i already ate breakfast but i go back to the fridge for two more almonds but two becomes four and four becomes six. and six becomes more pretzels. i crouch down and hug the cat, lifting her front feet off the floor so she's standing upright. "this is what it'd be like if you were a human," i whisper.
i want to reinvent my way of writing because i haven't written a worthwhile poem since i had to in college. i spend an embarrassing amount of time copying and pasting a stranger's fragmented thoughts into a word document and file it away for inspiration. unlike her i don't have the booze, the drugs or the crazy friends (nor do i want them) but i wish i could write like her. i know she thinks she can't write, but she can.
my editor (aka my grandmother) calls. "i think you meant 'secluded' but you put 'excluded'," she says. and she's right. my problem is i can't stay focused. there are too many things i want to create. poems, photos, jewelry, greeting cards, tee shirts. you name it. the dishes still aren't in the dishwasher that leaves soap crystals stuck to the the plates.
i edit photos and realize i haven't left the apartment today. i need to cash two checks and dust my bedroom. my best friend comes to visit in three days but i haven't spoken to her in two weeks. i turn a fisheye shot into an interesting double exposure, make it pink and green and title it "if malibu were a snow globe." a phrase that inspires a lovely shell of a poem in my head. if only i could write poems again.
it's fall and it's cold, but not as cold as it would be if i was home. (although my body is convinced there is no temperature difference today). i add dish soap to the dishwasher because the crystals don't work and we don't have anything else. five minutes pass and i'm scooping suds off the floor with a paper plate. swirly piles of foam fill the kitchen sink. the last time this happened was when i wanted the dishes to be "extra clean". miss gray meows for food. i shake the bowl and she thinks it's new. i wish i were that easy to please.
i'm eating the pretzel nuggets my grandmother mailed me yesterday which reminds me i have things to mail. my boyfriend calls. it's about the perfume i want that the store doesn't carry. so i have to find it online. my best friend calls. she's packing. it is supposed to be in the 70s while she's here so i told her to bring layers and 80s clothes. we're going out on thursday. "i have to pick out ice cream toppings and bake fifty cupcakes for sunday," she complains. she used to like making cupcakes. she's keeping an eye out for a new job because she's tired of dealing with a bitchy boss and coming home late and getting up early, but she loves the stockings and work clothes. (i hate the word pantyhose).
there's a washcloth pocked with mascara marks my mother draped over the tub. i'm hesitant to throw it in the laundry basket because time will make it seem like she hasn't been here in a week. she's home, living out of her suitcase and has a lunch date tomorrow but she doesn't know what to wear. it's either a striped long-sleeved sweater that she she bought me for Christmas one year or what she wore on Mother's Day.
it's nearly 7 now and we haven't eaten dinner yet. andrea was supposed to call me in an hour but an hour was hours ago. she's probably still packing. i'm eager to see the photos dave and his friend shot of me yesterday when i was wearing the pink wig that made me look like natalie portman in "closer." the wig was too kewl not to ask to borrow. my minds churning with ideas for halloween. we still need to buy candy. yesterday i was a model, tomorrow i am a PA, next week a beauty consultant. it's like halloween every day.
it looked like rain all afternoon and tonight it finally burst. there's still foam in the bottom of the dishwasher so i run it again on "light wash." next time i'll do them by hand. my boyfriend started calling the cat "PITA" (Pain In The Ass) and gets mad when i ask him to throw the asparagus into the steamer pot because the cat is comfy on my lap. after dinner, miss gray purrrs in his face and throws herself onto his lap and he forgets what a PITA she is.
it's almost 11 and i'm back on pretzels in front of the computer. two nights ago rick and i played scrabble online because we're too lazy to set it up in the living room but it took even longer to play. i take two nuggets out at a time, hoping they'll be the last two but two becomes four and four becomes six. we just finished watching the special features to "one flew over the cuckoo's nest." i never saw the movie in its entirety but i knew something happened to the Indian at the end. i remember my mother being happy with the outcome.
my bedroom is still dusty but the dog crate is finally out of the spare room. "why don't you read over here?" i ask my boyfriend who is still in the living room reading a Brian Wilson biography. i convince myself this is the last pretzel so he won't have to read over my pretzel crunching. there are new dishes in the sink and the cat box still smells but there's always tomorrow. i'm a procrastinator, but at least i'm consistent.
maybe tonight i'll fall asleep in our bed instead of the spare bed, convincing myself under clean sheets that i'll just lie down for two minutes. but two becomes four and four becomes six and pretty soon it's time for my boyfriend to crawl out of bed to turn off the lights, shut down the computer and return me to where i belong.