February 2006

As Coffee works at finding a job, there’s very little I can do to help him – he’s got the job-search links, he’s got the resumes spiffed up, he’s pretty much aware of the cities in which he can reasonably look for work (Hamilton, Burlington, Oakville, Mississauga, Toronto, Guelph, Kitchener/Waterloo..) For now, my primary job is to stay out of the way, to not distract him, to leave the room when I feel my urge to chitchat overtake me. It’s a simple job, but easier said than done at times. I’m a chitchatty whore.

For two days I’ve spent the afternoon tucked into library books upstairs while he taps away on the laptop and gnaws off his fingernails. I feel disconnected, to say the least, but it’s probably a good way to ease myself into his daily absence. I’m getting some good solid reading accomplished (at least 2 books a day) and Coffee is able to do what he’s gotta’ do in the meantime. If I have to do this every day for a while, I’ll survive just fine.

It’s funny, though, how I struggle with what needs to be done (the finding of a job, and the leaving-alone of Coffee in the meantime). I can be rational. I really can. But at the same time it feels like loss – because it is – and I kind of need to be honest about that too. It’s hard shifting from spending all day, every day together, to being in the same house but moving through different processes. It’s hard not to burst out with random thoughts. (Earlier today while reading a magazine, I noted aloud that Sheryl Crow has cancer and Coffee looked up at me, scowled and replied, “okay” before lowering his head again. I realized that it was time for me to leave the room.) It’s hard not to tackle him spontaneously. I’m trying, anyway. I realize his job right now (looking for work) is harder than mine (shutting the hell up) on pretty much every level.

His efforts are paying off to some extent – he’s had interest in his resume and is scheduled for an interviewy-thing tomorrow at 1pm EST. Feel free to send good vibes – there’s a written test involved. I’m completely confident that he’ll kick ass – he’s less so, of course, in his guarded Coffee-like manner. If this doesn’t pan out, there are other opportunities waiting for him – and I will do my best to keep my lips zipped while he persues them, too.

Change sucks, as I mentioned in a previous posting. I am trying to manage the suck as best I can.

Cancer (June 21-July 21)
This week, you’ll persuade people to do your bidding. I’m not suggesting you’ll have celebrities fanning you with palm fronds or anything, but someone you’ve admired from afar will finally notice you. Just remember that Salome used her lascivious dance to have John the Baptist’s head chopped off, so don’t let the thrill of having access to this long-desired person cause you to make promises you can’t — or shouldn’t — keep.

(Nerve)

My life has not been filled with opportunities to create graffiti, and I am a graffiti appreciator.

I’m not talking about those quick tagging scrawls, I’m talking about beautiful images, gigantic flourishing script and creative wording and subvert-the-government rhymes. I’m talking about self-portraits in ink or spray paint or thought-provoking politically-oriented caricatures. I love the idea of someone adding to the world around them, albeit in an unapproved manner, and letting that addition be slowly removed by rain and snow and sleet (and possibly some janitorial staff with a metal-bristled brush).

Perhaps an early life lived in cornfields and forests doesn’t lend itself well to defacing buildings and sidewalks and bathroom stalls. I have never really been able to convince myself to let my creative juices flow in a public manner. I fear getting caught, of course, and having to explain why I’m 30 years old and drawing stick-figures in flagrante delicto, but more than that I can’t think of exactly what I’d like to write. The best graffiti, in my mind, is that which is both attractive/appealing on a visual nature but contains a good message. None of this, “Dana Was Here” crap. I also have a bit of angst surrounding the idea of defacing property – I’m okay with things like mailboxes and the walls in alleys, but less certain how I feel about most other surfaces. I understand how bad graffiti, unwanted, can be considered a nuisance or just plain destructive – but the spontaneous nature of it still appeals to me.

Having this creative-block surrounding graffiti hasn’t stopped me from collecting my preferred graffiti-tools-of-the-trade. I’m not interested in spraypaint for myself – it looks wonderful when someone else does it, but not me. Instead, it’s all about the Sharpies. Sharpies in every colour of the rainbow, every style, every type. Metallic silver and thick chubby black, skinny blue and bright orange. Coffee indulges me – bringing home packages of Sharpies whenever a new style or colour is available. On my keychain, along with my housekeys and car keys and the little plastic TOPS preferred customer tag, is a mini-Sharpie. It’s the approximate length of a car key and attached with a swivelly-removable top. I daydream about whipping this marker out in public and casually adding my thoughts to a running graffiti commentary. I have a whole package of these little Sharpies just in case I lose one.

In my purse and backpack are some other Sharpies – different sizes and shapes and colours. And in the mug next to the sofa rests a selection unrivaled by half the Office Depots in the world. I use Sharpies to write on greeting cards (they don’t smudge, they stay vibrant) and I use them to write on packages when I mail them. I eschew ballpoints and fountain pens and fancy felt-tips in favour of Sharpies. They smell good – inky, with a high note of chemical burn afterscent. They feel right in my hand, they feel right as I scribble. They’re portable and available in all colours and styles.

A few days ago, Coffee bought me the newest version – “retractable” Sharpies. I haven’t opened them yet – they’re deliciously waiting on the side table for exactly the right moment. I am torturing myself by not opening them IMMEDIATELY, and it’s a fabulous torture. I already know what I’ll use them for first and, until I’m ready, the package will remain sealed. Delicious.

Today, I cannot seem to get warm. Even huddled around my unspeakably warm laptop, I’m freezing to death. My nose is cold. My feet are half-numb with cold. It’s 71 degrees and I’m wearing huge thick socks and flannel pyjama pants, a tank top and my most comfortable (and warm) sweatshirt. Earlier I was huddled underneath a blanket, wearing the same clothes, and felt like I was going to freeze to death. In fact, this “I’m cold” thing has become a bit of a trend this week. I’m cold. I’m cold. I’m colder. If I had an electric blanket, I’d buy a really long extension cord and wear THAT around the house.

The thing is? I’m NEVER cold. I’m always the one drenched in sweat while others are commenting that it’s slightly “warm out today”. I’m the one peeling off layers of clothes while others are cranking up the space heaters in the office. I’m the one who doesn’t normally drink warm beverages because they overheat her. And here I am, freezing my fucking ass off for absolutely no reason (indeed, Coffee has been wearing a t-shirt all day and seems perfectly fine).

Fucking hell, I’m freezing.

So, I’m still worked up about the whole South Dakota thing. And I ask: does this seem like a better option? Abortions aren’t going to stop – they’re just going to become dangerous. God help anyone who has to do this in this fucking century.

Despite my willingness to tell you anything – everything! – I am thoroughly convinced that you will, any time now, use all of it against me. Sometimes I literally feel like I’m just dangling it all here in front of you so that I can be proven correct when you snatch it and run. There are, at best, five people in this world that I trust implicitly; I doubt this surprises anyone.