Day #2

For some reason, I see fit to stay awake until 5:30am, browsing Craigslist for apartments (why, I don't know) and finally fall asleep to a $2.99 iTunes purchase of Steve Martin on Saturday Night Live.

At 10am, my alarm sounds and I feel my cat, Holiday, scratch at my left hip, as if to say, "please make that awful noise stop."  

I hit "snooze" and lie there for 15 more minutes and three more wake-up calls, then stand up out of bed and decide to skip a shower in order to make it to Littleton in time for my car appointment.  I don my repeat apparel from yesterday, brush my teeth, wash my face and throw on a pair of heart-shaped aviators. 

Twenty minutes later, I hand my car keys over to Dodge service support and beeline for the waiting room with my book. I check my e-mail and find a message from my mom.  I read, then laugh until I cry. I want to share the joke, but it seems inappropriate, so I keep it to myself and continue to giggle at random intervals.

Later, spring cleaning ensues. My cats stare at me dumbfounded, trying to understand why everything is not in its original place. I make six trips to basement storage and I finally feel better in my own bedroom. 

I feel dead all day, but never take a nap. It's now 1:34am and I finish The Time Traveler's Wife, which I think is the first book to make me cry - ever.  

My second cat, Maynard, is curled up at the bottom of my bed, feet twitching like he is chasing something in a dream, which is strange when he runs for no one and Holiday's stretched out on a throw blanket on the back of the couch. I hear a thud and see she has slid, with the blanket,  onto the floor. This makes me laugh.  

My attention darts outside to an alley cat that has been crying for the last two hours. A quarrel between it and another outside cat ensues. It's clear who is winner, because the other is now wincing in pain. I don't know whether to run out and help or leave well enough alone, but decide on the latter because alley cats have reputations and I'm sure battle scars look handsome to the ladies. 

Full day of Funemployment #1

Aside from the poor start at 6am, things get better after the peanut butter toast and four-hour nap.  I spend 45 minutes on the phone with the coordinator for the Black Hills Fat Tire Festival, who has a slow drawl and pleasant demeanor, then bike down to the bookstore for 30-30-30 brainstorming, the worst $7 sandwich I've ever eaten and a vanilla chai.

Afterward, I walk the mall to deposit my tax return (finally).  Caleb, a shaggy-haired, tall blonde boy pulls me aside while pointing out a girl taking in a magic trick in the middle of the mall. 

"I bet that girl's parents would be extremely unhappy she is smoking a cigarette with all of that beautiful metal in her mouth."

"What?"

He repeats himself and I finally understand what he is saying. Another representative for Greenpeace. I mention I have already donated to another guy I spoke to at length in WashPark last week, and he gives me a hug - then instructs me to raise up my left hand,  similar to Hitler, and reposition for a "heart-to-heart" hug. I think he is nervous. The hug lasted less than .2 seconds. Apparently, we should be less comfortable hugging strangers, but I'll never turn one down.

Further on my walk, I am accosted to donate to the homeless twice, three more times by Greenpeace  (only receiving sub par hi-fives from each) and heed warning to a tall african american, who nearly grazes a white civic in oncoming traffic. When the road is clear, he skips around to the front of me and asks for $.50.  I say I have no cash, which is sad, because he wants to beatbox for me.  He says, "no problem" and proceeds to drop a two-minute beatbox collaboration - SO AWESOME. I shake his hand. I can't remember his name, but he brightens my day.

Later in the evening, I bike downtown once again to meet a friend for some brainstorming on the coming months. He buys me dinner and we walk the "50 miles" back to his hotel. On my way home, I pass three tour busses, all for Queensryche. I plow through the fan barricade that has gathered outside of the bus and observe slightly, then end up in front of Apaloosa Grill, where the doorman asks for a ride on my cruiser.  I stop and chat with him for a bit and decide I need to come back another Tuesday for the hip hop inside. Maybe for the cute boys inside, as well.

I pass something on the corner of 13th and Marion near a coffee shop I despise.  It's a black bra. I ponder how it may have gotten there, but don't care enough to stop. I'm a block from home and anticipating a bowl of the $6 cereal I purchased at the store not 25 minutes ago.

It's been a good day. 

In the treehouse

Walked into my treehouse bedroom and floofed onto a big white bed. MY bed. Set up my new lamp next to the fluff which makes an amazing pattern on the ceiling and I have just the spot to set my laptop for bedside movies. This is all i need.  My apartment, especially my bedroom is beginning to look like a haphazard storage unit and I am starting to dislike all of my possessions. 

May will be a whirlwind, but it has been planned appropriately. I think reckless abandon is exactly what I've been looking for the last five years - I'm just doing it my own way -- Polly Planned and somewhat in order. Ha! Figures.

Wait and see...

In the bunny hole...

It snowed for the 19th time here in South Dakota last night, which means all of my plans today were trumped, allowing me to sleep 'til 11, make giant, fluffy pancakes at noon, sip hot chocolate in the afternoon and spend $63 on a ticket change so that I have time to visit Ireland and London for a week each come the end of May. 

Additionally, I've been flying through The Time Traveler's Wife.  A friend had recommended it to me over six months ago and I finally picked it up in Phoenix Sky Harbor on my way home from a wedding. 

It's romantic, honest and out of the ordinary.  I smirk at small things in the book that remind me of certain nuances in those I love and feelings that spin about in my heart and mind. This is surely a sign of good literature. 

Now 302 pages in,  246 to go, two passages emulate my feelings perfectly - whether they be then or now or maybe some day I have yet to experience:

(pages 122-123)

I haven't seen Henry in almost two months; the next date on the List is three weeks away.  We are approaching the time when I won't see him for more than two years.  I used to be so casual about Henry, when I was little; seeing Henry wasn't anything too unusual.  But now every time he's here is one less time he's going to be here.  And things are different with us.  I want something... I want Henry to say something, do something that proves this hasn't all been some kind of elaborate joke.  I want. That's all. I'm wanting. 

(page 239)

"One minute we had everything we could dream of, and the next minute she was in pieces on the expressway." Henry winces.

"But don't you think," I persist, "that it's better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay for your whole life?"

Romance Lost

I've always clung tightly to romantic comedies (RC). As it seems, no matter how bad it gets, it always gets better in the end. People do fix problems in 94 minutes and people are capable of great change from one gesture.

The RC mission statement: Audience member shall walk into the theater feeling marginally fair and exit with restored sense of loveliness. Hell, even feel prettier, thinner, happier with appearance when checking hair in rearview mirror.

Now, like everything else, most films have stopped trying to romantasize reality. Oh, you can't wrap someone's heart into a little bow and make things infinitely better? Yes, there are amazing stories out there. People can change (when they want to) and gestures can be made, but I've come to believe that any movie that glamorizes the concept was put together by a poor sap who did NOT have the fairy tale ending, and figured they'd change up the finale to make themselves feel better. Selfish bastards.

I've discussed on numerous occasions with a close male friend of mine how movies in the 1940s-1960s musical genre are charming, as they gave the appearance of clean simplicity.

I cannot tell a lie. I really believed growing up that husbands and wives were full of grace. Turns out, our parents are people. it's just that former generations weren't strewing their garbage all over the lawn. I can't decide which I appreciate more. Authenticity or the respect of ones' partner and morals. The ability to relate and know you're not alone or fear of ever extending yourself past the point of loving only at arm's length. All these crap notions people say to make themselves feel better - to relate - really only end up hurting us in the end.

So speaking only from a 27-year-old girl's perspective, who after dating a series of very not-nice men, really does still hope that there has to be some kind of fluke (straight) dude out there that will set some amazing examples (the movies always told me so) -- I've noticed a decline in the ability to "escape" to this mentality in the theater.

Rather than feeling hyped up on a false sense of reality, skip to the straight dose of crap people are holding behind closed doors and I leave feeling:

1. Happy I'm single.

2. Sad that I'm jaded.

3. Confused as to why anyone is even attempting a relationship when people inevitably hurt each other

How messed up is it that all while trying to relate to one another we just end up thinking that it is like this or that and neither ends up looking good.

Mother's Day is Fast Approaching...

Just a lesson from Mr. T so you remember to treat her right (there is no other)!