Friday, December 02, 2005

King of the Wild Brassiere

My family has officially moved from Residence 1 ("Real Grass, Real Unicorns!") to Residence 2 ("Real High in the Air!"). Many accompanying headaches were apparently had, and I feel removed from everything in an vaguely anxious, upset way, much like I did when I found out, from a distance, that my dog had died. Although then I cried more and was talked into buying a pair of shoes that didn't fit by an insistent clerk.

Even after my family gave away/sold a lot of our furniture and possessions, what remained filled all available floor space in the new apartment AND THEN had to form a second layer on top of the first. It's like archaeology in there! I guess they're going to have to be creative so as not to resort to stacking sofas, or putting bookshelves in the bathrooms.

What's really amazing to me is that they won't have stairs. My house was always distinguished by its many staircases, carpeted a strange color somewhere between "sunset" and "salmon." The dog (before she died) used to slide down on her butt because she had worms, I think? I never entirely understood but it was funny to watch. My friends and I during our "wacky" phases used to slide down them in laundry baskets. Stairs! are very important in separating people, such as those who prepared dinner and those who are invited to eat it; bellowing "DINNNNNERRRRR!" in a one-floor space isn't going to produce the same satisfying flurry of staircase-related activity.

I'm trying to withhold judgement, though, of course, inasmuch as that's possible for me. My mother's been working almost nonstop on the new habitat, so hard that if there were a Nobel prize for that sort of thing she'd at least be a Finalist. I continue to send good wishes in her general direction and hope that they pierce the fog of her exhaustion.

And I continue to distract myself. As you may or may not be aware, Salon has started letting people post "letters to the editor" at the end of any article, because what the overeducated, overarticulate, overprivileged readers of Salon really need is a Voice. The results are frequently hilarious, especially in reponse to Cary Tennis's advice column. I have found that burying myself in these avalanches of letters works like almost nothing else to help me forget my own anxieties and upsettednesses. Family leaving childhood home? Possible promotion dangling overhead? At least I'm not in love with an exception prostitute or deeply NOT in love with my husband's offspring.

Mr. Ben, by the way, is singing in the background to the tune of Davey Crockett: "Baby, baby boyfriend, king of the wild brassiere ..." Welcome to the weekend. Ahhhhhh.

4 comments:

shira said...

hey,
so i suck, i totally meant to e-mail you like, last monday which was yes a week ago. but here i am. have you talked to the people at work yet? how did it go??? share your news!

s.

Nate said...

Hey - Wait a second, just wait a second. It just hit me that I was living in Philly while you were at Swarthmore. No wonder I like this blog so much!

If anytime from summer 02 to spring 03 you saw a blond kid biking it through the City, of Old and Center varieties, often using sidewalks when I shouldn't and pissing off pedestrians who were probably reading Jennifer Weiner
(I mothballed the truck in a $200 a month lot and succeeded at what I consider a remarkable achievement in red to blue state adaptability)...if you saw that guy, that was me, that was me!
(In June I probably looked terrified - by July confident and probably more arrogant about it than I had any right to be, going the wrong way down one way streets and meaning to.)
I was above Old City Coffee on Church st and then I lived in Manayunk - I can still see the entire bike path down the Schuykill in my head. That was one cold ass winter.
Miss that town. Now I spend too much time at work rifling through East coast blogs.

Oh, and Philadelphia locator services? What a f'in racket.

Nate said...

You New Yorkers run into each other all the time, if memory of Seinfeld serves, but it's still cool to me to read posts from a stranger, from the same general area, from the same time, but from a different perspective - Rashomon style...Ramoshon style...Rashahomon...Ra...Kurosashawa...Pulp Fiction style.
You know what I mean?

Unhealthily vicarious,
N.

drew said...

I can't believe my mom's letter to the editor got published!!