Halloween

Today is my mother's birthday; she would have been 55. It's such a small number when you think about it. If you average my mother's and father's lifespans together you only get 52. If I hypothesized that that was to be the extent of my life as well, which is improbable but certainly not impossible, then the midpoint of my life will be reached by the age of 26. My sister is 24 now, two years short of that imaginary mark, and she tells me that she is very worried that she'll die at 40. I'm sure she does have that fear, but she was also trying to make the case for using as much of our inheritance as we want right now, since who knows if we'll be around for our retirement. She gets upset thinking that our mom saved and economized a lot, and was always working, and here all the fruits of her labor are left to us and not to her to enjoy. I pointed out that a., if Jen dies young and unmarried I get all her money, and b., if she dies and has children then she'll have provided for them just as well as our mother did for us, which is no mean thing. Perhaps the first option sounds cold, I meant it jokingly and she knew that, but she also knows that right now she would inherit all my money as well, so it goes both ways.

I do have to update the will which I created prior to going to Italy. Jen tells me that it was only valid because I had no estate to speak of; now my will would require an actual lawyer and witnesses, not just Rae, Heather and Sara signing their names. Also my mom was the executor and I left everything to her discretion, though I did have Jen and Rae as co-executors if she had predeceased me. I joked at lunch the other day that I would leave Sean as co-executor with Rae, but he pointed out, sensibly if a little less than romantically, that if we broke up for some reason, it would be really weird years down the line to have to go deal with his college girlfriend's will. ! Of course we both know that that's not how things are going to work out; the recent instability of my life has left me even more convinced that Sean and I can make it through anything if we're only willing to work at it. We haven't shied around long-term discussions for a really long time now, although it still becomes a little awkward to do so in front of others. Privately, though, we talk about what we want to future to be, and it's each other.

It was a beautiful day today, though Daylight Savings meant the day was much shorter. I'm in my empress costume as I type, for I'm shortly headed down to Barone for dinner with my friends and then out to see The Prestige (I hate Christian Bale! He's totally unattractive! There, I said it.) and then back here for a Halloween party.

I love this Yeats quote:

"I have spread my dreams beneath your feet;
Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams."

Another

The other day I realized that I could remember the day I first became truly conscious of my mother's mortality. It was the summer after sophomore year, she had a night off and wanted to go out to dinner, somewhere other than the three usual places we would go, so we decided to try this restaurant she'd heard about near Enfield. It turned out to be on the road to Popham's house, I don't remember the name of it, but it was pretty much crap. I was bubbling over with Italy plans at the time, and I remember that evening because I had been trying to convince her that if I went, she would come over to visit me and we'd travel together. Somehow we got to the topic of her recent checkup and she told me about her cholesterol level and triglycerides and how the doctor really wanted to get them down, he was worried she'd get diabetes. At that time she was still borderline. For the first time I really felt this kind of fear, one that was related to but separate from the frequent worrying about her getting into a car crash or being mugged or having some kind of accident. I realized then that she could get sick, and ever after I made sure to ask questions after every doctor's visit; of course, not that that helped, in the end.

It's somewhat easier to comprehend her having a heart attack now that I think back on her years of being an anorexic, from when she was a teen up until she met my father. Anorexia does a real number on the heart. Maybe hers just wasn't very strong anymore. Yet every once in a while I just look around me and think, how the hell could the same thing happen to me twice? I see all the people with two parents and I can't help thinking, couldn't fate find someone else to pick on for once? Most people never even have to make do with one parent at my age and here I've gone and lost two. Sometimes I could just scream from the sheer unfairness of it all.

On Saturday it'll have been just a month since she died. Sean and I are going into the city to see Heather and then to have dinner with Jen and Bill. My dad was right all those times when he warned us that we'd only have each other someday. I just never really expected that having no one else would come quite so quickly.

Three

Three weeks now, and it gets easier, superficially at least. Still the awkwardness of unsolicited, but well-intended sympathies, advice, offers of counsel by professors and acquaintances. Still the shock that comes back at least once a day when I remind myself sharply (lest I forget) that I have no parents anymore.

When I took my senior pictures on Tuesday the woman guarding the front desk wanted my parents' phone number. I gave her my cell, and she interrupted me with "no, your PARENTS number"--and so, with two people standing behind me I had the joy of telling her that they're both gone, so no, there is no applicable phone number anymore. Maybe I should have just given her the home number. A sad image--the phone ringing in an empty house, then the interminable beeps that remind no one in particular to check the messages. Naturally she answered me with the requisite "ooh, I'm sorry", but then decided to continue with that "yes, that's hard" speech, as if she really knows me or has any reason to give me advice. I momentarily had the urge to slap this woman across the face. A few minutes later, waiting for my turn, I saw Dirk coming down the stairs from the top floor and looking in my general direction, and the situation just became funny/embarassing (funny how seeing Fusco or even Deconti never inspires that kind of feeling; only thinking of Tommy and Dirk, because those are the only two times I've really been ashamed of my foolishness after the fact. At least I never owed Tommy an apology).

I finished reading "Inside the Third Reich" today; it's the autobiography of Albert Speer, Hitler's architect and later Minister of Armaments. He was one of the only Nazi officers to accept responsibility for the administration's crimes at Nuremburg, and spent 20 years in prison. It was a really good book--one of the few recent reads that I wanted to spend every possible minute reading, even between classes.

Days

Today it is only two weeks since my mom died. How can that be? For six years I've been wrestling with a sense of relativity that made my father's death seem alternately recent and ancient, but no matter how I felt, it had been six years, and the immediacy of the loss was dulled. Now of course it's back twofold, and once again I have moments of feeling that it all happened so long ago, when it's only been fourteen days in a world without her.

In terms of separation I guess my mom made it as easy as it could have possibly been. We were never 'friends', never chatted daily on the phone, and she was never one of those moms who was really involved in the day-to-day of her daughter's life. She trusted me to be OK and to do my best, without feeling the need to check up on me or tell me what to do, so I don't feel as at a loss as I might if I had been more dependent on her companionship. I wasn't even very financially dependent on her, besides trips to the grocery store and to Walmart. As my aunt said of my cousin Sara, a sophomore who always has her hand out, if this happened to her she'd be in all kinds of trouble.

Despite all this, despite knowing she's in a better place, despite no longer having for fear for her (last night there was a terrific thunderstorm and I knew that a couple of weeks ago, I would have been watching the clock until 11:30, when I could call the house just to hear her pick up and know she got home safely), the loneliness of it all is immense. Every time I have a funny story to tell or a little something I'm proud of, I realize there's no one to call. Of course there's people, there's my friends, my sister, my aunts, but no one listens to your stories and your minor triumphs like a parent does. I would always feel so proud when I could point out some accomplishment to her, even though I knew she was proud of me all the time. Yesterday, for example, I called Dr. Bayers from work to discuss the draft of my paper which I had to finish up for today, and the first thing he wanted to know was if I was planning to go to grad school after college. I explained my situation and he understood, but he said he thought I definitely had the skill to succeed in a graduate program. It's not that he's the first person to encourage me in that direction, but I was still flattered and proud, and then I really wished I could call her and tell her, even if she didn't really get how much it meant to me, because I don't think she really ever understood the whole grad school thing. And I was sad. I still have people I want to be proud of me, but none of them are my parents, and never could be.

Dr. Rose sent me a very nice note today. She said her mom died directly before her senior year too, and that it was hard for her especially because everyone was in a celebratory mood. Her advice, handed to her by Schwab and Eliasoph years ago, was "don't forget to eat" and "throw yourself into your work". Well, there's not much chance that I, of all people, would forget food, and as for work, I don't need to throw myself as much as it's hurling itself at me. It was a kind note, all the same.

In the Swing

I'm only the slightest bit overwhelmed today, despite having two exams tomorrow, only one of which I have prepared for. I haven't been able to do any research for Jesus this week, I've been so swamped with catching up with work and dealing with the estate. However, yesterday I attended a lunch hosted by Phi Beta Kappa for a professor who lectured on campus last night, and it was a lot of fun even if I could have spent that time working. I turned out to be the only PBK student who showed up, so I shared a table with the professor, three of the art history faculty, and our president Father von Arx. I managed not to embarass myself, despite being forced to eat a concoction of shrimp and mushrooms over a bed of lettuce.

The other night listening to Sean's friends talk about spring break I realized that not only do I want to go somewhere, thanks to my mom I have the financial wherewithal to take us somewhere--so we're going to Greece together! I'm so excited. One of the art history professors, Dr. Schwab, is a Greek art specialist and she travels there frequently, so she said she'd be happy to help us figure out where we'd want to go. Athens is of course a must, but we also want to go to Mycenae, to Delphi, and to Crete. It'll be the end of their winter season, so it shouldn't be too cold, but it won't be Bahamas weather either. That's OK, because I prefer a brisk temperature.

I'm going to GREECE! Wheeeeeeeeeee!

More

This is the first weekend Jen and I have spent in the house by ourselves. I had to escape to Sara's yesterday afternoon because she was driving me nuts, and then thankfully her friend Kristin was here when I returned. My sister has always grated on my nerves, even under the best of circumstances.

I hate bills. Just gathering up all the utilities that have to be paid, including cell phone, lights, heat, water, and insurance, totalled over $600. Sigh. I'm in charge of paying all of these, which I'm glad for because if you've ever seen my sister's organizational capacity you would fear for us. Fear for us greatly. Her system consists of pulling absolutely everything from every drawer, shelf, and compartment, and piling it in the middle of the floor. This pile can be expected to remain for several days before being shifted into smaller piles which may or may not disappear. Last night, she took everything from my mom's room and piled it in the kitchen. This morning, every one of her perfume bottles is still in front of the (unplugged) toaster.

I saw one of the grief counseling services people the other day, more because I knew I should than because I felt I should. With two parents down, I've got to need some kind of therapy. After listening to me talk for an hour, she said that it sounded like I was one of the kind of people who just need to tell stories about the person who died. I do like telling stories about her, because she was a character, just like my dad.

Among my mom's things we found a tape labelled "Michelle and Jenny, 1984-1986". I'm only 1 year old on this tape, and my dad is patiently encouraging me to say "Papa" except I'm just making these gurgling sounds that my sister commented sound like they caught me hacking up a furball. The strange thing was, when we turned the tape on, neither of us recognized our dad's voice, and barely our mom's. Maybe it's that this tape was made 20 years ago when they were younger and stress-free, maybe it's that my mom didn't have it in a case and it deteriorated and changed the voices slightly, but suddenly I had the fear that I'll forget her voice like I've forgotten his. On a happier note, I watched the video I had made of my grandfather last winter (when I worried that he might die, what a laugh! The man will outlive us all), and aside from "Joan, you think you're homely", there's my mom, laughing and hiding her face behind a Coke bottle. I never thought that video would be a record of her.

Night

Last night I had my first dream about my mom. I was surprised it took this long; somehow, the nights after her death I slept very soundly and dreamlessly. Unlike so many dreams about my father where he never really died, just went away for a long time and then showed up again, my mother had already died in my dream. Somehow, time jumped backwards a few days and my whole family was there partying it up at a place that was half our house, and half the weird, creepy mansion where I had been having a horror-movie style dream right before this one (the ghost of a little girl was murdering people, don't ask).

Suddenly I realized it was Thursday, the day she would die again, and this time we wouldn't be able to go back. I started crying, and she hugged me. She knew, in the dream. Then we're in my kitchen and she's slyly asking me if she should have another bag of popcorn. At first I say yes, because it's her last day and she should have whatever she wants, but then I see the box and it says each back has 130% cholesterol, and I try to stop her from eating it with a sudden hopefulness that maybe I can stop her from having a heart attack if she avoids it. But she takes the popcorn and leaves, and I'm left there with Carla, crying and complaining that it was the nightly bag of popcorn that was her undoing.

Then we're in a room with a table, and I'm there with Carla and my dad, who is yet again having a cameo as not dead. My sister is not in this dream at all. I'm watching the clock which is hitting 1pm, and I realize that I don't know exactly when she died; the death certificate called it at 2:13 PM, but that's probably only when they got her to the hospital, she was probably dead in the car before they found her. Then she comes in and hugs Carla and says something to her, I think asking her if she understands, and Carla nods. I'm crying and she puts her arms around me. My dad doesn't seem perturbed by this at all and he smiles. Then I woke up, just as she was going to have to go.

When I got up I went and looked at a box of her popcorn in the pantry. The cholesterol level was 0%. I'm not sure why I had this dream; maybe as a chance to say goodbye, except I never did say that.

Going On

The sheer mountain of tasks to be accomplished after a death is daunting. I didn't understand that when my dad died because I was only 14 and had no responsibilities. Looking back I can't even imagine how terrifying it must have been to her, trying to figure out how to pay bills and manage everything after my dad's income was gone, planning his funeral and all that with only my aunts to support her, not really any close friends like Jen and I have the benefit of, and the whole time just grieving for her husband being gone. My heart just hurt for her, thinking of how burdened she was, and how she had to hold up under such pressure for our sake. And she did, so very well.

The difference now is that we have no experience in managing bills and assets, but we've got to learn. Just obtaining her will was a trial because we had to get a court order to open her deposit box, and then we had to get it started in probate court, which can take up to 1 year. My sister is insistent that we do all things together, even though so many things would be much more easily managed if one of us (meaning me) took care of them. I mean when it comes to selling the house I'm deferring to her wishes, we're waiting till January to even list it because she "needs time". If I had my choice it'd be on the market tomorrow, because the housing market is only going to get worse, and it could take forever to sell. It's true we grew up in that house and, as my sister has weepily proclaimed several times, our father died there, but there's no way I'd want to live for any length of tiem in that place with my parents' ghosts. In a perfect world I would have been able to keep my childhood home for years, decades even, but that's just not how the cookie has crumbled.

Further

My sister and I are very different people; always have been, always will be. My sister's reaction to calamity is extremely emotional, and she prefers everything to move slowly while she grieves. I'm not a public crier in general, and when something bad happens I need to be on the go, keeping my hands busy. I didn't really want Jen's friends to help clean for that reason, because they kept trying to do dishes and run loads of laundry when really, I wanted to be doing those things. When my dad died we came home from the hospital and went into my parents' room and started cleaning out his things. We had all his clothes bagged up and donated by the next day. I must have inherited that kind of tendency from my mother, because Thursday night I was already bagging up her novels and her shoes, since Jen got hysterical when I went near her clothes.

My sister loves crap, and she quickly made it clear that she intended to save as much of my mom's crap as possible, including her clothes. When she had finally sorted through it all, she had covered an entire couch with the items she planned to keep and possibly wear. I saved one of my mom's tshirts and her work sweater. Her uniforms we bagged up to bring to the convent, along with some things she had stored up in our garage to bring it--a walker, adult diapers, two birdcages for her friend Lissette.

We brought these on Saturday night, when we had a meeting with Sr. St Henry, Sr. Sally and a few other sisters to discuss the funeral mass. They had called and told us that they would be honored to have her mass in the chapel at the convent, and we knew that would have meant far more to her than St. Gabriel's in Windsor. I brought Sean and Heather to the meeting, leaving Cody, Sara and Rae at my house (along with Jen's retinue of oh, about ten people). The nuns were wonderful. As we said later, it really reminds you of the goodness of people that exist in the world, even if you're Protestant like heather haha. After we decided the songs and readings, we sat there sharing stories about my mother and laughing, really laughing. Especially the bat stories! Oh man, nuns go wild when there's a bat in the house. They turn murderous. Of course my mom was the one to do catch-and-release rather than beating it with a tea tray.

We had met with the folks at Carmon Funeral Home on Friday to discuss my mom's burial arrangements. I was all for cremation, which is what she wanted, but due to some difficulties with getting the permits on a weekend, it wasn't feasible, and then my sister went into hysterics and started moaning "Don't burn her!" which really is just a little much, and then my poor grandfather who still thinks you won't be resurrrected if you get cremated is mouthing to me "No cremation". So we decided to bury her instead. I'm a practical person, as was my mother, and the physical arrangements of a burial don't matter much to me. The body in the casket isn't them any longer; it's a shell, and shells don't need to be interned in a $12,000 casket (which is possible, P.S.). Nor do they need a choice between silk and velvet lining, or an extra pillow. We picked a nice casket, a simple one. I liked the finish.

Update

I abandoned this thing for about a month, either because I had nothing to say or I was too lazy to come write it down. But boy, do I have updates now...

Thursday, September 28th circa 240 PM, a knock comes at our front door while I'm getting ready to go meet Sean for lunch. It's security and they ask if Michelle is home. I look past him to my car and immediately wonder if somehow, some way, I parked illegally. I ask if there's a problem and he says yes. He comes in and asks me to sit, I ask if it's my mom, knowing it has to be her or my sister, but not really expecting him to answer "yeah, it's your mom". Then I ask him if she's dead, and he he nods, and says she didn't make it. And just like that, I had no parents anymore.

The hours from there are a sort of a muddle. The school grief counselor and one of the priests came over, and when Sean called, answering my repeated dials, I couldn't tell him. I had to hand the phone over to the counselor to tell him she was dead. Sean came and we talked with the counselor for a while. I was crying with the big hiccuping sobs that prevent you from really getting out more than two words at a time. Then the phone calls began, endless calls to my sister, my aunts, the social worker at the hospital, the cop who found her. My sister was with a Brooklyn cop who said she was too hysterical to come to the phone. She'd gotten the news from our next door neighbor, Mrs. Long, who'd had two cops come to her front door looking for info on how to reach us. My aunts had been told by the social worker. The social worker told me that she had called my mom's work looking for information on us and that Sr. St. Henry, my mom's boss, and Sr. Sally the provincial were on their way to the hospital to be with my mom's body, even though she told them they weren't allowed to come. The cop told me they'd found her pulled over on Palisado Ave, in park with the engine running, unconscious and not breathing. He said they tried to revive her but they couldn't. They didn't know what it was at the time, but they said probably a heart attack.

It was decided that Sean would take me home that evening. Waiting around with my friends I alternated between absolute terror and normal laughter. I was worrying about so many things--what happens to the Tahoe which is in her name...do I have health insurance anymore...what are we going to do with our house...a million freaking-me-out-worries. Then I had to call my other friends. Sara and Rae got voicemails telling them she died (sorry guys) but I reached Heather, and she cried like only Heather can. I had to laugh when I remembered my father's wake--Heather had never met him and she cried more than I did. I didn't call my grandpa; my aunts said they were going to go over and tell him that his daughter-in-law was dead.

The ride home was pretty bad, I just kept thinking of thing after thing that reduced me to tears. Then the phone rings and it's the organ donation people, wanting to know if they can use some of my mom's tissue. I said yes, because she was a registered organ donor. Because she didn't die in the hospital, they couldn't use actual organs, but they took her bones, her skin, her eyes, just like my dad. We got a letter from them once about a woman in CT who couldn't see until they transplanted one of my father's corneas into her eye. The process of OKing the organ harvest took 45 minutes, answering every question from 'did she ever take money or drugs for sex' to 'had she been exposed to SARS'. Then we're home.

Going into that house was terrible for me. You wonder sometimes if the dead know it's coming, and seeing that house and the shambles she had left it in made me sure she had no idea. Everything looked as though she had briefly left--her checks on the table, her craft project by the chair in the living room. Her makeup left in my bathroom, her bed rumpled. Her teacups, her sneakers on the floor. And poor Rocky, so happy to see us and unaware that she's not coming back. My sister called, on her way with her boyfriend, and told us two of her friends were already outside the house. We let them in, which was kind of awkward because I'd never met them (one was Camilla, her old roomie, I forget the other) and the house was a mess, as my mom was prone to leaving it when we weren't around. They helped us clean up, and I tried to remove every sign that made it look like she had just been there; I didn't think my sister could handle it.

I don't remember my sister's arrival much besides meeting Bill, her paramedic boyfriend from NYC. For the next five days Bill and Sean were our lifesavers.

September

The school year is now in swing. It's nice to be back; I really like our house this year and Carla and I are in our biggest room to date. The campus is beatiful, the weather has been excellent, and even Sodexho seemed welcome. I'm trying hard not to be one of "those" people who come back from study abroad and think everything on this campus and in the country in generally is inferior to what they had before. There are perks on both sides. I do miss Italy. Sitting in my classes today, though, I remembered what it feels like to be academically challenged. And, better yet, to actually understand all the words coming out of the professor's mouth.

Tomorrow I start my internship at Greenwood. My boss told me I could wear jeans on Fridays, which means I only have to dress up once a week (this feels me with indescribable joy), and they're taking me out to lunch my first day as per their tradition. I'm excited to try it. Next week I start the graduate school process--I've put it off from this week so I can just enjoy settling in. I also started my job for Jesus as his research assistant--so far, I spent a couple of hours trying to track down biographical information on a Spanish bureaucrat who wrote an obscure book about Baroque Art in Madrid 1918. It felt like detective work--I found out he was the secretary of the Spanish Alpine Club in 1912, and wrote articles decribing the Los Gredos mountain range, but aside from that he's pretty much a cipher.

Rejoicings

Today is my last day at the Stub--originally I was going to work for another week, but as I quickly realized I was becoming depressed and going stir-crazy while my summer was whittled away, I decided to beg off and leave today. Oh, the joy!! To make things better, Sean came up yesterday and dropped by for lunch, and then took me out to dinner after I got off work. I love just being able to talk to him. We always have great conversations but yesterday was just so much fun. We talked about all the places in the world we'd like to see, and whether going to Italy or Egypt would be a better idea for an entirely hypothetical honeymoon (I'm divided; on the one hand, Egypt would be amazing and it's best to go while you're young and can take the heat, but that would also be much more of an on-the-go honeymoon, while Italy, since I've been there already, would be more relaxing). Sean wants to see Venice and Naples and the Cinque Terre. I wouldn't mind getting a chance to visit the Capitoline Museum in Rome, or the Doria Pamphili gallery...and yes, the Cornaro chapel, my greatest regret.

After dinner we went home and Sean made his bastardized version of my mom's blueberry muffin recipe: he ignores the blueberries and makes just the batter, which we have officially dubbed as delicious as crack, and then makes it as cookies...so they're just basically sugar cookies but with a muffiny texture. We watched tv together like an old married couple and Sean battled the Pod, my mom's futuristic vaccuum cleaner which is, as I predicted, too much for a mere man to handle. He couldn't figure out how to get the cord out of the body and was hitting the "retract cord" button over and over. Then Sean made valiant use of the Pod to vanquish a spider so he could sleep in safety. My hero.

Links

It stills feels too soon to let them go. They're all clustered there, taking up space, and my fingers go right to the delete key and then hesitate. Packing lists, at least three of them. The hostel association. Ryanair, in all its banana-lemony cheapness. Oh, and Via della Mattonaia, Sara's Italian blog. All remnants of my eager preparations for something that is, all too swiftly, becoming one of those "did I really do that?" memories. The blandness of office life is wiping away the reality of those brilliant, shimmering months of Italy. I knew it would happen--just not this quickly.

I'll let them linger a bit longer.

Diversion

Last night I had my friends plus Sean and Cody over for dinner. I used the dining room, which I will never live down in Sean's eyes as I had long argued that it's obsolete. This was only the second time I've ever had dinner in there. However, this morning we semi-compromised and he said as long as there was a dining room I could paint it whatever crazy color I wanted, included RED which is exactly what I would paint it. I still dispute the necessity of a hutch filled with useless show pieces and "good china". Ugh. Why show off crap that you're afraid to touch?

Reading "The Age of Innocence" and Sinclair Lewis novels has transported me somewhat back to the days when people really 'entertained'. It would be so much fun--if one only had servants. Stupid labor laws. Speaking of, I hereby revoke my condemnation of Edith Wharton, given after being forced to read "Ethan Frome" in high school and discovering that though I spent the book wishing for the main characters to die, they DON'T despite their romeo and juliet suicde attempt at the end ("gee darling, we can never be together because you're a servant and my wife's a bitch--let's ride this sled right into that big tree and die in each other's arms!"). That book still blows bigtime, but "Age of Innocence" is an entertaining read, and I love her language. Perhaps I just hate books about the bleakness of New England. New York society life circa 1870 is much more diverting.

Upshot

As an addendum to that previous entry, I don't really feel as sorry for myself as I may sound. I've got it pretty good, a fact of which I'm well aware. I'm proud of the job I have, perhaps not out of fondness for the service we provide, but simply that I got myself this job and have done so well at it. Perhaps the onset of PMS made me more emotional last night, but I was saddened almost to tears at the thoughts of summers past and how carefree things always seemed to be then. Now I'm hemmed in by schedules and responsibilities and it's hard to get used to the idea that I'll never be that free again. However, never in a million years would I trade StubHub for Sofia's, no matter how unfettered I was in those days.

Of course, the mother-voice in me wins, and I'll be working overtime tonight. Haha.

Moving Forward

Last night I felt so old. Sean was telling me about his day lounging at Pinto's pool, and then mentioned he was going out again, and my first actual thought was, "Now? But it's ten o'clock..." and then I realized how OLD that sounded. I go to bed at 11 because I get up at 6:50 every morning. I guess I'm getting a real taste of what adult life is like--soon you don't even want to stay out late, and you're surprised by people who do, and then before you know it you're like countless parents falling asleep by ten o'clock! This was my day yesterday: I woke up, worked 8-4:30, went to the gym, came home and swept the garage, ate dinner with my mom, washed the kitchen and bathroom floors, showered, read for a while, talked to Sean for a few minutes, went to bed.

This is how I've spent my summer, and unlike most people I'm working up till the Friday before school. Yes, this seemed like a good idea when I signed the contract in June. I'm sure my mom would be on me if I didn't, though--last night she was harassing me as to why I'm not working overtime on every day it's offered. I answered, honestly, because it's boring and makes me miserable to work 8-5:30 for a measly $18 bucks extra, and she scoffed at me.

This morning I got paid, which supposedly reminds me why I do this, except my paycheck had to be halved because our lovely accounting department had been failing to take out federal taxes from my paychecks previously. Now I have to deduct lots so that I don't wind up owing the government come April. I get most of it back anyway, I don't know what the big deal is. Sigh.

I guess if I had tons of free time I wouldn't really know what to do with it anyway, besides perhaps prep for the GREs, which I find it very difficult to focus on after a long day of work...I've been working on my merit project pretty steadily, and I have about seven poems that are OK to turn in...I've lined up my internship schedule for the fall, working 12-5 on Wednesdays and 9-3 on Fridays, which is a good deal less than I thought I'd have to work...I've been in touch with Jesus about working on his book, which is about Spanish architecture under Phillip IV...I haven't blown money on a single thing this summer--my most extravagant non-gas, non-food, non-entertainment purchase was the Ligabue cd. Overall I'd say I've been very responsible and adult--and it's extraordinarily defeating.

Stuffed

Friday night Sean I went to the carnival at St. Bernadette's, just down the street from his house. It's so pleasant to actually be able to walk to a place from your home, whether it's to the sea wall or Krauser's or a carnival with all its shiny things. I met more people who had only glowing words to speak of Sean, and we chatted for a bit with his uncle Donnie and his roommate Gary, who is like a hilarious alter ago of Donnie except that he's black and Donnie's white. He made dirty jokes and said I was pretty--he's a winner in my book.

Saturday morning we woke up sort of early, after a night filled with some difficulties--sheet entanglements, Sean's rage towards a malfunctioning ceiling fan, me accidentally popping him in the nose in the middle of the night--to go hike up to Gillette Castle. I finally saw the lily-pad filled pond which Heather had told me about years ago, and the castle, which boasts a stunning prospect over the river but is itself rather unattractive, I thought. I didn't like the roughness of it, it looked purposely unfinished. That evening the fun continued--we had had such amazing weather all day, and it was a favorable evening for watching a play in Edgerton Park. The play was "Robin Hood" by Alfred Noyes, author of "The Highwayman", and the performance was excellent. The set was really cool, and it had a three-story tower from which Robin actually rappelled down at one point. They used real arrows and metal swords, and the fight coordination was really good, in comparison with the crap featured in Macbeth at Fairfield last summer. The main way in which the play differed from a Shakespeare play was the lack of bawdy humor and farce, which I rather missed. It was light-hearted at points but never truly funny.

Funny was this afternoon, actually, when Sean and I took in "Little Miss Sunshine" at the Criterion in New Haven. I highly recommend it as a movie actually worth paying 9.75 to see. The number of laughs in it are surprising considering the number of sad things that happen in the film--hopes being crushed, death, etc. For once the critics were right in all the glowing things they said of this movie. Afterwards we walked around New Haven for a while, such a gorgeous day it was, and then went for an early dinner on Wooster Street. I'm still stuffed two hours later. All in all, this has been one of the most fun weekends I've had all summer. Could I have asked for a more wonderful person to spend it with? I think not.

Times

Recently I had the opportunity to keep working for StubHub while I'ma at school. I got called into Todd's office, nervously of course, and he pitched me the idea--remote access to email from school, and my regular pay of $12 an hour. It was a tempting offer, mostly because it'd be so much easier than the job I already agreed to do, which is work as Dr. Escobar's research assistant. I tried briefly to convince myself I could do both, but with spending two days a week at Greenwood Press, and this being senior year and me being lazy, that would never work.

However, I was on the brink of weaseling out with Jesus so I could make more money at StubHub, when a fortuitous conversation with Sean made me realize how much better for myself and my nebulous future plans working for Jesus would be. So yesterday I turned Todd down, and heard back from Jesus about the work he'll be working on-- "Spanish Architecture under Phillip IV". I don't know anything about Mr. IV, but I was a big fan of Mr. II. I know I saw IV's coffin at El Escorial but that's beside the point. Anyway, I think I made the better choice, and StubHub will be awaiting my return in December anyway.

This has been a particularly lengthy week. My schedule shifted from 9-530 to 8-430, which in itself is no problem; however, a recent tripling in call and email volume has prompted them to request we work an hour or two overtime every day. I did it three days, and it dragged. I said NO for today, because it's Friday and I'm going to be free, and see Heather and go down to Sean's and sleep with my boyfriend in a queen bed...ahhhh. Tomorrow morning we're going to hike up to Gillette Castle, and tomorrow night we're going to see a play on the green in New Haven. Summer is ending but there's so much fun left to be had--Carla's coming down in a couple of weeks, too, and we're going to help out at Sara's craft fair and hawk scarves in the heat.

My reading list has taken a turn for the classical lately. I re-read Babbitt and finally read Madame Bovary, which was excellent. For my lit class in the fall I read "the Professor's House" and just finished Fitzgerald's "Beautiful and Damned" last night, which was a shoot-me-in-the-face experience because it's set in the Jazz age, bring on the flappers, and the characters are just semi-rich, utterly useless people who drink and bore themselves to death and mental instability. Whoo. Now I've moved on to another Sinclar Lewis, Main Street, and I'm dreaming of finding Lolita actually in the library for me to borrow. A bunch of books I wanted last night were 'there' according to the computer but missing--The Bridge Over San Luis Rey, Sister Carrie, some others.

I've been reading all summer, naturally, but of late I've felt a tangible thirst for literature, and a realization of how small the fraction of what I have consumed is in relationship to what's on offer in libraries and bookstores. If I had a week of real summer vacation I would find a sunny spot and just read and feed myself grapes. Sean likes to point out I had four months of vacation in Italy, but you know what, I was severely lacking in books over there! I can't count the number of times I re-read Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, and Lamb, or the number of times I stepped hopefully into the Paperback exchange in search of a good read, only to be turned off by the crazy high prices on even used books. I did find a couple books worth buying there, Hibbert's Medici book and my oft-mocked Tacitus, but I lacked the freedom that public libraries here provide. I love libraries. Wherever I settle one day, a well-appointed library will be an absolute prerequisite of the town itself.

Update

Have I really not posted since July 19th? I guess it's due to having rather annoying internet at home, coupled with the fact that I spend my day in front of a computer equipped with superfast internet doing sneaky things. As of today, my work shift is 8-430pm, which is nicer in a way because the first hour is quiet and goes by quickly, but sucks because it's darker when I wake up. Last night I had one of the dreaded "you're pregnant" dreams and woke up, if not in a cold sweat, then very disturbed, at 6am. Shudder.

The past two weekends have been road trippy--first to Wellesley to see Rae, just as I promised I would do prior to graduation, go me. Their campus is ridiculous. There's a lake! Dolan Pond just can't quite compare, although watching guys wade in there looking for a ball or something else they've lost while gingerly trying to avoid duck poop is a diverting sight. Anyway, it was cool to get a picture of what Rae's life is at school. We even saw the lab where she is slaving away her summer, which was a less than pleasant reminder of chem lab in high school. A trip into Boston included the Garment District, thrift store mecca extraordinaire, and the Isabella Stuart Gardner museum, which made me miss Italy a great deal. This past weekend we went to Philadelphia to welcome TJ home from seven months of exile in Freiburg, Germany. We didn't really do the historic tour of Philly as much as play mimigolf on a course that featured historic landmarks on each hole. Plus we watched National Treasure, which was largely based in the city. Sara came along for the promise of a trip to the Philadelphia Art Museum, but we were cheated when no one else wanted to go. Sigh. I was kind of expecting that. However, I did get to see Anna, whom I had dearly missed, and we had good times in the car with Sean at the helm, the four of us girls packed in and Sara snoozing in the back seat as always. The trip home was extremely long--first to Yonkers to drop off Anna and see the Stabile nest, then to White Plains for Meredith, then to New Haven, from which I drove Sara home and then joyfully arrived at my own demesne a mere seven hours after leaving TJ's house. That wasn't all driving, of course, as we did have a couple of stops, including dinner at Sean's, but I'm still feeling quite tired this morning. It was worth it, entirely.

Now we're in the home stretch before school starts. My textbooks, purchased mostly off Amazon, have started to arrive. Yesterday I was incensed to discover that my history of astronomy book was previously owned by a smoker, which of all things is the thing I hate about used books that I can't give the sniff-test to. I have four weeks left to accomplish a great deal, and in addition to decide whether I will work for Jesus as his assistant as previously agreed upon, or keep on working for StubHub remotely from school, with easier work and much higher pay. I was flattered that they offered, and am very tempted. I can't decide. Speaking of which I should get started on those 1200 emails which piled up over the weekend. Alas.

Lil' Bit

I give this post my nickname here at StubHub, or at least my nickname according to Sheena, as I'm furtively typing this in the morning before I clock in and am technically owned by the company...I bought Ligabue's Nome e Cognome CD on ebay last week and am now eagerly anticipating its arrival...ahhhhhhhhh love that music!

Summer's rolling on, and we've passed the halfway mark. Last weekend Sean got the inimitable experience of joining my mother and me on a visit to my grandfather in Massachusetts, crazy old bird that he is. I was happy to see that Sean simply found most of his antics amusing, and my grandfather loved him--he invited him to return anytime, with or without me.

Other updates: TJ returns to the States in a couple of weeks, poor Carla has the mono, Anna destroyed yet another of my copies of Lamb, and Sara has a sort-of-Italian "friend" named Antonio. The adventures continue.