Sunday, April 17, 2011

Bustin out we'd break their hearts ...

I was on antibiotics for six months for my chronic ailment(1). Now, finally off antibiotics, my chronic ailment immediately returned. Like a ninja. Like it was just waiting there, dormant, for the guard to look the other direction. Raise your hand if you're starting to think this is psychosomatic. That makes at least two of us. If this is true, I have a wicked strong 'somatic. Because I used the ladies room eight painful times in less than two hours on Friday while waiting for the sadist who once sent me to be catheterized to return my phone call. And then I paid for a weekends-worth of Cipro with about 1/4 cup of hot and diseased urine.

Today I woke up at 1 p.m. feeling medical. And I don't know exactly how to describe what I mean, but I'll try this: Like I'd been sitting in a bathtub filled with Nyquil. That's close enough.

Chuck has stolen into bed earlier than normal. He contorts himself in his sleep. A funny person when he is awake, he is also the master of unconscious hilarity. As if he knows that at some point I will look over at him, fist bunched under his face, mouth open, other arm thrown above his head like a bullrider, one leg here, one leg there, sheet like a malfunctioning toga, and get a good chuckle. He wants to make it worth my while. He's very good to me.

I read a bit of "The Broom of the System," exhaust the internet, and re-read some miscellaneous junk I'd thrown together late last night in a fit of uninspired writing-to-writeness. Huh. Not as bad as I thought. Drink coffee. Pop a Cipro. Find a pair of pant pants and decide to hit a few stops on the local gallery hop.

I consider a trip to a gallery to be a success if I can find one thing that absolutely thrills me. At my first stop, it's three true to scale birch tree trunks made of maybe wool. Completely realistic. Shavings bending off the trunks. One reached damn-near all the way to the ceiling. The artist wrote that as a cross country skier, she started noticing similarities between what was in her fabric bag and what she was seeing on the trails. Wonderful.

At the second stop I crack up over a student's sexy photography. He explained that sexuality is at the root of everything, murder, death, wars, happiness, creation. One shot features drops of water? on skin. One shot features a finger stuck into the center of a cherry pie. One shot features a banana, peeled, held at waist level. Not necessarily ground breaking work, nothing that hasn't been done in a teen comedy. But markedly different from anything else being shown. And, let's face it, funny.

"Let's each of us look around and pick out the one thing we would steal if we could," an older woman says to her two companions. "Then we'll show it to the others."

This is my kind of gallery game.

I make for the snack area. An assortment of cookies and coffee. First I eat a peanut butter cookie and flip through a Homegrown Music Festival field guide; Then I eat a Macadamia Nut Cookie. At age 35 I've noticed that no one notices if you take two cookies. And if they do, tough nuts.

Three college-aged girls have a hushed conversation that ends with one of them saying "So wait. Does that mean you aren't wearing any underwear?" 

The piece I'd steal is by a local artist, which says a lot considering this collection is pretty eclectic in terms of periods, subjects, medium and name recognition. She does fantasy-style illustrations that are so lovely and vaguely macabre. This one is of a woman in black, a tiny pearl at her throat. Neck thin. Eyes spaced wide. A side bun in her hair. She could be related to Coraline.

I stop off at Barnes & Noble. It seems that I've now run into the fact that Tina Fey has written a book enough times in a row that I probably should just read it already. I never really think about it concretely, but I think I like Tina Fey. I plan to buy it, but lose interest in standing in line. I make for Target, where I need to find a men's Converse black hooded zip sweatshirt because Chuck notices when I wear his and then does all this math-y nonsense comparing the sizes of our wardrobes and why it isn't cool to dip into his meager stash. Blah blah blah.

He texts me that he is awake before I get to the store, so I skip that errand.

Back at the house, he's raring. He's had his coffee. He's dressed. And wearing that g'damn sweatshirt, I might add. He wants to get out and about. We go to Target, where there is everything BUT a men's Converse black hooded zip sweatshirt. Instead we buy a shower curtain, Sharpies, Comet, paper. I get snippy with the kid ringing up the goods when he tries to give the Comet its own bag. Poor kid. More often than not he probably gets some sassy assface who says "YOU'RE GOING TO PUT CLEANING SUPPLIES IN THE SAME BAG AS THOSE T-SHIRTS?! WHAT IF IT OPENS, HUH? WHAT IF IT BLEACHES THOSE T-SHIRTS!"  

We eat dinner at 5 Guys Burgers and I win the contest where you tell your boyfriend that the song "Never Say Goodbye" by Bon Jovi is from "Slippery When Wet" and he says it isn't and you Google it and you're right. I never win this kind of contest. I take my cheeseburger with hot sauce.

We buy masking tape and shoelaces at Walgreen's.

We head downtown to see a super great play filled with dead cats and gunshot wounds. It is fantastic. Back at home Chuck conks out and I make more words for the internet.

FOOTNOTES
(1) Urinary Tract Infections. But I get tired of writing those words. So "Chronic Ailment" it is.

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