- Kaelie: I can't believe I slept past my alarm this morning! I didn't even hear it go off.
- Me: I slept through my alarm today, too. I set it for 9:45.
- Kaelie: [glares]
- Me: I woke up at ten.
- Kaelie: [glares]
- Me: It's hard, Kaelie.
- Kaelie: You're such a diva.
Last week, during my visit to the English PhD program at Iowa University, I was able to see my soon-to-be-cousin-in-law, Elissa Altman, give a reading of her new book, Poor Man’s Feast, at Prairie Lights! My grad school tour and her book tour just happened to align perfectly in Iowa City.
- HIM: so how is Iowa?
- ME: Don't know. I got to the hotel and immediately took a shower and ordered room service. Haven't gotten past that part yet.
- ME: why did Dollhouse get cancelled? I thought it had really good ratings.
- HIM: No! It's actually the lowest rated show to ever get picked up for a second season.
- ME: what?! All my friends were watching it.
- HIM: you're friends with a lot of geeks.
- ME: oh, right.
Cake tasting today!
Phone photos from around our hotel in Florida a few months ago.
I won a copy of Dario Jaramillo Agudelo’s new book of poetry, Field Guide, translated by Don Share!
Ghostly whistling, laughter, murmuring, more whistling, flashing lights, far-off screaming, howling, squalling, storming, thunderbolts and lightning flashes—the invisible part of a Yicarino has these things at its disposal to frighten away even the most unflappable traveler who passes through Yicarino territory.
From Agudelo’s “Yicarinos”
- ME: Something REALLY bad just happened.
- HIM: What totally minor thing just happened?
- ME: Hey! It IS really bad!
- HIM: Okay, what mostly irrelevant thing almost happened?
- ME: I don't appreciate you dismissing my misfortunes.
- HIM: I know your tone. So what are you exaggerating about?
- ME: [REDACTED.]
- HIM: Oh! That's horrible.
- ME: I know!
Why did I write it down? In order to remember, of course, but exactly what was it I wanted to remember? How much of it actually happened? Did any of it? Why do I keep a notebook at all? It is easy to deceive oneself on all those scores. The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.