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).

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.)

space*

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.)

tonight

today I was doing my best not to crash. crashing at work just makes work even more soul-sucking than it already is. I survived courtesy of Bones and Belle & Sebastian.

tonight was not as successful. sure, I took out the trash in below freezing temp, but they don't really give out gold stars for that. instead, I put myself on an express train to emotional instability. I'm not sure having the internet is as lucky as I thought it was.

tomorrow is another day. pray for me.

soundtrack for a friday

when free TV-via-internet just isn't cutting it.

1. Sky Joshua Radin feat. Ingrid Michaelson
2. Hanging Around the Day, pt. 2 The Polyphonic Spree
3. Sun [Acoustic] Mae
4. The Well and the Lighthouse Arcade Fire
5. Debate Exposes Doubt Death Cab for Cutie
6. World Spins Madly On The Weepies
7. Three or Four The New Pornographers
8. Reason to Stay [Acoustic of A Lack of Color] Ben Gibbard
9. Polite Dance Song The Bird and the Bee
10. For the Price of a Cup of Tea Belle & Sebastian
11. If You Want Me Market Irglova & Glen Hansard (Swell Season)
12. Transatlanticism Death Cab for Cutie

listen + respond

So I was going to write one of those cheeky blog posts where I list and answer questions asked in recent comments, but other than ginsberg asking if I'd left john cusack for john krasinski and some random cyber question about the glory that is my wonky shoulder, I got nothing. It posed a problem for all intents and purposes, until I realized that I can either blog about (1) the fact that my affections for impossible men are fickle (would have left both cusack and krasinski for some cute, appropriately outdoor, guy on the bus tonight--had he shown proper ID and reading list); (2) my shoulder (which really doesn't deserve the cyberspace); or (3) the glories of [fill in the blank]. I kind of get a kick out of option 1, but I think the glories have it tonight.

The Glories of Fob: After my last and, let's be honest, somewhat manic post re: the torture of workshop, I sent my latest project to the hands of Fob. The very next day I received feedback from Theric, and today Edgy and Mr. Fob himself graced my inbox with their comments. All of them said what they were thinking, and everything they said made me think about what I've written in a new way, which is the purpose of workshopping. Yet again, I'm missing these insanely brilliant men (and Arwen) and feel incredibly grateful and humbled that they are willing to read and consider what I've written. (I'm also wishing I had followed them to California or Washington--Chicago doesn't have anything like them.)

Other glories to consider: The Abby Baby, who is following in her mother's footsteps with a love of the outdoors and the Monte Bean Museum. Chicago, which is oddly beautiful in the winter, even if you almost die from the cold (note: I'm going to start carrying my camera everywhere I go--I want you to see this). Yeats, whose poetry is stunning, but is unfortunately stuck in my head, which means I can't write like me right now. And James Galvin and Jay Hopler, for the reading, and the New Pornographers, Swell Season, Joshua Radin, Sara Bareilles, and Ingrid Michaelson, for the listening, to get my rhythms back. Go team.

Oh, and the guy on the bus. He really was that cute.

missing you

I am writing this at the risk that someone out there will find this. "Out there" being those who I don't think read this blog.

Last night was dreadful. Dreadful. Dreadful and . . . encouraging. The one person in workshop I have any respect for gave me the best one-word response my writing has ever received. Being the kind of editorgirl I am, I'm not going to repeat said word, but still. And the prof's comments were promising. But the woman who suggested I more faithfully follow Ecclesiastes. . . whatever. Go team. I already knew it was good. I wanted to know how to make it better. I wanted some damn reader response. I wanted

I wanted Fob. Maybe a little bit of april. But mostly Fob--there's something satisfying about a group of prose writers (and one undercover poet) reading and responding to poetry. And even though I already knew this workshop wasn't half as wonderful as Fob, I hoped. I was stupid to hope, but I hoped. I'm a good writer. I'm a writer. But I need my Fob. (Hands and knees here, fellas.)

listening to. on repeat. again.

intensely intense

There are things I've wanted to blog about since September that I just haven't been able to. Mostly because, despite the public forumness of blogging, I don't like blogging in public places, e.g. work, NU libraries, etc. Actually, that pretty much sums up the internet access I've had the past four months, until yesterday, when, miracle of miracles, I let myself hope and check for a wireless connection, and there was one. I'm hoping this lasts. I've got big plans for editorgirl and the outside world (via the internet). It sure beats watching crime dramas (not always advisable when you're living in a big city and the laundry room of your apartment building would be an excellent place to stash a body).

"I'd just spew out how I felt and they'd think I was a madwoman."

Anyway. . .

I've been writing this week. I've been writing because on Monday my prof asked who could be ready to workshop the next class period (aka, tomorrow) and I said I could be. Silly editorgirl. But I think it was a good thing because there were poems to be written and I always need the extra kick in the pysche to sit down and write things out. The result is a rather intensely personal beginning. . . I nearly jinxed myself there.

So tomorrow is workshop and I've sent out these poems and they are intense and personal and intensely personal and I'm wondering if I've done the right thing. Not in writing them, but in submitting them for workshop. I did send them to a few people, but I wish I trusted anyone in this workshop the way I trusted april and fob and poetasters. I've been incredibly lucky with finding people who I trust with my poetry, which is why I've been able to write in such a personal (and I don't mean personal personal, but intimate personal, you know?) way.

And on that note of confusion, good night. "I still have to sell my little Japanese cars in the morning." Name that movie.

a trip to the laundry

pity party for one, but you can join me

Every January I follow the Sundance Film Festival. Mostly because I find it unfathomable that the film world would deign to set foot in Utah, but also because every once in a while (a) a really wonderful movie or (b) a really wonderful actor shows up on my radar, and I can get a little giddy and starstruck. Every few years, I considered shedding my scorn for the people who trek up to Park City just to walk the streets in hope of spotting ___________ (fill-in-the-blank).

Now that I'm not in Utah, the one movie and the one actor (okay, one of a handful of actors) I'm really excited about are both at Sundance this year: Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, adapted and directed by John Krasinski. It also features an appearance by Ben Gibbard. I'm dying in my cold little apartment in Chicago, when I could be dying on the cold streets of Park City, hoping to see either the movie or Krasinski or both. If the movie gods are reading, please let this be the Sundance sleeper hit of the year. Pretty please?

http://link.brightcove.com/services/link/bcpid1803302511/bctid8701571001

Deal Breakers, Rules of

[Note: I stole from Lauren and Grover. Thank you.]

.

Deal breakers must provide specific, concrete details. I will not date men with hair longer than mine. The best looking man is never the best looking man when he’s wearing a ponytail featuring ringlets that would rival Shirley Temple and the Good Ship Lollypop.

or

Deal breakers must be anecdotal. I will not date men who listen to religious/inspirational music and select Broadway soundtracks. At the end of a religious singer/songwriter’s concert, the audience was asked to join hands for the final inspiring number. The song ended, but my date refused to let go of my hand.

or

Deal breakers must enforce stereotypes. Love me, love my friends. And if my friends hate you, you’re toast.

or

Deal breakers must be self-explanatory. Mass murderer.

or

Deal breakers must be irrational. If you can’t love Journey, don’t bother loving me. Men who use Bic pens. Men who talk through movie trailers.

or
Deal breakers must be breakable.

my assignment,

of course I haven't done it.

. . .

still thinking

Here's the honest truth: I'm not sure I have a deal breaker.

Yes, I'm still thinking about that. In less than one week, I need to have an essay or a story or a poem about deal breakers. And yes, I want it to be funny.

This is not as easy as it looks. I spend my hours on the El and the bus identifying physical deal breakers--too short, too pretty, too. . . and then I consider that personality would trump all of those. I hope. I think. I don't know. After religious and educated, I don't even have a list for the opposite argument anymore.

Oh well. Luckily Modernist poetry and poetics calls. Walt Whitman, here I come.

Deal Breakers, Take 2

So I've been thinking, and here's what I've come up with:

• Talks incessantly during the previews before a movie
• Talks at all during a movie (unless it's an MST3K kind of thing)
• Talks down about poetry, English, etc.
• Listens only to Michael McLean, country, or select Broadway soundtracks
• Lapses on cue into his mission language
• Won't laugh with me when I slip on the ice
• Won't help me up when I slip on the ice

This is a limited sampling. And I'm guessing now that I've confessed that much, I can add

• his hair is longer than mine
• he apparently showers in cologne

Are any of these essay worthy? I'll tell you--I don't know.

the ebb and flood clearing all the channels of your heart

Feel free to sing along.

I had Laura Veirs' "Saltbreakers" playing over and over again in my head last night. Why? First of all, because it's a good song, completely worthy of being stuck in my head (unlike the rousing chorus from the Buffy musical that somehow found its way in this morning). More importantly, however, "Saltbreakers" was playing courtesy of an odd introduction round in my writing seminar last night: Give your name, your genre, and your "deal breaker."

I know, I know--such a connection is tenuous enough to be worthy of a poet, but I like the song and "Deal Breaker part one" was a lame title. And the song was going through my head.

Anyway, we shared our deal breakers--Enya, bad breath, pinkeye, bad jokes, giving beer to a toddler, Enya--and then went on with the lecture. Until the end of the lecture wrapped back around to deal breakers. It's our first writing assignment--choose a genre, write about your deal breaker.

Despite my answer last night, I don't know what my deal breakers are. I want something entertaining, not a serious discussion--and most of my "true" deal breakers are serious (religion, education).

So here's your assignment: Deal breakers. Discuss.