Tomorrow it will be the day before TGIF

Eating a pb&j and deriving zero pleasure from it
this is what school lunch is like
not like school lunch in “Fame”
not like hot lunch jam
I eat at school like a machine eats, or like an owl just choking down a whole rat like some kind of monster
like somebody eats when they can’t taste anything and their life is dull and void of meaning
pb&j has nutrients to keep me functioning until 6:30 when I will finally get home
And when I get home food tastes good again and has meaning again
I don’t know what it is
I hate eating at work
I hate it
I hate it
I hate it
Even back when I had office jobs I would always ask if I could skip my lunch break in order to go home an hour early. Totally worth it.

Eating a pb&j and dealing with in-crisis student and ever-growing administrative shit-storm concerning said.

Did I tell you about this realization that my chosen profession has inured me from age-based nostalgia? Who, having taught so many eighteen year olds and advised them and listened to them sobbing in office hours about their roommate’s friend’s boyfriend who had to go to the hospital briefly, could ever long to be eighteen again? Who, having graded their papers and seen them groping–beautifully, heroically, but groping nonetheless–toward comprehension, could ever wish to be that age again? The age when a day feels like a month; when even the thought of kissing a boy makes you essentially go running wildly around in a circle waving your arms and screaming; when the decisions you make have almost no bearing on your future but they FEEL LIKE they will affect every conceivable area of your life, permanently, forever; when your professor tells you what the homework is and you listen to them and nod and then leave class and immediately email them frantically asking what the homework is. They are wonderful and inspiring, they are young and fresh and full of idealism and joie de vivre, their bodies are energetic and taut and impossible to injure permanently, they feel things so deeply and purely and without the tiresome filters of critical engagement and qualification and moral relativity that will come to them in time, and all of that is truly lovely and delightful, and yet. The calmer flow of later life, the exponentially greater awareness of self and other, the incomparably vast difference in knowledge and skill level, the life partner and dog and domestic life, the body aging and decaying yet much better loved and enjoyed…thank god. I would not trade them for the ropy muscles and endless future of youth.

We got a vacuum cleaner. I will tell you my secret shame and reveal that in my entire adult life, since leaving my parents’ home in 1990 to go to boarding school, up until the very present moment, I have never owned a vacuum. That is shocking and dreadful, I know. I have lived with people who owned them, surely, although I can’t remember any of these vacuums now. And briefly I had one that got left in an apartment I moved into, but it didn’t really work. I’ve always been more or less satisfied with just sweeping. But since getting a dog, and finally fully comprehending how disgusting carpet is (although, we do not currently have carpet, don’t worry), the urge for a vacuum cleaner has risen and risen. Finally yesterday we went to Stark’s, which is on Grand and like Couch, and which everyone loves. We had such a great experience. It is like traveling back in time; it made me so sad to think that that’s what consumer experiences used to always be like, even at the grocery store. Talking to an expert who helps you choose your items with his or her expertise. Eggs, hatpins, stockings, licorice whips, a car, a horse, I bet it was once such a satisfying social experience to shop for them, and to receive them wrapped in brown paper packages tied up with string (not the car or horse). This vacuum store has been there since 1939; there is a huge painting of a Betty Draper style housewife cheerfully vacuuming, and there is a museum of antique vacuums you can look at. They have big strips of different kinds of carpet you can put animal hair on (housed in big coffee tins) and practice vacuuming up with any number of floor models. They do in-store repair. The man who helped us knew SO MUCH ABOUT VACUUM CLEANERS. He had an old-school depth of knowledge and experience that was breathtaking. He talked about how the motors are built and who builds them, which factory is in America and which in China, why the high-end plastic is better than the low-end. He talked about maintenance and techniques. He pointed out features it would never have even occurred to me to wonder about. He asked so many questions about our life–not just do we have pets but what kind of pets, what kind of fur on the pets, what kind of floors, what kind of rugs, how big our house is. Then he sold us a vaccuum cleaner and carried it out to the car for us and we left exhilarated.

We went home and immediately started vacuuming and it was like a joke. The old man furiously vacuuming the rug and me standing there going “WOW!” and then “try it on the dog’s chair!” which he did, while we both said things like “I CAN’T BELIEVE IT” and “IT’S LIKE A NEW CHAIR.” I left him vacuuming when I went to band practice. I imagined him vacuuming for hours.

Taking charge of our domestic space is an ongoing challenge. A year ago we took charge of our yard and it was a similar feeling of satisfaction. We dream of cleaning our house once a week and we are slowly getting there. The dog helps with this endeavor, because he’s just so unavoidably filthy. Are you going to be the kind of person who just accepts the filth or are you going to fight the filth? Oh god he’s looking at me RIGHT NOW

We need to take him on more adventures. Any suggestions? His life is too circumscribed. He needs to do all kinds of different stuff so he calms down and gets more comfortable and we can actually take him places without him acting like a crazy dumbass. Hikes, urban outings, what else can you do with a dog? Take him to that one restaurant where dogs are allowed, I guess. Get him a hamburger.

Today is my first real day off since all the madness began. I have no plans except to sit in the yard, clean out my inbox, take a bath, go for a walk, maybe read this Mary Roach book about cadavers.

Next year I have to go to campus 5 days a week and it is like I am being asked to work in a coal mine, that is the depth of despair I feel. It is ludicrous. Everybody goes to work 5 days a week, it’s normal! But how I have loved these free Tuesdays and Thursdays, time built in to every week for me to work on my own stuff, or get grading done, or get generally caught up. How will I do it next year? How will I write papers and get personal reading done? And next year we will be car-less so imagine how early I will have to get up to make it to that 9:00 a.m. class. Poor, poor me. Please remember me in your prayers.

The upshot is I will have my own office with a piano in it. 24/7 Swipesy, I hope my hallmates are ready for what I’m bringing.