after the rant cometh the poetry

. . . maybe I just needed to get that out of my system. . .

.

Conversation

1.
We lean back in our
mismatched armchairs,
which don’t match

anything except the day
you were born, which
I hesitate to tell you

was only twenty-five
days ago, which was
the first day of summer.

2.
You identify this
as the solstice, the
only day we can meet

the sun,

3.
which has left
your window, but you
tell me not to look

directly to its light.
You will guide me,
promise, turning me

east.

4.
To the right is your
first chance to know
the moon, but you are

looking for me.

not unhappy

My mother and I keep getting in fights about how I'm not happy, but the truth is, I'm not unhappy. I'm just not content. I like my job, I like the people I work with, I like living with my family (we'll see how long that lasts), but everything I am is itching to be me again. And it's not a matter of being in school, although I want that. It's discussing words and language and poetry and getting excited about it all. It's hard to not have april or fob or grad school as outlets for the conversations going on in my head. It's hard to not have writing be first on my to-do list everyday. And it's hard letting go of that life. I'm making steps--I told the firm that I'd like to work there for at least a year, so I'm committed there. And it seems as though it's the right thing to do. Money, sleep, etc. These are good things. But they're not a life, at least not the life I thought I was headed towards.

It's not just the writing, although as I write that, it's all about the writing. K is coming back to Utah for summer, which is one thought that keeps me going on days like today. But at the same time, I'm facing my brother's July wedding. I like the girl, I like him, I'm happy for them. At least, I'm not unhappy for them. But it's drawing attention to the fact that I'm alone, which is another thing I'm just not dealing with well now. Coming home after work is coming home to a family that is used to life without me--I join in, but I'm not really necessary. I'm just here. I need to find whatever purpose is left for me--with or without grad school and close friends and writing.

And in writing that, I'm not sure how I'm going to do this. How I'm going to live this life.

Also

I am not going to walk on Friday. . . for many reasons. . . but mostly because I'm going to be here instead.

at the end of the day

The mail is posted and out. The checks are all deposited. The conference rooms are straightened. My feet hurt like Hades' three-headed-dog was using them for a chew toy.

Normal day.

I take it back. . .

well, not all of it.

The no-wallowing bit, though. That I'm taking back. Even though today I did get an hour to submit to journals. Now I can just sit back and wait for the rejection.

working 8 to 5

How the hell was Dolly getting away with 9 to 5? No one works 9 to 5. You start at dawn and keep going through the best part of the day.

This is what I have learned about real life and being a grown up. A grown up who's moved back in with her parents, but still. No more late night runs to Sonic (because Bountiful doesn't have one) or T-shirt shopping runs. I have to dress like a grown up. For the record, I am not a dress-pant kind of girl.

To be more explicit, I have moved home to Bountiful and begun working as a receptionist (full time, 8 to 5) at the law firm where my dad is a partner. Which is not the only reason why I got the job. My MA in English also has nothing to do with it. My MA in English has nothing to do with anything.

Speaking of advanced degrees, it looks like this year was a bust on the PhDs, despite the wait listing. Most programs had their primary offers accepted, and since I wasn't on that golden primary ticket list, I'm, well, a receptionist. And yes, right now I am feeling sorry for myself. Even though I love my job, which comes with all the Diet Coke I can drink, I want to be writing poetry and talking about poetry and basically living my life the way I thought I was going to get to live it. And there's nothing poetic about that line.

This is going to be my last spewing forth of self-pity. This does not mean the blog will die. There are many work stories to be told already. . . have I told you the therapist story?

guilty pleasures

I'm not a good cook, but I love watching reality cooking shows, namely Hell's Kitchen and Top Chef. I especially like watching while I'm eating something particularly cheap and tacky (from these chefs' points of view). At the same time, I like considering the challenges, even if I could never pull of anything.

But last night's Top Chef was totally up my alley: choose your favorite movie and make a course inspired by that film. Apparently chefs don't watch movies. I kind of want to kick them and send over my own list. My top five?

5. Better Off Dead: Use the "French" dinner scene, where Ricky's mom gets blown up. Only real French food. No "Franch" bread, fries, or dressing.

4. Hairspray: Queen Latifah and co. sing and dance with Southern dishes.

3. Ocean's Eleven: Every time you see Brad Pitt in the film, he's eating stuff you'd buy from a street vendor. Upscale that and go.

2. The most recent As You Like It: Take a classic English dish and spin it Asian.

1. Chocolat: Hello.

My favorites from the episode were Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (pure imagination), Il Postino (rustic Italian), and A Christmas Story. The last one, neither really knew anything about the film, including the title. But they knew there was a scene where the family had duck for Christmas, and they ran with it.

BirThesisGraduPoetry Day.

If you're reading this, you're invited to my last Provo party to celebrate my (25th) birthday, (successful) thesis defense, (eventual) graduation, and (of course) National Poetry Month.

April 11, 2008

6:00 p.m.

(call me if you're not sure where)

Someday I hope to be Mrs. Fahrenheit

Kapka used to say "Someday I want to be Mrs. Goodbar." This comment has led to her receiving more Mr. Goodbars over the course of our friendship than she could ever eat. Lately, K's Gmail Chat line is "Someday I want to be Mrs. Nerdy Rad." Again, not a real person--just the tagline for those guys who manage to be just nerdy enough to be attractive.

That's really not the point of this post.

Over the past few months I've been, well, wedding-happy. Flipping through wedding mags in the grocery store, surfing the web, saving pictures of announcements and dresses and rings. (And since this isn't pcaaca, no "oh my!" needed.) I was rather annoyed with myself, but when [Friend] told me she was marriage inclined, sans man, too, somehow I found my craze justified. Since then, I've amped up my obsession to colors and flowers and music (you may now say "oh my!").

I'm not ashamed. I'm annoyed. I want to think that I'm "better" than all this marriage/wedding stuff. Or, if I were to be completely honest, I'd like to continue thinking that I'm not ready for all this stuff. I've gotten used to being the older single sister--times three now that Sven and Seth are attached to girls. We're placing bets that Sven will get married before 2009. Part of me thinks "Good for him." And part of me is screaming "What the hell?!?"

There is only one cure for this: bring on the PhD. Please, somebody, let me in so I can go back to the books.