02:58:44 GMT

Yeah. So. My car shit the bed. At a traffic light. On the second-busiest street in Brattleboro. (Putney Road.) And the cops had to come and redirect traffic. And the tow truck had to come and carry the car off into the sunset.

So now the Horse and Buggy is chillin' at Randy's (see car disaster of 2005), and one of two things is going to happen. Either a, Randy will be like "Uh, how did your other mechanics miss this?" and fix it right up, or b) my dad will come down tomorrow, rent a car, and leave his car with me. (If the repairs are gonna cost a lot, we're apparently just gonna say fuck it and get me a new car when I get home from Europe in July. No use repairing a car you can't even lock... no use repairing the locks on a 10-year-old car... the reasoning eludes me, but I'm not the one footing the bill - and I don't think my dad's ever loved a car before.)

Yea or Nay?

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 17:49:59 GMT

So, rather than actually working on Plan, I'm working on its layout.

Cover sheet: Is this too corny?

Shit.

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 23:06:47 GMT

So, upon taking another look, the mechanic was unable to find anything wrong with my car.

Which completely explains why it's having so much trouble starting. I mean, totally. We're 100% here. Absolutely nothing wrong with the car. Except every time I get into it, it sounds more and more like it's not gonna start at all.

MRRR.

An ode to homework.

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 20:56:41 GMT

Dearest homework, why can't I do you? Perhaps if you were the guy at Chili's with the sideburns... but no. Alas. You are merely sideburnless homework, and there is no excitement left in the concept of doing you, only the desire for it to be over as soon as possible. And yet I know I must do you properly, and not stray, and not give off the impression that my thoughts are elsewhere...

O, homework, I fear our relationship is coming to an end. Every day I despise you more.

Marlboro senior writes extremely strange Livejournal entry. Further analysis shows cause was Plan.

Sun, 20 Apr 2008 17:36:18 GMT

I can't take it anymore!

I'm going someplace ELSE. I don't care if my car breaks down on the way. I am getting out of this goddam apartment and going someplace with better homework vibes.

Sun, 20 Apr 2008 17:01:05 GMT

"Marlboro senior takes shower! Locals awed by clean hair!"

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 17:58:50 GMT

"Marlboro senior's car breaks down. Evidence shows cause of breakdown was Plan."

Yeah. My car was shitting the bed the other day, so I brought it to a mechanic, and they "fixed" it, and today it stalled. I don't know much about cars, but I know automatics aren't supposed to stall.

In other news, I was at the doctor's yesterday and my blood pressure was through the roof, and my pulse was like 120. "Marlboro senior dies due to Plan-related heart attack."

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 14:52:17 GMT

I think I just heard a cannon go off. Or a gun get fired. I'm pretty damn sure it wasn't a car backfiring. And I am officially staying away from the windows.

("Marlboro senior decimated by cannon while doing Plan work.")

No!

Fri, 18 Apr 2008 15:19:54 GMT

I had a dream that in order to graduate, I had to become a cheerleader!

AAAAH!

False advertising?

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 01:44:52 GMT

So I saw a commercial this evening that announced that some movie was Only in theaters May 3rd*. So... the movie won't be in theaters May 4th, 5th, 6th, and so on? ONLY May 3rd?

Also there's this commercial where that girl from "I Know What You Did Last Summer" is trying to get me to buy some zit cream and she says she has "less pimples!" Er. Fewer pimples?!? And another where the lady trying to get me to buy some weight loss program assures me that there's nothing to worry about because "it works that good!" That well?!?

What the fuck is the world coming to???

In other news... my Borges and Meckel translations are both officially in final draft form!

*Perhaps not the exact date, but you get the idea.

Mrrr.

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 20:20:31 GMT

I hate that "blank page" syndrome, when you're staring and staring and don't know where to start.

I've been significantly more productive the past few days, and am preparing to write one of my (three) Short Literary Introductions that accompany my translations which together make up 40% of my Plan, thus officially completing the German portion of the Plan. (Awesome!) Except I can't figure out what to say - or how to go about saying it, maybe. Like, there are a lot of things I need to say, and I know what they are, but they don't really go together. And a few of them, I'm not sure if they should go in the Short Literary Introduction, or if they should be footnotes. (Endnotes? Explanatory notes?!) But they have references... and I don't think you can footnote a footnote... so it makes more sense to include it in the Short Literary Introduction. Which in turn makes the SLI disorganized.

Grrr. I just want this done!