I don’t know about the rest of you

I think I’m going to make it through the semester.  I’m not so sure if my mother is.

Don’t get me wrong,she’s in good spirits and in good health; however, she may murder one or all of her students if they don’t start proofreading their papers.  At this moment, I am in my room cowering with a cup of coffee.  I want to go into the living room, but to do that, I would have to pass her office. Judging from her growls of exasperation, she’s getting impatient with the freshman comp essays.  I resorted to making myself a cup of instant coffee with hot water from the bathroom, swirled in a cup.  I keep instant coffee in my backpack, because you never know when you’ll need it.  When I packed , I imagined that I would need it during an extra long study session at the library when I wouldn’t have a chance to dash out, or perhaps when Helena’s terrible driving landed us in the land that time forgot.  I never suspected that it would be trapped in my own room by students who apparently have not learned how to use the spell and grammar check function on their computer.

I think the bacon makes it charming

Things have not quite gone from bad to worse.  It’s not worse, it’s just weird.  I sat down to write something for me for the first time in days. (Well, the first non school related writing that I have done since I wrote Grampa Tom’s Eulogy.) And I noticed that my mom’s Bing history said that her last two searches were ” Invisible Socks” and “Sentence using Inexorable.”  (Oh, stop, I didn’t snoop, it was right up there with the MSN  news feed.

Anyone I thought that was hilarious, because I was just imagining what could possibly have necessitated searches for those two very specific things, and then Mac called me and asked if I wanted to make some extra money.  (Sometimes the catering company she works for needs extra waitstaff.  I do not like people in general, and she knows that.) They needed help in the kitchen making Penguins out of Olives and cream cheese.  That set me off again, because now I’m picturing God in Heaven’s kitchen trying to make flightless waterfowl out of the appetizers.

I went, because how do you turn down an offer like that?

Then Mac made me eat biscuit casserole.  It sounds terrible, but it had bacon. I might actually make it through the semester.

Are you kidding me?

Clearly my attitude has not improved. My blurry focus and cranky demeanor have made me tired of myself.  (Self awareness is very important.) To alleviate my proximity to me, I have been conversation surfing in the school library.

At this time of the year everyone is eager to learn and start research so the study rooms are usually packed and the quad in front of the library is usually filled with pipe smoking Grad students.

I had just wandered out, a little dazed by the sight of so many people reading any and/or all of the Fifty Shades trilogy IN THE LIBRARY!.  Really, the only respectable place to read this is in the bus station as you sip from your paper bag wrapped malt liquor.

I walked around the Quad, hoping or fresh air when I wafted into the smoke of a pipe.  It reminded me of Grampa Tom. My choices at this point were to either run shrieking back into the musty dank of the library. (Shut up, it comforts me.)   or to just sit down and breathe in and out.  As I was breathing I heard, between puffs of smoke and sage nods, a guy talking about his favorite novel, Lolita, and the value of its message.

True, I didn’t hear the context, but all I could think was how this pipe smoker in his denim  work shirt, which I am sure have never seen a day’s work was pontificating in front of several swooning undergrads who, might I add, were clutching copies of the Fifty Shades.

I have to admit that I snorted loudly.  Then I began to laugh.  Pipe dude looked startled that I dared to scoff.  He was wearing a v-neck t-shirt and turquoise jewelry. When I saw that, I just couldn’t stop laughing. My sides hurt and I think I rolled around for awhile.  The crowd cleared.

I’m interested to see what happens tomorrow.

It’s the product, not the process

I can’t think of a single thing.  I can think of several things, but not about them singly. Except that “singly” looks really hilarious on the page.  This does not bode well for the school year.  I dreamed that I got lost in a side order of fried okra.  Literally lost, like I was walking amongst the bready goodness.  I was really confused but then Grampa Tom reached down and pulled me out saying,

“Don’t be ridiculous, Annie, you’re not THAT small”

 

I hope not, Gramps, I hope not.

Wonderful.

In spite of all of my best efforts to blend in, I somehow managed to make my presence known at school today. It’s my own fault.  I didn’t really want to go, but what else was there to do. Even if all I did was drink coffee, at least I would be drinking coffee in a different room.  Besides, my mom played the guilt card saying it depresses my dad to  see me hanging around the house in my cookie monster pajamas.  She did not think my retort about changing pajamas was funny, so I thought I better at least make the effort . I did toy with the idea of wearing the Cookie Monster PJs under a sweater and tossing on my rain boots, but I didn’t want to poke the bear.

Once I was sufficiently caffeinated, I went to my first class.  Sociology. After we received our syllabus,  (I love that word.) we  started an informal discussion about The Learning Channel, which of course, deteriorated into a conversation about Reality TV.

Someone asked, “Who do you think is the stupidest person?”

I said, “You want the whole list, or just the top ten?”

That is the first sentence I spoke the entire morning.

Everyone’s head whipped around. The guy in front of me made eye contact and started to quiz me about the top tens of various things.

Sigh.

So they said, “What’s wrong?”

It has been a long time since I could do anything but stare straight ahead.  So the staring at a computer and interacting with the keyboard is kind of a step up.

My grandfather died.

It sucked

It still sucks.

It sucks more for my dad who is terrible in any and all crises, so he pretends that he’s doing okay while he works and plays his music and takes care of my aunts and my grandma the best he can.

I know that I have to start interacting with actual people soon.  Like tomorrow.  It’s the first day back to class.

Mom gave me the option of taking a semester off, but I don’t see how that would do any good.

He died on New Year’s Eve.  I don’t really know when exactly.

Helena’s family threw a big party and hired the caterer Mac works for so all three of us  could be together.

There was karaoke machine (was there ever a better harbinger of doom than that?)

We the three of us were mangling a song (“Tell Him” by the Exciters, later remade by Josie Cotton.)  and I looked up and saw my mom in the doorway, with Helena’s folks. Dad wasn’t with her, so I kind of knew something was up.  Mom likes for us all to be together on New Year’s Eve.  I knew that Dad would be standing right next to her  unless something had happened.

Something had.

Everyone is worried about me.

Me too.

And here’s what happened next.

I was completely unaware that my lack  of social skills and interaction was a problem of such massive proportions that it would inspire a conference call.

My mother, the college professor and my father the engineer (I’m not really sure what he does, I think it involves drinking Diet Dr. Pepper and eating pretzels)  initiated a Skyping with my friend Helena , who, as a Freshman at Brown probably has better things to do, and my friend Mac, who is kind of busy what with school and internship and job with the catering company and aren’t they supposed to be getting ready for the holiday season?

The sole purpose of this time zone defying waste of energy was because I don’t get out enough, and I rarely initiate conversation or eye contact.

I did not want to get into a whole thing with everyone about the whole people firing questions at me and the fact that, to be perfectly honest I don’t much like the general populace and right now, I’m not wild about them .

That would be anti-social and I don’t need that kind of trauma.

The day out with the Wee Ones and the Mac-handled Makeover was just the beginning.

Helena sent me this:   I am just assuming the actual book will follow.  I can’t wait for the hilarity to ensue.

Little do they know that I ventured out alone! (Cue fanfare of creepy music.) I wanted to see if the open mike guy from last week liked my actual face when it wasn’t spackled with make-up.  I have to admit that at first I was afraid to make eye-contact, but I thought it was safe because he was singing  and if he started firing questions at me it would look like part of the act. I looked at him. He smiled.  He didn’t break his musical stride and start asking me questions about the history of guitars or the history of coffee or the benefits of traveling in packs. I think this is moving in the right direction because if this weird super power thing is finally over, yay, and if he actually likes me, yay.  It’s a win win.

So here it goes AGAIN.

This is what happened on my ill-fated “this is not a set-up date, just a meeting with friends so will you for the Love of Fred adjust your attitude Ann, and let me do your make-up.” These words actually came out of the mouth of one of my oldest and dearest friends.  She has a boyfriend. His name is Dave and he’s Helena’s older brother.  I don’t this should count because Mac did not have to go out and hunt and gather, but I have no room to complain, literally, since she shoved me in a tiny bathroom in order to plaster my face with various war paints and unguents in an effort t0 create a show room model of me.

I didn’t think it looked all that bad, I was kind of afraid to move my face too much. So after a complete make-over, Dave and Mac and I went to a coffee bar to hear some live music.  So far, not a bad plan.  Any place with the coffee might be okay.  Except I think the entire meld of baristas were stoned, at least no one seemed to be in a big quick hurry to fetch my tasty cinnamon latte. What I got was a decaf cappucino with soy.  Quelle Horror.  It tasted like warm beer foam. I did not spit it out, I didn’t want to make a bad impression.  Mach and David picked out a table where we could see and be seen.  We were seen by a few class mates or other chum types who acted as if they always hang out here on a Saturday night.  That might have gone okay except the conversation drifted to a discussion of what girls wear being the primary way they communicate with what they want their date to consider doing for the evening.  I quickly saw this in to becoming a recipe for disaster since if this shmoe started a “OF Course she was asking for it, look at the way she was dressed.” Then of course I would be forced to leap over the table and give the boy a steamie at the espresso  machine.  Fortunately, it did not drift that far in to the conversation.  Mac handled that by making an end run around the whole topic and mentioning that my mother was a professor. That was an uncomfortable but less dangerous topic.  Things went like this for the hour or so that we were there.  I guess the whole reason I was trussed up in a kicky and casual outfit and more Make-Up than Ru Paul was to show the Troglodytes that attend my college that I am indeed on the market.  I didn’t have much hope.

The day after the coffee debacle, the scruffy musician type who we came to hear told David that he thought I was cute and inquired if I would be back to see him again.  I may go this weekend.  I would like to  wear my own face this time.

In case you were wondering, here’s how it went.

I am starting to like small children. Not in creepy,pervy way, but in a I think they’re really neat kind of way.

As I said, my family and friends think I’m too sad so the Mom volunteered me up to work with the Wee Ones at the University run elementary school.

The first thing that happened:

A child came up to me, looked me square in the eye and said, “I like your face.”   Well how can you go wrong with a start like that?  It went really well. I was incredibly tired by the time we got the the afternoon recess, which was, of course, action packed. Over thirty minutes we had one serious bug bite (When oh when will people learn that wasps and bees and biting flies love to live inside swing sets and put an end to that madness?) there was one big battle of the kick balls, which  came to an untimely end when one ball was hurled over the fence and was inadvertently flattened by the ag department’s John Deere, the next trauma occurred when Eric accused the ground of leaping up and scraping his knee.  I didn’t laugh.  I wanted to, though.

 

And if you were also wondering how the social experiment with my peers went, all I have to say about that is that I don’t want to sully any of my sunshiny thoughts about the Wee Ones with a discussion about how I can’t keep my thoughts from broadcasting across my face like an errant scoreboard.

That will be discussed at another time.

Damocles, Sword, Monkey, Pat

It’s all relative.  Steve’s looking up.  Helena will be impressed.

This may yet bode well