I took the GRE today. In Fairfax. Two hours away. During my naptime. And they wouldn’t let me bring my candy or my Chapstick into the room with me. And I had to ask for a key to use the bathroom, which I hate. And I felt all this pressure to “know things” and to “do well.” But despite all of that, I think I did okay on the test. I was surprised considering that in lieu of studying last night, I went out for Mexican food and then watched The Thing, starring Kurt Russell. Kind of a great movie.
Lying in bed last night I was all excited (!) because I was going to take a test today (the challenge! the novelty! the possibility that the testing staff would pull me aside halfway through and say, “You are the smartest person ever to take this test. Don’t worry about finishing. Enjoy this bag of jellybeans instead.”), I asked Darren to hit me with some vocabulary words for me to define. He only offered me one: fag-a-tronic. I was stumped. It didn’t do much for my confidence. Fagatronic? Can that be a verb? I couldn’t even use it in a sentence.
I still don’t know how I did on my essays, but I am hoping that the inspired joke I made about fat stunt people with osteoporosis will earn me extra points.
I haven’t abandoned my blog, but I have been v. b.z. and v. d.pressed. I will make a full comeback next week, but for now, here is a taste to whet your appetite.
MY DORKY DREAM
I am at the Jefferson Madison Downtown Regional Library, which will always be my favorite local library even though its employees occasionally play the game of “Lose the books Wistar returns and then hire a collection agency to send her scary invoices for $90.” I’m trying to make conversation with the librarians, but they are ignoring me. “Hey guys,” I say. “Did you see Art Garfunkel’s reading list in this week’s New Yorker? Who would have guessed?” Then I go looking for Martin Amis’s novel Money. But the fiction section isn’t where it used to be on the main floor! The fiction section is up three flights of stairs, and to get there I have to walk through a gift shop selling cheap jewelry and across a meditation area with chlorinated, 50-meter reflecting pools. And I keep cursing at all the people drinking Mocha Frappiatos and pawing through fashion magazines. “Shit,” I say. “Where are all the f-ing books?” Then a hot guy opens an unmarked door beside the coin-operated carousel and I see a sign for Fiction A-Am, and I am home.
Now who’s a bigger nerd, me or Art Garfunkel?
The BBF and I recently dropped $99.95 to sign up for homeexchange.com. Home Exchange is like Wife Swap, but with houses. Those of you who lack both wives and houses are basically nonentities in this new global economy.
The concept behind Home Exchange is brilliant. You own a house in Malibu and you have always wanted to visit Barcelona. A homeowner in Barcelona has always wanted to visit Malibu. They trade houses for a few weeks. [Wait – this sounds like a great idea for a bad romantic comedy.]
Brilliant! Except once you log into the site, you see that every other house listed is a) a mansion; b) a mansion overlooking the Cote d’Azur; or c) a mansion with a helicopter landing pad on the roof. The BBF and I are advertising our proximity to Monticello and our washer/dryer hookup, and other homeowners are advertising their yachts and heated pools. So I’m not sure this home exchange concept will work out for us. We need something in the quality of life area between Homeexchange.com and Couchsurfing.com. But I’m still hoping someone on the former site will say, “Forget Manhattan. Forget Paris. I want to wash my clothes in a modest ranch home in Charlottesville, Virginia.” And P.S., we include the use of a station wagon.
I just discovered that my website is featured in my favorite local paper! I always read Nell Boeschenstein’s column because we seem to share taste in all things internet, so I was thrilled to be mentioned. Thanks Nell!
I have to mention that I was at Court Square Tavern tonight when I picked up the C-Ville, and when I saw my name in print I experienced the simultaneous needs to throw up and to call my mother.
I’m tired. I’m drained. I haven’t had any time to write. I think I’ll stay home today to recharge my batteries.
What do you mean work is every day?
a) I spent an hour on a blog post last night, but it meandered from World War II to Britney Spears to T.C. Boyle and by the time I was done writing I realized that I had written about absolutely nothing.
b) Today I drove around town running errands with my windows open because it was so warm. Only at my third stoplight did I realize that I was blasting my audio book about porcupine sex. I’m sure it was thrilling for my fellow travelers.
c) The professor I work for reminded me today that in college I had emailed him some of my poetry. I was mortified. I recently reread these undergrad poems and they are raw, personal, and badly written – not exactly the glimpse into my subconscious that I want my employer to have taken.
d) I am afraid to post blog entries. I am afraid because I put my URL in the personal statement of my application to graduate school. What was I thinking? Now I will imagine my academic future hinging on each post. Learned professors might be sitting in front of their computers thinking, “Ew. Ballet porn? We don’t want this girl in our program.” My psychological helper person says that I’m a troublemaker. But isn’t that the kind of asshole everyone should want in a classroom?
e) I did not grow out my nails while the BBF was in Africa (I think his plane has taken off from the continent by now). But they are polished and well moisturized. My New Year’s resolution to partake in a nightly dessert of 50 sit-ups also failed, but that is nothing to be embarrassed about. I tend to lose weight while the BBF is away because when left to my own devices, I just consume red wine and chocolate for dinner. I worked at Ben & Jerry’s years ago and I lost weight then as well. All I ate was sample cups of ice cream and bananas meant for splits.
f) I’m not embarrassed about anything else. I actually feel pretty good. After two glasses of wine, I’m not even reluctant to admit that I watched Hot Rod with SNL’s Andy Samberg last night. I can’t wait for my boy to come home and return me to a healthy state of nightly vegetables, serious documentary films, and ideal companionship.