Thursday, February 26, 2009

resistance is futile

I try to restrain myself--this is my blog, not the Abby Blog (we should start one)--but this picture kills me.

Also killing me: Abby reciting her animals to me over speakerphone--moose, buffalo. . .

Lauren left me a message that Abby had discovered coloring on walls. When she asked her why, (I think I have this right) Abby showed her where I had written a Bernard Cooper quote on the bedroom wall (in pencil--it was late and I didn't have paper handy).

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

oh happy day

I just found out
  1. I can petition to waive the teaching practicum requirement. And it will (most likely) be approved.
  2. Big Name Poet will be teaching workshop in Fall.
  3. Give me enough time, and I will be able to petition for an independent study to replace the fifth workshop (which would keep me in Chicago longer than I want to be). If I'm accepted into a PhD program, it will be that much easier.
  4. And last, but definitely not least, I have a final round job interview next Wednesday. I really want this job. (I really want a job, but this particular job would be totally brill.)

Tuesday, February 24, 2009


Tonight we consider the setting of my quarterlifecrisis. (I actually composed an introduction to a series of posts on this subject, while on the walk from my apartment to the El. I was wearing heels that day.)

Actually, I'm not so much concerned with the setting. I'm sure one day I'll look back at this apartment with a certain amount of nostalgia and amusement, but right now I am attached to very little. I exist in a space between my laptop, the TV, the couch, the short kitchen counter, and, at night and in the mornings, my bedroom. I lock the door as soon as I enter the apartment, and spend most of my time on the aforementioned couch, although I occassionally enter the kitchen to cook on the stovetop (no mircrowave and the oven reeks), to wash dishes, or to inspect my lack-of-options in the refrigerator.

What I'm interested in is space. I know how I fit in this apartment, where I belong. Despite the intrigue and mystery (and open invitation) of the long hallway (the apartment's only hallway) leading to my roommate's (I use this in the loosest sense of the word) bedroom, I rarely enter that space. I begin at the doorway, turn into the living room, and then pace between living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom before declaring it bedtime. I know it sounds lonely, and it is, but it's also routine. I'm not happy, but I'm comfortable and accepting. Someday, sooner than later, I'll find a place that I will look back on with nostalgia and wish I could live that time again. Right now I'm surviving.

Perhaps this--the survival, the comfort, the fit--is why I don't have visitors. I mean, part of it is that I don't know very many people in this particular area of Chicago, but if I asked, I could probably get people here. But I find this rather distasteful. All of this came to a head on Saturday, when a guy in my ward showed up at my apartment to help me cook for a branch activity that night. I didn't have much for him to do--I hadn't been planning on his help (although he had given me enough of a heads up that I had "cleaned" the part of the apartment he would see)--so he sat on the couch, assembling "recipe books" for the activity. He wasn't wandering around the apartment, he wasn't asking questions, he wasn't doing much of anything except cutting out paper squares and making informal small talk. But I felt exposed and uncomfortable and completely incapable of handling myself in this space with another person. Things had shifted, and I couldn't adapt fast enough.

I will now make my way from the couch and my laptop to the kitchen, and then to the bedroom by way of the bathroom. Good night.

*To my Fobbing friends: I promise I wasn't ignoring you just to blog. I've found if I can get the window open, I can compose a blog, and then publish when I have a signal. I'll be back to Fobbing as soon as the internet lets me (or I finally get a full-time job and can afford an internet connection of my very own).

Monday, February 16, 2009

I should be writing about AWP and reconnecting with old friends and finally realizing that I just might not be the failure I thought I was*, but all I really want to say is

Abby is the cutest kid ever.

*Check back for Existential Crisis: The Series later this week--or tonight if we reach that point.

Saturday, February 07, 2009

a trip to the lake

Lake Michigan is a short 15-minute walk from my apartment--a short, hellish 15-minute walk in the winter. I haven't gone since September or October, but today it was 51 degrees--51 degrees!--so I took a walk.

I've been wanting to photograph this bench since I first saw it. Each summer the community paints it up, and every time I go to the lake, I spend a long time walking along, smiling over the bench.

Monday, February 02, 2009

best. idea. ever.

Happy Groundhog Day everyone.

I have no idea if the glorified rodent has seen his shadow or not. I don't really care. I'm still going to be frozen for another month either way. What should be celebrated on this day is the Bill Murray movie of the same name. When I expressed this yesterday, someone said he was going to download "I Got You Babe" and wake up to it this morning.

I don't know if he did, but I sure did. Best. Morning. Ever.

Sunday, February 01, 2009

This is January

If I were as smart as I think I am, I would have posted this, oh, in January. But that's the fun of it all.
Last year, sister Lauren put together a family photo calendar. It was stunning, memorable, thrilling. And Mom decided the calendar was a new Jenkins tradition. This year, with Lauren sunning it in Alabama, I was default calendar girl. It took way too much time, but when Dad decided all children away from home got their own calendar, it was all worth it.
So tonight, I salute January. It was a long, cold month, but looking at this every morning made it survivable. I was a little sad to turn the page to a (very) pink February this morning, but it had to be done.
See you next month.
(Paragraphs are off, hence the Th.-style periods.)

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