I know, I know, it's ludicrous that the folks down at Apple haven't already asked me, but I'll tender my humble opinion anyway, in case Steve Jobs or whoever's running the show down there while Steve Jobs is out giving motivational talks wants to sit up and take note on what they should make next after phones and cars and pacemakers and whatnot:
So, there's the iPods, right?
And there's musical toothbrushes that play two minutes of your favorite song? Like "Survivor" by Destiny's Child or whatever? So that you'll brush for two solid minutes like your dentist said? And the harder you brush -- I am not making this up -- THE LOUDER THE SONG SOUNDS IN YOUR HEAD. How do they do that? I mean seriously, how the hell do they do that?
Now, hear me out, people.
Apple introduces the iBrush. Load any song from your iTunes straight into your toothbrush. You can listen to two minutes of Blondie if that's what you want to do, it's your show. Dental hygiene for audiophiles.
Think about it.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Big Bangs theory
Okay, so today I woke up with the hairdo I strove for so unsuccessfully back in middle school (for which I'm actually grateful, since I look mercifully normal in the pictures from back then). Here it is, complete with my hand-Flashdanced T-shirt:
Seriously, if you had told me, back in those days of White Rain hairspray and the smell of burnt hair congealing on a hot curling iron, that the secret to huge bangs was to take a hot shower at one a.m. and pass out in a puddle of exhausted drool for eight to ten hours, I would have screamed. Uh... muh... guh.
Props to the neighbs for engineering this fabulous eighties pose, by the by.
In other matters, fyi I am turning out to be a veritable Scarlet O'Hara with my Kenmore. Last night I made this here dress out of extra fabric from some old curtains, an old quilt, and my favorite too-short tank top:
I love it when something emerges from the Fabric Vortex and gets to go hang in my closet. It makes me purty sure I could survive the burning of Atlanta.
Seriously, if you had told me, back in those days of White Rain hairspray and the smell of burnt hair congealing on a hot curling iron, that the secret to huge bangs was to take a hot shower at one a.m. and pass out in a puddle of exhausted drool for eight to ten hours, I would have screamed. Uh... muh... guh.
Props to the neighbs for engineering this fabulous eighties pose, by the by.
In other matters, fyi I am turning out to be a veritable Scarlet O'Hara with my Kenmore. Last night I made this here dress out of extra fabric from some old curtains, an old quilt, and my favorite too-short tank top:
I love it when something emerges from the Fabric Vortex and gets to go hang in my closet. It makes me purty sure I could survive the burning of Atlanta.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
the red-penned bandit rides
Whoa. I hadn't taught a basic college Spanish class in a long time, and after Week One I'm realizing how much I'd forgotten about it, and how much my teaching has changed in the intervening semesters.
The good things: for example, how empowering it is to learn a foreign language right at the beginning. How uproariously the students laugh at even the silliest jokes, just because they're so delighted they can understand them. How excited they get the first time they create a really good sentence, and just sit there staring at it and saying it over in their heads. Ella come pan tostado a las ocho de la mañana. Ella come pan tostado a las ocho de la mañana. It's like the first time a child draws a perfect circle with a compass and begins to fathom the consequences of this discovery. It's exciting to be with them at that moment.
The bad things, too, though, which we're just beginning to work through: I'd forgotten how slowly a group of 27 students progresses as opposed to smaller, more advanced classes. I'd forgotten what it was like to work with 19- and 20-year-olds instead of 21- and 23-year-olds. There's a palpable resistance to adulthood among my students that I must overcome, a desire to let me do the thinking for them and a tendency to blame me when things go wrong. As I gain experience as a college teacher, I increasingly feel that I wasn't hired to teach Spanish: instead, my job is to teach critical thinking and accountability. Spanish is merely my chosen medium for imparting those more important lessons.
Examples: Day two. A student approaches me after class and says, well, I don't think I can handle this class if it's going to be all in Spanish. You see, we don't speak Spanish, which is why we're in this class, so you can't speak it to us all the time. I remind her what I told students on Day one (in English, no less): the only time you should worry about not understanding what I say to you in Spanish is a.) if you don't understand the concepts, or b.) if you don't understand what's expected of you. Yes, she says, but. Do you understand the concepts? I ask. Yes, but. Do you understand what I expect you to do? Yes, but. But? She has no answer. It gets easier, I tell her, and I think you'll be surprised how quickly. She understands the conversation is over, but is not satisfied with my answer.
Day three. I ask students to open the book to page 156. I write 1-5-6 on the board in case they haven't understood. We do an activity, the instructions for which are written-- in English -- on page 156. Read the instructions, I say. Ready? Let's begin. Wait -- what are we doing? I hear. I pick up my book and point to the exercise. Number one, I say. A student raises her hand and answers. Number two...and I call on a student. I have no idea what we're doing, he says. Page 156? I ask. Yes, he says. Activity five? I ask. Yes, he answers again. Number two? Yeah, he says, I don't know the answer. I don't know how to say it in Spanish. Even though his partner's book (he has a partner because he has forgotten his own book) is open in front of him, open to the vocabulary list, which we studied on Day two and which contains -- he knows it contains -- the answer. His eyes plead with me to call on someone else. I am unrelenting. Look it up, I say. Forty painful, silent seconds later, he has the right answer, and I praise the bejezus out of him. What page are we on? someone says. I have answered that question verbally and in writing, I say, and I will not waste your classmates' time further by answering it again.
(Day four, by the way, and the "I-don't-know" student sits up front, smiles, and raises his hand for every answer.)
Day four. I collect the homework. Oh, I forgot my workbook. Can I turn it in on Monday instead? Nope, I say. We didn't have to do number 14, did we? Cause it requires an audio file. So you didn't mean we had to do that one, right? What page is it on? I ask. 32. What does the calendar say to do for today? It says do page 32, but. But? She processes this for a moment, then raises her hand again. Excuse me? But I don't think it's fair? For you to assign audio activities when we don't know where the audio files are? Okay, I say, except the syllabus tells you where to find the audio files. You have the syllabus, right? Yes, but. But?
Red, who is a nurse and, consequently, extraordinarily wise when it comes to human behavior, says day three is always the worst. Chart it, she told me, and I intend to. This time around, that theory certainly seems to hold. Today was better; people came prepared, paid more attention and did their own thinking, for the most part. There's certainly always a faction of the class that seems grateful when you hold their classmates responsible for their own work. They're used to hanging time in a class where the lazy, the petulant and the incompetent are coddled, a stream of exceptions being created to accommodate them, and feel respected when the teacher refuses to pander to the stragglers. Today, they were downright patient and themselves gestured to help the stragglers keep up.
I know it's only a matter of time before a handful of these students decide I don't like them, and that's why they're unsuccessful in my class. This amuses me and frustrates me at the same time, because if they knew how little my personal feelings about them have to do with their grade, they would be forced, through unparalleled creative flights of fancy, to blame the university, Microsoft Excel, or the Spanish language...or, as a last resort, to accept responsibility for their own poor performance. But I really feel that to give them the grade they think they deserve for being a nice, charming guy, or Puerto Rican, or because they busted ass over the last two weeks, or even to repeat the page number for the umpteenth time, is to do them a huge disservice. If we hold their hands like this in college, tell me, exactly when and where do we prepare them for the so-called real world?
The good things: for example, how empowering it is to learn a foreign language right at the beginning. How uproariously the students laugh at even the silliest jokes, just because they're so delighted they can understand them. How excited they get the first time they create a really good sentence, and just sit there staring at it and saying it over in their heads. Ella come pan tostado a las ocho de la mañana. Ella come pan tostado a las ocho de la mañana. It's like the first time a child draws a perfect circle with a compass and begins to fathom the consequences of this discovery. It's exciting to be with them at that moment.
The bad things, too, though, which we're just beginning to work through: I'd forgotten how slowly a group of 27 students progresses as opposed to smaller, more advanced classes. I'd forgotten what it was like to work with 19- and 20-year-olds instead of 21- and 23-year-olds. There's a palpable resistance to adulthood among my students that I must overcome, a desire to let me do the thinking for them and a tendency to blame me when things go wrong. As I gain experience as a college teacher, I increasingly feel that I wasn't hired to teach Spanish: instead, my job is to teach critical thinking and accountability. Spanish is merely my chosen medium for imparting those more important lessons.
Examples: Day two. A student approaches me after class and says, well, I don't think I can handle this class if it's going to be all in Spanish. You see, we don't speak Spanish, which is why we're in this class, so you can't speak it to us all the time. I remind her what I told students on Day one (in English, no less): the only time you should worry about not understanding what I say to you in Spanish is a.) if you don't understand the concepts, or b.) if you don't understand what's expected of you. Yes, she says, but. Do you understand the concepts? I ask. Yes, but. Do you understand what I expect you to do? Yes, but. But? She has no answer. It gets easier, I tell her, and I think you'll be surprised how quickly. She understands the conversation is over, but is not satisfied with my answer.
Day three. I ask students to open the book to page 156. I write 1-5-6 on the board in case they haven't understood. We do an activity, the instructions for which are written-- in English -- on page 156. Read the instructions, I say. Ready? Let's begin. Wait -- what are we doing? I hear. I pick up my book and point to the exercise. Number one, I say. A student raises her hand and answers. Number two...and I call on a student. I have no idea what we're doing, he says. Page 156? I ask. Yes, he says. Activity five? I ask. Yes, he answers again. Number two? Yeah, he says, I don't know the answer. I don't know how to say it in Spanish. Even though his partner's book (he has a partner because he has forgotten his own book) is open in front of him, open to the vocabulary list, which we studied on Day two and which contains -- he knows it contains -- the answer. His eyes plead with me to call on someone else. I am unrelenting. Look it up, I say. Forty painful, silent seconds later, he has the right answer, and I praise the bejezus out of him. What page are we on? someone says. I have answered that question verbally and in writing, I say, and I will not waste your classmates' time further by answering it again.
(Day four, by the way, and the "I-don't-know" student sits up front, smiles, and raises his hand for every answer.)
Day four. I collect the homework. Oh, I forgot my workbook. Can I turn it in on Monday instead? Nope, I say. We didn't have to do number 14, did we? Cause it requires an audio file. So you didn't mean we had to do that one, right? What page is it on? I ask. 32. What does the calendar say to do for today? It says do page 32, but. But? She processes this for a moment, then raises her hand again. Excuse me? But I don't think it's fair? For you to assign audio activities when we don't know where the audio files are? Okay, I say, except the syllabus tells you where to find the audio files. You have the syllabus, right? Yes, but. But?
Red, who is a nurse and, consequently, extraordinarily wise when it comes to human behavior, says day three is always the worst. Chart it, she told me, and I intend to. This time around, that theory certainly seems to hold. Today was better; people came prepared, paid more attention and did their own thinking, for the most part. There's certainly always a faction of the class that seems grateful when you hold their classmates responsible for their own work. They're used to hanging time in a class where the lazy, the petulant and the incompetent are coddled, a stream of exceptions being created to accommodate them, and feel respected when the teacher refuses to pander to the stragglers. Today, they were downright patient and themselves gestured to help the stragglers keep up.
I know it's only a matter of time before a handful of these students decide I don't like them, and that's why they're unsuccessful in my class. This amuses me and frustrates me at the same time, because if they knew how little my personal feelings about them have to do with their grade, they would be forced, through unparalleled creative flights of fancy, to blame the university, Microsoft Excel, or the Spanish language...or, as a last resort, to accept responsibility for their own poor performance. But I really feel that to give them the grade they think they deserve for being a nice, charming guy, or Puerto Rican, or because they busted ass over the last two weeks, or even to repeat the page number for the umpteenth time, is to do them a huge disservice. If we hold their hands like this in college, tell me, exactly when and where do we prepare them for the so-called real world?
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
oh, dear.
Well, I think it's safe to say my career in politics is effectively over. In celebration of New Year's Eve my friends and I got plastered and basically hijacked a party.
You know how at parties there's always one person who's That Guy or That Girl? I recently had an opportunity to experience this on the receiving end, when somebody's friend from work's boyfriend's roommate turned out to be That Guy and had virtually everyone else hiding out in the smallest room in the house while he ran amok over the party. I woke up this morning with a blistering hangover, hoping desperately my friends would hurry and wake up and confirm I had not been That Girl. My worst fears were surpassed, however: upon reconstructing events, we realized we had been That Guy. Except there were five of us.
In our defense, I'd just like to say that the party we hijacked was lame. At first I mistook it for a theme party based on replicating the Most Boring Party in the History of the Universe. It had all the makings of a great party -- great location, great food, good music -- but everyone seemed to be deeply engaged in playing Try Against All Odds Not to Have Any Fun, and they were all winning. So we did what any sensible people would do, which was to get shitfaced as quickly as possible.
I got myself into a noisy debate about the union with some geography TA and got cut off, but not from booze, from food (this is still a mystery to me). Red at one point unplugged all the Christmas lights and the sound system, and then ran out into traffic. The one we will henceforth refer to as Tits McGee got into an altercation with some guy about the chocolate fountain and wanted to fight him. Chiquita protected herself from a New Year's Eve kiss by shoving her face full of carrots, and got mistaken for the Coat Room attendant while waiting in line for the bathroom.
Mind you, none of us remembered very much about any of this, but that's what we managed to piece back together when we all woke up early this afternoon in a big heap at Red's house. We were helped along by Don Juan Dominguez's photo-documentary and some sound recordings he made, which included one of me at 11:47 p.m. saying something that I can only assume is in German and winds up with the words "a responsible brassiere". I am sure it was very clever and appropriate at the time I said it, so it's really a shame I can't remember the context, or even saying it, for that matter. In fact under the circumstances I'm a bit concerned since my condition could only have degenerated from there.
Anyway, a fun time was had by all. Well, by us anyway. Our hosts, not so much, I think. And hopefully I will never cross paths with any of those people ever again, ever, at least not on the campaign trail.
You know how at parties there's always one person who's That Guy or That Girl? I recently had an opportunity to experience this on the receiving end, when somebody's friend from work's boyfriend's roommate turned out to be That Guy and had virtually everyone else hiding out in the smallest room in the house while he ran amok over the party. I woke up this morning with a blistering hangover, hoping desperately my friends would hurry and wake up and confirm I had not been That Girl. My worst fears were surpassed, however: upon reconstructing events, we realized we had been That Guy. Except there were five of us.
In our defense, I'd just like to say that the party we hijacked was lame. At first I mistook it for a theme party based on replicating the Most Boring Party in the History of the Universe. It had all the makings of a great party -- great location, great food, good music -- but everyone seemed to be deeply engaged in playing Try Against All Odds Not to Have Any Fun, and they were all winning. So we did what any sensible people would do, which was to get shitfaced as quickly as possible.
I got myself into a noisy debate about the union with some geography TA and got cut off, but not from booze, from food (this is still a mystery to me). Red at one point unplugged all the Christmas lights and the sound system, and then ran out into traffic. The one we will henceforth refer to as Tits McGee got into an altercation with some guy about the chocolate fountain and wanted to fight him. Chiquita protected herself from a New Year's Eve kiss by shoving her face full of carrots, and got mistaken for the Coat Room attendant while waiting in line for the bathroom.
Mind you, none of us remembered very much about any of this, but that's what we managed to piece back together when we all woke up early this afternoon in a big heap at Red's house. We were helped along by Don Juan Dominguez's photo-documentary and some sound recordings he made, which included one of me at 11:47 p.m. saying something that I can only assume is in German and winds up with the words "a responsible brassiere". I am sure it was very clever and appropriate at the time I said it, so it's really a shame I can't remember the context, or even saying it, for that matter. In fact under the circumstances I'm a bit concerned since my condition could only have degenerated from there.
Anyway, a fun time was had by all. Well, by us anyway. Our hosts, not so much, I think. And hopefully I will never cross paths with any of those people ever again, ever, at least not on the campaign trail.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Oh, the humanities!
Awwww. Idnit cute? It’s her first Modern Language Association Conference. You can tell by the self-important grey suit, the modestly-heeled couture shoes and the faint whiff of vomit about her. She must be on her way to an interview, poor thing.
So I know that there are all these amazing scholars giving presentations all over my hotel right now, but I’m too giddy to possibly listen to what they have to say. In fact, I am here for one reason and one reason only: the MLA happens once a year, and it’s where hundreds of universities interview for tenure-track faculty. Me needs a job!
The interviews are a bit like speed-dating. Each university has a little table in a huge room, and you check in at the front and proceed to your school’s numbered table, then interview right in front of Gayatri Spivak and everybody. The interviews are scheduled in advance, last about half an hour and seem to be largely about the universities communicating to you whether or not you’re about to become a colleague of a bunch of pompous windbags. While it’s far from the end-all be-all of finding a job in Academia, it’s probably the A-number-one most important schlep-fest in the biz.
De rigeur for interviewees this year was the Important-looking Black Bag. I guess I missed the memo on this crucial aspect of interviewing, and found myself wondering what I would put in an Important-looking Black Bag if I had one. My travel companion’s oh-so-savvy boyfriend had supplied her with one in anticipation. Just between you and me, she used it to store her dress shoes so she could trudge through the snowy Chicago streets without dirtying them. I suspect the other folks I saw probably did the same, or else had the good sense to leave in the paper stuffing from the manufacturer so that their Important-looking Black Bags appeared to be overflowing with evidences of their professional and academic superiority, the better to psych out the other candidates.
I’m happy to say I leave my one (modest) interview feeling chuffed. If I got this job it appears I would not be surrounded by douchebags, but instead by young, dynamic people, of whom one at least bears a striking resemblance to Matthew McConaughey {sic}. Except with corduroy patches on his elbows. I’d have to really eff up my campus visit in January to take myself out of the running for this one.
And even if I don’t get that job, the search continues, and meanwhile I got to catch up with some old friends from “el Máster”. Last night I successfully navigated us to my favorite Chicago restaurant, Café Ibérico, where we reconnected over authentic (cheap!) Spanish food and wine. Nothing like old friends and a toothsome dinner to diffuse the unfamiliar, competitive feel of vying for a lousy gig with 1500 colleagues, all of whom you know to be qualified and any one of whom could be your best friend under other circumstances.
So I know that there are all these amazing scholars giving presentations all over my hotel right now, but I’m too giddy to possibly listen to what they have to say. In fact, I am here for one reason and one reason only: the MLA happens once a year, and it’s where hundreds of universities interview for tenure-track faculty. Me needs a job!
The interviews are a bit like speed-dating. Each university has a little table in a huge room, and you check in at the front and proceed to your school’s numbered table, then interview right in front of Gayatri Spivak and everybody. The interviews are scheduled in advance, last about half an hour and seem to be largely about the universities communicating to you whether or not you’re about to become a colleague of a bunch of pompous windbags. While it’s far from the end-all be-all of finding a job in Academia, it’s probably the A-number-one most important schlep-fest in the biz.
De rigeur for interviewees this year was the Important-looking Black Bag. I guess I missed the memo on this crucial aspect of interviewing, and found myself wondering what I would put in an Important-looking Black Bag if I had one. My travel companion’s oh-so-savvy boyfriend had supplied her with one in anticipation. Just between you and me, she used it to store her dress shoes so she could trudge through the snowy Chicago streets without dirtying them. I suspect the other folks I saw probably did the same, or else had the good sense to leave in the paper stuffing from the manufacturer so that their Important-looking Black Bags appeared to be overflowing with evidences of their professional and academic superiority, the better to psych out the other candidates.
I’m happy to say I leave my one (modest) interview feeling chuffed. If I got this job it appears I would not be surrounded by douchebags, but instead by young, dynamic people, of whom one at least bears a striking resemblance to Matthew McConaughey {sic}. Except with corduroy patches on his elbows. I’d have to really eff up my campus visit in January to take myself out of the running for this one.
And even if I don’t get that job, the search continues, and meanwhile I got to catch up with some old friends from “el Máster”. Last night I successfully navigated us to my favorite Chicago restaurant, Café Ibérico, where we reconnected over authentic (cheap!) Spanish food and wine. Nothing like old friends and a toothsome dinner to diffuse the unfamiliar, competitive feel of vying for a lousy gig with 1500 colleagues, all of whom you know to be qualified and any one of whom could be your best friend under other circumstances.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
kringle-krieg 2007!
So after much rending of hair and gnashing of teeth I submitted a bare-bones version of Chapter 3 last Friday. During the week that has elapsed since, the neighbs and I have been remarkably productive. We cooked and fed ourselves and used up all the groceries before they went bad (which may not sound like a big deal, but think about it), did tons of laundry, assembled a printer desk, shoveled snow, cleaned the apartment, shopped for Christmas, took out ALL the recycling, procured uniforms and worked a catering event, applied for jobs, landed an interview apiece, fixed my car, walked the dog lots, hung curtains, saw I am Legend, then came home and plasticked all the windows to secure the apartment from cold air and/or zombie attack, whichever seemed more imminent, and danced tango.
In addition, I made nine luggage tags (to great effect; I think they liked them, and if they didn't, tough, they STILL got a home-made present), burned a CD and compiled a fakebook, created some ridiculous fuzzy cat magnets and a homemade coupon, finished knitting a scarf, learned a top-secret technique I can't tell you about right now at the risk of Ruining Christmas, started quilting again, picked up my repaired sewing machine and fell in love with it all over again and took on any number of additional projects I will never finish until after Chapter 4.
Meanwhile the neighbs picked up several extra job applications, watched his niece and nephew, pow-wowed extensively with his family, packed for Spain, packed for Spain again, and left me. My tiny apartment feels like the goddamn Silverdome without him in it.
If the luggage tags survive their trip to Spain, I will take a picture of one. Other projects I will likewise photograph and post, but it's back to work for now.
In addition, I made nine luggage tags (to great effect; I think they liked them, and if they didn't, tough, they STILL got a home-made present), burned a CD and compiled a fakebook, created some ridiculous fuzzy cat magnets and a homemade coupon, finished knitting a scarf, learned a top-secret technique I can't tell you about right now at the risk of Ruining Christmas, started quilting again, picked up my repaired sewing machine and fell in love with it all over again and took on any number of additional projects I will never finish until after Chapter 4.
Meanwhile the neighbs picked up several extra job applications, watched his niece and nephew, pow-wowed extensively with his family, packed for Spain, packed for Spain again, and left me. My tiny apartment feels like the goddamn Silverdome without him in it.
If the luggage tags survive their trip to Spain, I will take a picture of one. Other projects I will likewise photograph and post, but it's back to work for now.
Monday, December 10, 2007
the rooms
Back when he lived across the street, when we sometimes woke up together, the neighbs had the habit of waking up and immediately, before yawning, before stretching or saying good morning or scratching himself or anything, in this very I've-been-awake-for-twelve-plus-hours-already voice, telling me something like "so I had this dream that there were these three bratty teenage girls, and they were being really disobedient, so their dad tied them to the staircase and brought in this motivational speaker in a leotard to give them a talking-to..." First thing in the morning he will remember his dreams with an incredible degree of clarity. It's like nothing I've ever seen before. It doesn't happen every time, but definitely enough for it to be an identifiable trait.
But that's not all. He's also really excellent at my dreams, especially the bad ones. I'll wake up after a bad dream in the middle of the night, and I'll reach for him and say something like, "I dreamt I was being chased by an army of pink gorillas who were trying to pelt me with tiny teacups" and he'll throw a warm, hairy leg over me and, without fully waking up, he'll say "It's okay. It was just a dream. Your mother loves you very much and she isn't upset with you about what you said to her the other day." The uncanny thing is he's almost always spot on.
I was walking down Park Street the other day, past a house I almost moved into right before I found my current place, and I thought about everything that's happened that never would have happened if I had lived there instead of here. My apartment would have been at the back of the house on the third floor. I never would have met a boy dragging a wiggly black puppy down the sidewalk. I never would have met his friends, who would never have become my friends. My life would be radically different as a consequence.
I thought all these things, and this huge black hole started opening up inside me at the notion of how much I owe to the snap decision to take a crappy, mouse-ridden apartment over a different crappy, mouse-ridden apartment. I tried to console myself thinking that what mattered is that I did take this apartment, I did meet that boy and that puppy on that day, I do know his friends, who are in fact now my friends, but nothing seemed to mitigate the gnawing knowledge that but for happenstance, I might currently be living in that sad third floor apartment living out some simulacrum of my current happiness, trying to convince myself it's as good as the real thing that I'd never have known was going on just up the street. Logical fallacies aside, it's a vertiginous line of thinking.
Then I remembered that, the day I met him, I never expected to see him again, and I still did. Maybe not the night that it happened, but eventually, one or the other of us would have mustered the gumption to ask the other to dance. And the world that had started to close in on itself regained its contours. Somehow, knowing that there was a failsafe mechanism in this particular lucky streak was incredibly reassuring.
And now he's here, telling me more of those nutty dreams I love to hear.
But that's not all. He's also really excellent at my dreams, especially the bad ones. I'll wake up after a bad dream in the middle of the night, and I'll reach for him and say something like, "I dreamt I was being chased by an army of pink gorillas who were trying to pelt me with tiny teacups" and he'll throw a warm, hairy leg over me and, without fully waking up, he'll say "It's okay. It was just a dream. Your mother loves you very much and she isn't upset with you about what you said to her the other day." The uncanny thing is he's almost always spot on.
I was walking down Park Street the other day, past a house I almost moved into right before I found my current place, and I thought about everything that's happened that never would have happened if I had lived there instead of here. My apartment would have been at the back of the house on the third floor. I never would have met a boy dragging a wiggly black puppy down the sidewalk. I never would have met his friends, who would never have become my friends. My life would be radically different as a consequence.
I thought all these things, and this huge black hole started opening up inside me at the notion of how much I owe to the snap decision to take a crappy, mouse-ridden apartment over a different crappy, mouse-ridden apartment. I tried to console myself thinking that what mattered is that I did take this apartment, I did meet that boy and that puppy on that day, I do know his friends, who are in fact now my friends, but nothing seemed to mitigate the gnawing knowledge that but for happenstance, I might currently be living in that sad third floor apartment living out some simulacrum of my current happiness, trying to convince myself it's as good as the real thing that I'd never have known was going on just up the street. Logical fallacies aside, it's a vertiginous line of thinking.
Then I remembered that, the day I met him, I never expected to see him again, and I still did. Maybe not the night that it happened, but eventually, one or the other of us would have mustered the gumption to ask the other to dance. And the world that had started to close in on itself regained its contours. Somehow, knowing that there was a failsafe mechanism in this particular lucky streak was incredibly reassuring.
And now he's here, telling me more of those nutty dreams I love to hear.
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