Knots

Today I slipped on the ice and fell. My knee is now rather purple and it's swollen into a bit of a knot. My hand is all scraped up and all I want to do is whimper, whine, take an aspirin and curl up with Becoming Chloe. Of course, there's no point in wallowing, so I'll post instead. Besides, compared to what the Scottish sisters Jeannie and Sarah experience in Helen Frost's The Braid, I'm a big klutzy wuss. There are no grounds for denial of this statement (follow the 'klutz' label for more classic examples).

1850. The Highland Clearances are forcing thousands of people to emigrate from Scotland. Jeannie leaves with her parents and two younger siblings. Sarah hides herself away until her family has left, then travels with her grandmother to live on an island - a place where it isn't more profitable for the landlords to raise sheep than collect rent. Connecting the sisters is the titular braid - a twist of each girls' hair - held safe for remembrance. Each girl faces hardships. Not everyone makes the crossing to Canada, where there isn't a home or work waiting for the family anyway. Their struggles are different; Jeanie's are more physical and environmental, where Sarah's are more emotional and social. Each find reserves of strength and become women in the poems before our eyes.

Frost's form is elaborate, inspired by the Celtic knot and explained fully in the afterward. I have to acknowledge the ingenuity of the endeavor, but must admit that had it not been covered in the afterward, I would have missed the importance of what she had done. This can also be attributed to my laziness as a reader who has become to expect less from prose poetry. I'm happy that she has added a degree of difficulty to the genre in this moving and readable story.

Who needs a kiln?

So I've come to realize that I'm a danger to humanity. I was making dinner last night (chicken salad with pecans, dried cranberries, and since I was out of celery *gasp* (forgot I had used it all for the homemade tomato soup I made on Sunday - yum) I blanched some asparagus and cut it up - it was very good) and I thought that I'd toast the French bread under the broiler. It was good, thick French bread and I knew that if I broiled it the bread would have a nice crunchy outside and remain soft and warm on the inside. So I put a little butter on it and slid it under the coils, as I've done so many times (I like my sandwiches with melted cheese). I walked away to make replies to the IM conversations I was carrying on with Matt and James. Seriously, maybe two or three minutes I was gone, I swear. I head back to the kitchen, open up the oven, and my bread is in flames! Sincere, flapping flames, licking the broiler, lighting up the entire oven flames. I grab the nearest towel and attempt to pull the blazing mass out of the oven without setting myself on fire. I actually manage to do this and swiftly turn around and stick it under the faucet. Well, as it turns out the little butter daubed on prior, means that this was partially a grease fire. Yes, water made the conflagration just a little more angry. At this point I dropped the plate, swearing. Eventually the bread soaked through from the bottom up and the blaze went out. I just turned the oven off and walked away.

In slightly less dangerous news, I attended my first ceramics class. Yet again my attempt at friend-making has been in vain. There are two girls in high school and six-ish women at least twice my age. Which is fine, I was just hoping to meet people my age. Oh, and also, I suck at ceramics. Yes, I know it was my first time, blah, blah, blah. But really, I mean it. I suck at ceramics; I'm simply being honest here. All the other students were able to make their little pile of clay into a cone and then back into a mound smoothly. I struggle to make it into the cone, then the top half of the cone breaks off into my hands, or the whole 'demmed' thing parts from the wheel. And I've never been so dirty in my life. I just kept repeating, "It's clean dirt, It's clean dirt." Marginally, I suppose. There was clay layered so heavily on my hands that it would eventually fall off from its own weight. I was covered up to my elbows. I noticed today that I had apparently sat in clay and it was caked into the seat of my jeans. It was fun. However, to those of you I promised art: Don't hold your breath.

Briefly:

When your SUV is so freakin' big it sounds like the delivery truck I'm waiting for, it's too big. Go buy a Prius, you selfish gas-guzzling jerk.

I now know why fate dictated me to read Mismatch. Yesterday a kid came in asking for books on the Japanese occupation of China. Weird.

And for my latest catastrophe...

This is really getting quite ridiculous. I can't seem to go a day without something drastic happening. But this time there is a warning: Mom, and anyone else with motherly feelings toward me may want to avert your eyes. The following post will not comfort you; in fact will most likely instill in you a genuine fear for my future well-being. You have been warned.

I like my apartment, I honestly do. I actually smiled upon my re-entry this evening. The only thing I can find fault with is the stove. It is electric. I have long held a suspicion with those who maintain the superiority of the electric stove. It is simply incomprehensible to me. One cannot effectively control the temperature nor truly gauge the burner in use unless it is very hot and has turned its cherry hue. If one is to make tea in a kettle, as I am wont to do, once having responded to the shrill whistle and having poured the boiling fare, one is of the natural tendency to replace the kettle from whence it came. However, even after turning off the dreadful heated coils, they maintain their heat for an excessive amount of time, thus if one sets the kettle back upon its perch one will certainly be accosted once again with that piercing cry. It is really a most obnoxious inconvenience. It is, however, the second fault that truly creates serious implications. This is your last chance to bail, Mom.

Today, like most days when the temperature is below 50, I wanted tea. Nothing out of the ordinary, I've made tea several times in this apartment; it is February, after all. Today I turned on the burner, realized that I had turned on the wrong one, turned on the correct one and went off to find some socks, as my feet were cold and I had errands to run. I returned to my loveseat with socks in hand only to look up and see smoke billowing, literally billowing, up from my stove. I quickly discerned that I had indeed turned on the wrong burner, had in fact turned on the one burner with something on it that definitely should not be heated. It was only there temporarily, until I found it a home in my cupboards, I swear. So there I was in a cloud of smoke knocking a large plastic jug filled with powdered chocolate off of heated coils. Of course, by this time the entire bottom of the plastic jug had separated. Since I had knocked the upper part off, and the bottom was quickly melting, everything inside was left to burn or scatter. It was really quite unpleasant. I used my favorite shiny steel spatula to pry up the melted plastic from the coil and to yank the spiral out of its plug, the thing naturally having been turned off upon my first frantic arrival. With the exception of the foul odor still lingering in my apartment, all seems to have turned out well. I was able to remove all the charred plastic and chocolate from the burner and most of the rest of it vacuumed right up. Of course the rub of it all was that I had originally turned on the correct burner, after all. sigh.

I cheered myself up by going to a Tea Room I had spotted, as well as a $2.50 showing of the Pride & Prejudice with Kiera Knightly. I do love that movie. Even more on the second viewing.

Really, soon I shall tell you of the titles I've read. I promise.

Apartments, feet and the longest post EVER

Ok, to be honest, I'm sure it's partly my fault. I'll admit it, I'm 25 and I've never rented an apartment before. I lived on campus my freshman year, after that I moved back with my parents because I liked the idea of getting through school without debt. At that, I've totally succeeded. Master's and all. What I haven't experienced is that whole first apartment drama. Until now. Can I tell you what a friggin' nightmare it is getting an apartment? I had no idea. How can people do this on a regular basis? They must hope that the more miserable they make it for you, the less likely you are to ever want to go through it again - strike fear in your heart that it couldn't possibly be easier to get a house, trapping you forever in apartment hell? Well, that's what it seems like to me. I understand the credit check. I would want someone in my apartment that would pay their bills, too. I understand the background check. I appreciate their attempts to keep the axe murderers out, I genuinely do. But I don't think that they could make this more of a headache if they tried.

But let me explain. The situation is, I'm sure, complicated exponentially as I'm 2,000 miles away. I did the whole internet search, looked at just about every apartment in the city and the outskirts. Apartments meeting my standards (washer & dryer in unit for free, dishwasher, not insanely expensive, I'm a librarian after all), I called and spoke with them to get the details and to request something in the mail, a brochure or something that would give me a feel for the place - not a big deal. I choose the one that fit best. At this point all's good, right? Shortly thereafter, I receive a brochure and app in the mail. Cool, fill it out, call to ask some questions (remember, I've not done this before), have my mom co-sign as it's required when you haven't rented before, send it in along with an extra note, for the things I though might be valuable; information such as where I'll be employed out there, how much I'll make and a contact for the verification of that information. They call a couple days later wondering where my co-signer application is. Well, I must say, I filled out everything you sent me. You didn't send me one, but OK, I understand. Fax it over, I'll drive to the library and get it, have Mom fill it out, and we'll send it right back so we can get this moving, and I'll have one less thing to worry about. They call the next day. They need a contact number for my employer out there. First of all, I work for a library. It's the flippin' library. But, ok. I call back and leave a message with my manager's name & number as well as HR's number. Today, they call and ask for the information again. I'll confess. I was snarky. I told the, what I assume to be a young thang, that a) I left a message with this information yesterday b) it's the library, open the phone book. I told you in the note what library it was and who my boss was. Why is this so difficult? I wasn't happy. It's been this huge hassle, and I was, frankly, fed up. Oh yeah, and they had already called my mom and asked her to fax a pay stub. They've already verified her employment, and mine. Why do they need her pay stub? It's my money. Furthermore, they have both our SS numbers. Honestly, what more do you need? I was willing to give them the benefit of doubt. I humored them. Now I'm not going to pretend that they aren't irritating me. My, that sounds quite angry.

Last week I said that I would tell you how I managed to sprain my ankle again, for the second time in, what 5 weeks or something. Enough time that I was finally able to fold that leg under me and sit comfortably. Setting: I was admittedly, hurrying. I was going to Josh & Megan's wedding and I wanted to be on time to meet Ryan & Ben. Ryan wanted me to 'approve' his outfit, and at the best of times he's not on time. And we had to pick up his girlfriend on the way. I needed to get a card to go with the check I was giving them, so I went to the local supermarket conveniently located within a mile of home - pop in, get out. I'm all dolled up, I look smashing, if I do say so myself. Nylons, a cool black skirt with sparkly bits on the bottom, the nice coat I only wear for good reasons (or when the normal coat stinks like the bar), and new shoes. New Shoes. I had taken the time to waterproof them. They are adorable taller kitten heels, black with a subtle bow. Steve Madden (I'm really not brand-conscience, but girls, you'll know what kind of adorable I'm talking about). I didn't take the time to scrap the black off them on concrete. As Pretty Woman would say: "Big mistake. Huge." So I'm clipity-claping up to the registers. It's Saturday afternoon. At a grocery store. There are people everywhere. Down I go. Unlike last time, this time, I know I'm hurt. I can feel the tendons and stringy stuff down there absolutely TWANG and collapse. I'm all put a brave face on it and all, but I did it in front of a bunch of strangers (again), but this time I don't have my friends to dote on me (after they stop laughing). The staff freaks out a bit, and wipes of the patch of water, I might have slipped on (personally, I blame the shoes and my innate clumsiness), and sits me down by the pharmacy with some ice and secretively slipped me some ibuprofen, for which I'm grateful. Meanwhile, there's no way I'm going to meet the boys on time, my ankle is rapidly swelling up (I had just gotten it back!), and I just really didn't want to deal with this. Again. I wanted to dance. I sucked it up after whining a bit. The boys humored me, and walked slower. Everything turned out ok. I even danced. A few days later there was massive bruising all along the side of my foot, and I felt vindicated for the whining. I'm going to miss those guys.

(note: Spell check doesn't seem to be working, I apologize. I can't seem to get a picture up either. Both will be fixed later.)

Why my name is not 'Grace'

Ok, rather than chug along and finish "Smashed" on Saturday night, I decided that I would attempt to be a much cooler person than I actually am, and go out with my friends bowling. At the best of times, I'm happy when I score above 80, but after this past Saturday, I think all future expectations will be considerably lower. To this very moment, I still have no idea how it happened. The best explanation I can come up with is that the ball must have taken me with it on the first few feet of its journey toward the pins, because before I knew it, I was sprawled, hands splayed on the oily pine lane like Bambi's first time on ice; my hands sliding around furiously as I attempt to prevent actually landing face-first in the disgusting lane. I had no idea how gross those lanes were. When I finally (and I mean finally) am able to get to my feet and make my mortified way to my laughing 'friends,' my hands are covered with a delightful sludge of oil and what I assume to be dust or some equally repulsive black substance. Being the shower at least once a day person that I am, my embarrassment is tempered only with the immediate need to wash my hands. It is only later that I realize that my ankle hurts. I suck it up after I whine some to my friends and get another drink, when it occurs to me that I might have actually hurt myself. Sure enough, when we get to Josh & Megan's and go to apply the ace bandage, what is normally a golf ball sized protrusion, has become more akin to a tennis ball. What was a dull ache, has become a hobbling throb. Luckily, by that time my friends had lost their sarcastic quotation marks and were lovely. Emi even overcame her revulsion of feet to wrap my foot with her professional nurse knowledge. Ah, bowling, that strenuous sport. I think I shall avoid you in the future.