Archive for February, 2009

Before, I really thought I needed a vacation. And then, after this week-and-a-bit, I really did need a vacation, really, really badly. It’s been a hell of a week-and-a-bit, and the thought that I would get out of town and away from everything, soon, sooner, in two days, in one day, tomorrow, has been the only thing that’s been keeping me upright and with my head more or less intact.

By this time tomorrow, I will be on the Mayan Riveria. I will possibly even be wearing the string bikini I bought if my courage does not fail me, and I will definitely feasting on buttery lobster that had been caught ten minutes previously. Icy, salty margaritas, hot hot sun, hot hot like the sun boyfriend, the beach. Oh, the beach. I may lie flat on the sand and not move the entire week, and it will be the best week of my life, after a week of hell. Or the hammock.

This is the time during the winter where you officially are obligated to say that’s it, I’m finished, I’m done, it’s over, another snowfall will kill me and if it doesn’t, I will kill myself, because really, winter, you’ve gone entirely too far. Really, winter.

When E and I booked our fancy vacation the hell out of winter, I thought we should go as soon as possible. No, E said sagely, as he has lived in winter climes for the entirety of his life, we should go as late in February as possible. Because that’s when we’re going to be sick of winter. That’s when we’re going to need a break. But I want to go nooooooow, I whined. Believe me, he said. You’ll be grateful at the end of February. You’ll be glad we waited.

My cat, who is named Fang, is fat and round, neurotic, a little retarded, cuddly and dog-like. My cat Fang is the greatest of all cats. He is the platonic ideal of cats, and without him I would never get any work done because he sits and supervises very carefully and puts his paw in my face if he senses I am slacking off, or if he wants to put his paw in my face.

I lucked out in the cat lottery, and because of that I am not afraid to sing the praises of my sweet little man, to acknowledge that I am a Cat Person, possibly verging on Crazy and Lady, if I’m going to be honest with you. I am crazy—about my cat (see what I did there?), to the point where I will talk about him on the internet without shame, and I will tell you also that he worries me.

For Valentine’s Day, which was very lovely and Valentiney, I made a small feast. I made steak with a rub and a nice salad and roasted garlic mashed potatoes. The steak was excellent, the salad was okay, and the garlic mashed potatoes were the stuff of creamery, buttery, garlicky perfection in a gigantic pot of potatoes and I wanted to put my face in them and fall asleep and maybe asphyxiate in potatoey, garlicky happiness. It’s a fitting end for me.

I started them first, because the garlic had to roast for awhile, and then peeling the potatoes took an age and a half and also a knuckle. I focused on my potatoes as they came together, almost like magic. Garlic-smelling magic. The boiling, the concentrated mashing, the adding the entire stick of butter and the cream, the careful seasoning, the whipping in the soft, roasted cloves, the careful adjustment of seasoning, the struggle with myself to not put my face in the pot–at every stage it came together so beautifully, I nearly cried.

I can’t keep up with whether it is cool to like Valentine’s Day now because it celebrates the universal spirit of togetherness we must embrace in order to make it through these dark times and to honor our renewed spirit of national hope and optimism, or cool in the spirit of irony and the embracing of dorky things like Care Bears and heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, or uncool because it is cliched and commercial and who really needs another pair of edible panties and it is exclusionary of those not in relationships and also cheesy or lame.

My personal stance, my plank in the platform, is that I am very fond of Valentine’s Day. I am a fan of love; I am glad that there is a day that honors love, in all its forms, filial and fornicatory, penetrative and otherwise.

You know the three wishes game? Which is pretty much–that. You get three wishes. And you spend a lot of time crafting them carefully, wording them in very specific ways so that you are not screwed by a mischievous genie over a technicality because you had a dangling modifier or forgot to be precise in your choice of adjective. I spent a lot of time working on my major wish, and it was this: to be perfect. I don’t remember how, exactly, I phrased it, but what it boiled down to is that I wanted to be perfect in every way–physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually perfect. That is a whole lot of perfect. That is a whole lot of wishing.

I want to be perfect and unassailable. I want to be absolutely bullet proof. I want no one to ever find fault with me, because there are no faults to find, no cracks, seams or crevices.

My memory is notoriously spotty–I do not remember what I’ve said ten minutes ago (and sometimes–more often than I’d like to admit–directly after I’ve said it) and I do not remember events, people, places, names, or things. It makes for an exciting world in which everything is constantly new and interesting and absorbing. Every experience is a new experience! Every person is a new person to get to know and love! Every birthday is forgotten unless I’ve taken great pains to write it down in one or more spots and then set up email reminders and a singing telegram to remind me.

It is not unusual to forget things, to require an outside brain that is made of paper and is operated with a pen. Almost everyone needs lists and reminders and notes and strings around their fingers, and I am only a little embarrassed that I need to add things like “take vitamins” and “shower” to my to-do lists.

A month or so ago I realized that I was long overdue for flying away somewhere and not being in my life for awhile; naturally, I thought of San Francisco. Short plane ride, distinct lack of snow, people I am fond of and babies to dote on, a tattoo to finish, some grooming, and also a lot of shopping. Not that I could have spent any money, but just kind of–touching. Admiring. Pulling down a rack of cunningly skull-embroidered sweaters in H&M and rolling around in them until they kicked me out or I developed a rash from the synthetics. Heaving myself up hills and going BOY THIS PLACE IS PRETTY! Sweating! It’s been a long time since I’ve sweated. I am so long overdue for all of that.

Having the vague outline of a plan quelled some of the restless, itchy shiftiness that had started to make me scratchy in my pants, and I’ve been looking at flights and thinking about domestic arrangements and mentally compiling my packing list (oh, the joy that comes when you realize you can wear cute shoes and your new pencil skirt what has moths on it andomg, dorky outfit planning ahoy).