a pox - the shmoopening

I am crap at history. The only reason I can remember the Battle of 1812 is because it was the name of John Crichton's pet robot in Farscape.

hellooo pants

I am fond of history, however, and retaining history is a brain function I wish I had - unlike, say, math and auto mechanics, which can shove it. I don't give a damn about weddings (except yours, Lorenz!), but I do care about historic events, and so I arrived at work this morning and rummaged the cupboards for double-sided tape so that I could stick a paper plate to my forehead like one of the princesses in this morning's Royal Wedding. My student helper blinked at me. "Who got married?" And I fell off my swivel chair.

Not cut out to be a junkie

I am still sick. I should have spent the week at home with my head in the toilet, but my co-worker was even sicker, forcing me in to keep the building open. Like a warm, fleshy doorstop. The Robitussin stopped being amusing as the week ground by in a flickering series of discolored scenes that smelled like old socks.

Someone was reported to be barking at hobos in the parking lot.

Someone pooped in the 4-foot-tall men's room trash can.

The candy fairy left a Snickers bar on my keyboard.

I read the 4-page "ahh - aaahh - AAAH - AAAHHHH" in Pigs Make Me Sneeze with enough gusto to draw intrigued/alarmed patrons to the storytime door.

I was punished passive-aggressively by a teacher for not returning a phone call a month ago, which I had not known I needed to. "Oh, I will have to give them these stickers tomorrow, since I didn't get the kids ready for this, because I didn't even know if you'd be prepared, because you didn't call me back." The kids were all present. Just HAND OUT MY EFFING STICKERS. Bah.

The new calves are on the hillsides, still wearing their umbilical cords. They're a few weeks early; last year they all appeared on May 18th.

Along with my sinuses and equilibrium, the cold pills have drained away much of my hope and happiness. I tapped listlessly through my work, slept on the floor under my desk during lunch break, and have been fever-whispering along to old songs.

It dredges up old questions and regrets and wishes. I browsed old entries and wished again that I had given myself permission to be angry and heartbroken. Instead of projecting manic "I'M FINE LOOK I'M SO HAPPY AND CAPABLE" and moving to California, I should have dropped a brick through the man's windshield and gotten a shack on the beach. But I wouldn't trade in the people who came after, and Leif is solidly fantastic, and our house on the hillside under the avocado tree is something perfect and good. I scribbled the brick off my time-machine list. Again. I'm still slightly angry, and more than slightly heartbroken. But the bright bits - they balance.