if I stole
FOLLOW THE DOT
Many times my spouse thinks he has started the dishwasher at night, before heading up to bed, and he has not. The dishwasher is all cued up and ready to go but the button has not been pushed. It is okay because I get up very early and I just push the button then. Today I was happy to do it because it was the maiden voyage of our new dishwasher and I had forgotten that it projects a red dot on the floor to show you it’s running! Very Star Trek, so exciting. Also briefly exciting for cats who like laser pointers (Murphy lost interest when it became apparent the red dot was not going to skitter around). Bosch crew represent! There must be some boring internet Dishwasher Forum community I can join and make new friends.
This morning I was pleased to start the dishwasher, feed the cats, and otherwise start the day because it meant that my very unsettling dream of getting an abortion on a cruise ship had ended. This was not some dystopian dream where reproductive medical care was only available in international waters, it was just a thing you could do? Like at the spa? There were weird emotions involved in the dream with people being disappointed in me, and me being defensive about how I’m done raising children, this is the best choice, etc. Dancing on the Lido Deck, abortions in the Jane Collective Stateroom, midnight ice cream buffet.
MESSENGER RNA
My little family have all had part 1 of our vaccinations, all at different sites (strangely). I am the lone Pfizer lady in a house full of Moderna bros. My vaccine nurse was INCREDIBLY cheerful, just so happy to be alive and sticking immunity in people, I wish I could have tipped her or something. While I waited, in the “see if you die” waiting area, a weird old woman came out, AFTER getting her shot, and demanded to see a doctor. The volunteers eventually procured one, which astounded me (I would have told this woman that no doctor has time to randomly “see” you), and she proceeded to bombard him with nonsensical questions about “CDC guidelines” and “peer-reviewed studies”—just enough buzzwords to let everyone know that you don’t know jack shit—and when she would be able to travel to Canada. He was way more patient than I would have been and deserved a tip as well.
I do not know if it is the vaccine or spring or just getting over myself, but the moody malaise of March is now the affable acceptance of April, and I am no longer worrying every night that I will die in my sleep. That was weird! It lasted for weeks! It would be worse if I tried to treat the horrifying anxiety with a tiny benzodiazepine dose, because oh my god! I have just increased the chances of dying in my sleep! You are fine, I would tell my brain. No one ever stopped breathing on half a Xanax. But Michelle McNamara! (Said my brain.) Or other unexplained deaths, shall we Google some on the phone? Listen brain, Michelle McNamara had a lot more things going on than half a Xanax, plus an undiagnosed heart condition! But I too have an undiagnosed (or at least a shruggy “who knows why you faint a few times a year”) heart condition! By this time I had usually progressed to imagining not being around for the kid, which would trigger a legit panic attack—you would think that would call for the other half of the Xanax, but! See above about medication and death! Oh my fucking god it was the worst. But it is done now! Knock on wood! Knock on wood with the fist of god!
I hope you feel better too. I hope you will get vaccinated and come sit in my yard with a fire going and eat cheese and drink the beverages of your choice (I will provide a selection). This will be the baby steps into going to actual bars (CAN YOU IMAGINE). Everyone needs to keep me occupied in the summer/fall so that I can at least briefly stop crying about my baby going to college. He is truly so cool and mature! He will do so well! I am so excited! I am also SO SAD.
BESPOKE
Speaking of mature high-achieving wunderkinds, it seems that Aaron has a paid internship at a real company this summer. This will require a few things that are scary, like getting up before 11 am and driving to a suburb every day (the transit options are…not great). Also the scariest thing of all: SHOPPING. The young man will need professional clothes, and the wonderful combination of: (a) being too slender for many men’s sizes but too muscular for most kid’s sizes* and (b) being as picky and quality-construction-conscious as an elderly Italian tailor, means that we are in for an interesting day of retail and a whole lot of hemming.
*Where do the teenage gymnasts and wrestlers shop? That’s probably where we need to be.
I GET MAD AT A BOOK WORD
Recently read: a not-half-bad/not-especially memorable detective book called Lost Hills (Lee Goldberg). It is the first book in a series about a female detective—I didn’t really get too much of a sense of the character, but imagine the usual hard-boiled traits for both male and female detectives of this type—driven, physically fit, not afraid of a fight, doesn’t sleep much, eats like crap, workaholic, no social life, blah blah blah. It was fine. But there was one phrase in one scene that sent me into an absolute rage!
The protagonist has had the shit kicked out of her by an unknown assailant, and is checking her injuries, and “The bruise on her flat stomach was a deep, angry purple.” Am I crazy (yes) or does “flat” there just pull you RIGHT OUT of the narrative (also yes)? Is it not possibly the dumbest thing to insert there, in the middle of that sentence? Is it completely unnecessary? Would a man EVER be described as having a “flat” stomach? Have I been thinking about it, in an editorial way, more than is possibly reasonable?
(The book also capitalizes “Realtor” throughout. Technically correct but somewhat jarring.)
I did not know, until I looked it up, that Lee Goldberg is a man. Does that make the insertion of “flat” better or worse? My goodness we don’t have time to unpack all this. I give it to you, to either point and laugh at me or share in my weird problems.
—mimi smartypants is a deep, angry purple.