You are currently browsing the daily archive for July 15th, 2008.
Fritz, as usual, is right. Wine helps, or as in last night’s case, a large what the English call martini-and-lemonade, or what we here call, well, I’m not sure. Martini brand extra-dry vermouth mixed with Sprite (or 7-up, I suppose) over ice and maybe with lemon if you can find it. Lovely and not very alcoholic except when you drink it by the huge tumblerful (guilty) while painting a room reddy orangey pinky (call it poppy-colored) at 11:00 at night.
I love painting rooms. I should hire myself out. It is the most astoundingly serene activity (except when you step backwards off a ladder, kick over your martini and lemonade and flood the floor on which your computer is sitting because it’s playing an old Buffy episode via Hulu (which you should check out, really, all of Firefly is on it among other things.) Even so (after the mopping up and the grumbling and the waving of the hands over the computer to ensure its survival) it’s pretty serene. And it has the important fringe benefit of placing a mark on this house that I still feel isn’t quite mine.
After two large tins of poppy paint, it’s going to feel a lot more like mine, I can tell you. And that’s before one wall gets turned into a giant blackboard. And I’m not quite sure yet about the fake fireplace but that’s going to be as Phoenix and the Carpet as I can whip up.
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And by the way? I’m SO GLAD you’re all still out there. And amazed. And touched. And (did I mention) SO GLAD. I’ll be stopping by soon because I’ve missed you and I’m done waiting until I feel more inclined, or less morose or whatever.
Because here’s the thing. In high school (a million years ago) I hit a rough patch. And I had a few months where I dragged myself to school, moped around and then dragged myself home. Then finally after yet another sad and down sort of day, my friend Rosalia telephoned and said (something to the effect of) ‘I am sick and tired of seeing your face looking all hang-dog down in the dumps like that. Tomorrow you are coming to school all pretty and smiling or I will put a smile there and you won’t like it. I don’t care that you feel horrible. You are going to fake it until you make it.’
Eh, well, tough love, but I didn’t want to let her down. So I smiled, even though I didn’t feel like it. And after a while, it sorta worked. And then I really was smiling.
