Left behind
My munchkin, still sick, but doing a bit better comes down with a big smile on her face, "Look what I wrote!" she holds up a piece of paper that reads, "I wont my daddy." And I smile at her, despite the ravaging pain of lack that I am feeling, for, well, I'm not quite sure what.
She is frustrated and it seems that everything reminds her of México, "Oh, I wish we could be there! I bet Daddy is having much more fun than I am!" "I'm never gonna get to go back to Mexico!" "I know I am sick and I have a fever and you cancelled the tickets but couldn't we just go?!"
Now she is sleeping, at 5:30. Four hours too early for her bed time. She really isn't well. I took her out for a few hours today, to get some sunshine on her skin after days of bed-ridden half-light. I promised her a picnic by the water, after the errands that I needed to do at the University. My car did not want to start, but I willed it to do so, and on my very last attempt the motor sputtered to life. It seemed that things were going my way. I picked up a gift for I. from a profesora who is always so kind and constantly giving me little presents (as if I somehow deserved such gifting). I also had to deliver a present for a friend who is leaving for Argentina, actually a staff member in my department, I burned him a bunch of Rock argentino, so he would go prepared, for a year of living there. I am so envious, I wish I could go back, but then, you can never go back, there is always something lost and left behind.
But the true tragedy in all this, despite what one may think, is that my fridge is overflowing with food, and I have no one to feed it to. (If you were Jewish you'd understand). I inherited all the contents of Laura and Líber's fridge when M. left, which included two more loaves of bread (above and beyond the three in my freezer - I goofed, though I was out and bought two loaves, a poppy-wheat bread and the usual sprouted soy.) I don't even eat bread, hardly ever, I. is a toast addict, and it is always a quick fix to have a sandwhich handy, but really, I will have to make one heck of a round of French toast because there is no more room in the freezer with all the frozen soups and stocks that I have made. As I said. No one to feed is a big problem, and I.'s apetite has shrunk. Our picnic consisted of the following though I. only ate a kiwi, a mandarin and part of a bag of chips that she begged me to buy: mini whole-wheat pita, hummus, herb-chevrie, an avocado that has been taken for two rides with no takers, kiwi, satsumas and string cheese, and of course the left-over turkey salad, that I whipped up to be eaten as my new favorite dinner for one - tostadas de tinga a la curry...
The turkey was from Thanksgiving, frozen in small manageable bags for quick defrosting and emergency meals. It was chopped and added to diced onion, celery, toasted walnuts, dried cranberries and a chopped Fuji apple (I am rather particular about my apples - I only like them hard and sour). This was added to a curry dressing of mayonaise, a bit of sour cream, garlic powder, salt, a spoonful of sugar, a teaspoon of dijon and lots of curry powder. This has lasted for several days and will undoubtedly last several days more. There is a boloñesa, and a stroganoff and mole and three packages of tortillas, which I might as well start drying now for chilaquiles, but then I remember. Right, no one to eat any of it. Fuck.
One friend suggested that I start a lunch special menu and feed otherwise hungry grad students. Tempting, tempting, but most everyone has fled the university, too. It is funny, this is the first time that I have had the deep sense of missing out on something, though I am not sure quite what. I dream of midnight visits, rainfall, urgent napkin poems. I feel dusty and opaque.
And my head hurts. I forget to buy groceries for 1 and a half, and instead buy for three and guests. (But I will not go back for the next three weeks, I swear! well, I can go to the co-op for onions) I have a defrosted turkey stock for a curried lentil soup and defrosted sausage for a bean stew, and salad greens and more cucumber than I can use in any kosher fashion, and no desire to eat any of those things if it will be standing in front of the window in my kitchen, watching cars drive too quickly, or not at all, wondering if maybe I should dress from the waist down, if people walking by can actually see in. I don't really care too much.
I remember the movies that I rented, hopeful of some interest in a story that isn't the same story of a thousand times before, but they always are the same stories, just with a few pieces readjusted, shifted, jiggled, reassigned. I am eternally bored with the lame narrative that unfolds, with my predictable reactions, with my inability to behave the way I would like to. I hate that I can tear up just as easily with a children's book, as with a commercial on depression or a sappy sentimental movie. I talk to an old friend, but I don't really want to bother anyone else. I think I might like to bury my phone in a ditch, like a dog with his bone, and maybe discover it again, next year, when things don't seem so bleak.
Some people have work to do, they are busy in the lab, doing research. I can't even make myself pick up a book. Three whole days, not one book. I feel guilty. I will read now, I will make myself. I. sleeps fitfully, stirs and cries for me, I say in my silkiest voice, "I'm right here baby," and she settles back in to the bed, her eyes fluttering shut. The doctors are morons, I take that back, the doctor's office staff are morons, whether or not the doctors are remains to be seen, as it is virtually impossible to get an audience of any sort with a medically trained professional... They call back 6 hours late. How is that for punctuality? They tell me, on voice-mail, exactly what I already know. I don't want to take her in for a check up, because I have NO MONEY and NO INSURANCE! I am fucked. I tell this to I. in other words when she is hassling me for something warm and fuzzy with a lot of hair. "No, you don't need another stuffed animal." "Just one, I want to hug something warm and cuddly." "I'm warm and cuddly... isn't that good enough?" "But with a lot of Fur!!!" "Baby, Mama can't buy you anything that you don't absolutely need because I don't have any money." "Well you have some," she replies. sullenly. "Yeah, but only for things like the rent and that *@^!) phone bill. "Ok, I'll have a donut, then." Damn, I remember that I have to call and have them recalculate it before paying. I also remember that I won't get paid until the 2nd this month because of the way direct deposit works. I guess it isn't a total waste of time to wade through the three-hundred emails our CSO sends on a daily basis...
And it gets dark so early, I retreat up into the half light of my bed, which consumes practically the entire square footage of the bedroom. I suddenlt realize thatI could redecorate, move the bed against the wall. (I have always loved sleeping against the wall and having a freestanding bed is like a secret torture, because I can't curl in against the cool paint and feel the hard embrace of its non-give) I get a surprise call from Costa Rica and my cibernetic double makes me laugh like only a true friend can. I leave someone else hanging, but am forgiven (I hope).
And I feel sad, sad, sad for Baudelaire and Corleone who were left behind, for the first time, in a split level "kitty condo" instead of being left to destroy my parents rugs, and I wish that they could be with me, and/or that I could get I. the cat that she would like, and she reminds me, "we're not allowed, remember?" when I suggest that we secretly procure a kitten to asuage my affective needs, as if one small lap-child weren't enough.
And then it really begins, the night that stretches out into nothingness: when I fail to produce anything more than impoverished attempts at writing or editing, but no reading... And I realize that maybe if I just read one book for pleasure it would kickstart me back into gear, but the one book I really want to read (I will embarass myself here) is the last Harry Potter, and I won't buy it because I have promised myself that I will wait until there is a 7 book set, just like the Chronicles of Narnia, that consumed my endless summer days of pre-adolescence with high fantasy, for several years (over and over), and buy if for I. Meanwhile, there is no one around to lend it to me, and sending a tome of such monstrosity through the mail, well, is pointless and stupid.
I should go back to my "real" reading, or edit, or do something productive, but all I can think about is the fact that I am left behind and sitting in my (briefly but trying) clean house with only one recurring thought on the brain, like a goddamn short circuit that leads back into itself tautologically.
She is frustrated and it seems that everything reminds her of México, "Oh, I wish we could be there! I bet Daddy is having much more fun than I am!" "I'm never gonna get to go back to Mexico!" "I know I am sick and I have a fever and you cancelled the tickets but couldn't we just go?!"
Now she is sleeping, at 5:30. Four hours too early for her bed time. She really isn't well. I took her out for a few hours today, to get some sunshine on her skin after days of bed-ridden half-light. I promised her a picnic by the water, after the errands that I needed to do at the University. My car did not want to start, but I willed it to do so, and on my very last attempt the motor sputtered to life. It seemed that things were going my way. I picked up a gift for I. from a profesora who is always so kind and constantly giving me little presents (as if I somehow deserved such gifting). I also had to deliver a present for a friend who is leaving for Argentina, actually a staff member in my department, I burned him a bunch of Rock argentino, so he would go prepared, for a year of living there. I am so envious, I wish I could go back, but then, you can never go back, there is always something lost and left behind.
But the true tragedy in all this, despite what one may think, is that my fridge is overflowing with food, and I have no one to feed it to. (If you were Jewish you'd understand). I inherited all the contents of Laura and Líber's fridge when M. left, which included two more loaves of bread (above and beyond the three in my freezer - I goofed, though I was out and bought two loaves, a poppy-wheat bread and the usual sprouted soy.) I don't even eat bread, hardly ever, I. is a toast addict, and it is always a quick fix to have a sandwhich handy, but really, I will have to make one heck of a round of French toast because there is no more room in the freezer with all the frozen soups and stocks that I have made. As I said. No one to feed is a big problem, and I.'s apetite has shrunk. Our picnic consisted of the following though I. only ate a kiwi, a mandarin and part of a bag of chips that she begged me to buy: mini whole-wheat pita, hummus, herb-chevrie, an avocado that has been taken for two rides with no takers, kiwi, satsumas and string cheese, and of course the left-over turkey salad, that I whipped up to be eaten as my new favorite dinner for one - tostadas de tinga a la curry...
The turkey was from Thanksgiving, frozen in small manageable bags for quick defrosting and emergency meals. It was chopped and added to diced onion, celery, toasted walnuts, dried cranberries and a chopped Fuji apple (I am rather particular about my apples - I only like them hard and sour). This was added to a curry dressing of mayonaise, a bit of sour cream, garlic powder, salt, a spoonful of sugar, a teaspoon of dijon and lots of curry powder. This has lasted for several days and will undoubtedly last several days more. There is a boloñesa, and a stroganoff and mole and three packages of tortillas, which I might as well start drying now for chilaquiles, but then I remember. Right, no one to eat any of it. Fuck.
One friend suggested that I start a lunch special menu and feed otherwise hungry grad students. Tempting, tempting, but most everyone has fled the university, too. It is funny, this is the first time that I have had the deep sense of missing out on something, though I am not sure quite what. I dream of midnight visits, rainfall, urgent napkin poems. I feel dusty and opaque.
And my head hurts. I forget to buy groceries for 1 and a half, and instead buy for three and guests. (But I will not go back for the next three weeks, I swear! well, I can go to the co-op for onions) I have a defrosted turkey stock for a curried lentil soup and defrosted sausage for a bean stew, and salad greens and more cucumber than I can use in any kosher fashion, and no desire to eat any of those things if it will be standing in front of the window in my kitchen, watching cars drive too quickly, or not at all, wondering if maybe I should dress from the waist down, if people walking by can actually see in. I don't really care too much.
I remember the movies that I rented, hopeful of some interest in a story that isn't the same story of a thousand times before, but they always are the same stories, just with a few pieces readjusted, shifted, jiggled, reassigned. I am eternally bored with the lame narrative that unfolds, with my predictable reactions, with my inability to behave the way I would like to. I hate that I can tear up just as easily with a children's book, as with a commercial on depression or a sappy sentimental movie. I talk to an old friend, but I don't really want to bother anyone else. I think I might like to bury my phone in a ditch, like a dog with his bone, and maybe discover it again, next year, when things don't seem so bleak.
Some people have work to do, they are busy in the lab, doing research. I can't even make myself pick up a book. Three whole days, not one book. I feel guilty. I will read now, I will make myself. I. sleeps fitfully, stirs and cries for me, I say in my silkiest voice, "I'm right here baby," and she settles back in to the bed, her eyes fluttering shut. The doctors are morons, I take that back, the doctor's office staff are morons, whether or not the doctors are remains to be seen, as it is virtually impossible to get an audience of any sort with a medically trained professional... They call back 6 hours late. How is that for punctuality? They tell me, on voice-mail, exactly what I already know. I don't want to take her in for a check up, because I have NO MONEY and NO INSURANCE! I am fucked. I tell this to I. in other words when she is hassling me for something warm and fuzzy with a lot of hair. "No, you don't need another stuffed animal." "Just one, I want to hug something warm and cuddly." "I'm warm and cuddly... isn't that good enough?" "But with a lot of Fur!!!" "Baby, Mama can't buy you anything that you don't absolutely need because I don't have any money." "Well you have some," she replies. sullenly. "Yeah, but only for things like the rent and that *@^!) phone bill. "Ok, I'll have a donut, then." Damn, I remember that I have to call and have them recalculate it before paying. I also remember that I won't get paid until the 2nd this month because of the way direct deposit works. I guess it isn't a total waste of time to wade through the three-hundred emails our CSO sends on a daily basis...
And it gets dark so early, I retreat up into the half light of my bed, which consumes practically the entire square footage of the bedroom. I suddenlt realize thatI could redecorate, move the bed against the wall. (I have always loved sleeping against the wall and having a freestanding bed is like a secret torture, because I can't curl in against the cool paint and feel the hard embrace of its non-give) I get a surprise call from Costa Rica and my cibernetic double makes me laugh like only a true friend can. I leave someone else hanging, but am forgiven (I hope).
And I feel sad, sad, sad for Baudelaire and Corleone who were left behind, for the first time, in a split level "kitty condo" instead of being left to destroy my parents rugs, and I wish that they could be with me, and/or that I could get I. the cat that she would like, and she reminds me, "we're not allowed, remember?" when I suggest that we secretly procure a kitten to asuage my affective needs, as if one small lap-child weren't enough.
And then it really begins, the night that stretches out into nothingness: when I fail to produce anything more than impoverished attempts at writing or editing, but no reading... And I realize that maybe if I just read one book for pleasure it would kickstart me back into gear, but the one book I really want to read (I will embarass myself here) is the last Harry Potter, and I won't buy it because I have promised myself that I will wait until there is a 7 book set, just like the Chronicles of Narnia, that consumed my endless summer days of pre-adolescence with high fantasy, for several years (over and over), and buy if for I. Meanwhile, there is no one around to lend it to me, and sending a tome of such monstrosity through the mail, well, is pointless and stupid.
I should go back to my "real" reading, or edit, or do something productive, but all I can think about is the fact that I am left behind and sitting in my (briefly but trying) clean house with only one recurring thought on the brain, like a goddamn short circuit that leads back into itself tautologically.
posted by ilana at 5:43 p.m.
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