the satisfaction

The application to Iowa is in the mail. The hopes I have this time around are less than last time, but I think it would wonderful and amazing to get in. If I don't, I may begin to reconsider my stance of not, no way, never applying to any other schools. I'll find out sometime in March if my manuscript impressed enough to qualify me to be a student there.

the first airplane

He sits in my periphery, a hope, an idea, bubbling with potential. His construction is sound, the logical expectation is that he will fly.

And yet, doubt fills me, fear overtakes me and across the field I see my friend has come to join me, to help get him up or at the least, to listen to me wonder what it might take to get things off the ground. The closer she gets to him, the more she takes his side, the more she begins to love him.

As I stand aside while she admires his lines and capabilities, I see the sun shine a little brighter, I see her face glow from excitement. And so, because I'm scared of flying I offer him to her. I hope that she will oppose the idea, but she enthusiastically jumps inside and sets herself up in the seat.

I want to tell her to get out, go away, but instead I admire his ability to fly. I'm happy that he works the way I knew he would.

generally speaking:

THE APPLICATION: The deadline looms, the manuscript is coming together, I've got the three letters of recommendation. I'm going to try to put it in the mail Monday the 28th. I am at once nervous, terrified and thrilled to be embarking on this process again.

WORK, WORK, WORK: I now have a new job which brings the total to five. I feel like I work all the time and have nothing to show for it except the haggard memories of a drunken night. I will be at Siena a lot the next couple weeks because everyone is on vacation and things are down with my other jobs. But it is all just what I must do to make it to the next day and it will be okay.

THE QUIET FRENCH MAJOR: Hasn't called me, hasn't been here, may have disappeared for good. Or, he may show up shortly before school resumes and the last six weeks will be explained away. Maybe.

THE DRUNKEN AMBUSHER: Continues to slather me with laughs, excitement and fun. He inspires me to do good things for him, he makes me thrilled to be alive, he makes me want all the things I'd thought I would never want again. And yet, I know that there's a line we might never cross and it's probably useless to hope for things to work out for the best, but damn, he still makes the room spin, my cheeks flush and it's perfect for now.

THE EX: Sent me a dumb email wishing me and my family Happy Holidays. Weird. Dumb. Annoying.

THE HEALTH PLAN: I've gotten back to smoking a lot again. I think it's the stress of everything. But, I do also love sitting in my apartment and looking out the window and smoking. A lot. So it's okay for now. I will probably start the lemonade diet sometime after new year's. I think it will be tedious and horrible, but the result will be fantastic. I've been having low grade migraines for four days that are not bad enough to be worrisome, but consistent enough to bother me throughout the days.

RANDOMNESS: A guy who usually never talks to me at the cafe stayed and chatted with me about his home town, where he's going for the holidays. I've been having a lot of real meaningful random conversations with customers lately. I don't know if it's the weather (it's frigidly cold and everyone is an ally against the weather), the holidays (making people less grumpy), or what, but it's very sweet to feel a connection to someone I've never been able to crack before.

health plans

A few days ago, fresh off the heels of a reckless night filled with two packs of cigarettes and as much alcohol as I could possibly get into my system, I decided not to smoke that next day, just to give myself a little break from smoking. Besides that, I was broke as hell and buying a pack of cigs would put my bank account into the dangerously low category. So I went to work at the kid's house knowing at the very least I could bum a pack off his mother (who buys cheap cartons duty free when she flies).

That was Wednesday. And though I can't say I'm completely committed to quitting by any stretch of the imagination, I do think my days of daytime smoking for the sake of the "difficult" situation I've found myself in are quite over. It is another thing I have to think about him for and I'd rather not associate something I derive so much pleasure from with my ex boyfriend (Gosh, that feels great).

For now, I think I'll limit myself somewhat, to night time smoking, smoking at a bar, and a few cigarettes in my apartment because it gives me an excuse to sit by the window and enjoy the view.

When I do the lemonade diet, I won't smoke for two weeks and maybe that will be the catalyst for not smoking...again.

Yes, I plan on doing the lemonade diet again. Why? I know it will get the job done. I know I've tapered off on whatever weight I've lost already, I've reached the plateau and it's not going past 207. Two hundred and seven pounds. When I started dating my ex boyfriend (yeah that is nice) I was a svelte 170.

I've lost ten pounds since we broke up, most of it due to stress in the beginning. I'm a much better eater on my own. I tend to eat light, quick, easy meals that are meat free. I actually like healthy foods, especially ones that I know are good for me.

I'll gladly recount my experiences here. I enjoyed the first time so much, it might be interesting to see how they differ.

the winning ticket

I checked my email this morning from a sense of duty. I didn't expect the email I received today to come for many more days. And I didn't expect it to be good news.

In speculating which three shoulders I could tap to write my letters of recommendation, I decided for one, to try a former professor of mine who is quite the hotshot at Columbia College. Basically he's the hardest working writer I've ever met, cranking out book after book, having his plays produced, publishing short stories all over, you name it, the guy's done it and most likely recently. I wanted to ask him last year, but he took a sabbatical from school and I didn't have his personal email. I suppose I could have found it, but I think part of me was a little afraid to even bother asking him.

This year, as I was discussing this with my writing partner, who is enthusiastic (she's still young and largely unsullied by the world at large) and pushy, she encouraged me to email him. She even forced me to sit down with her and write the email and send the email in her presence.

I found out that this was the last week of the semester (which is the pretty much the worst time to email someone with this request), but I did it anyway. And I figured, if this is the last week, I won't hear from him until maybe next week or the week after.

And when he emailed today, just a mere four days later, he actually apologized for not getting to me sooner! I was astonished. And then to further read that he was actually willing to do the letter, I was just thrilled. It was like winning the lottery.

And for the first time in this process, where I've been dragging my feet, toying with the idea of not applying at all this year (and supposedly definitely going to apply next year), I actually feel like it's really happening. This is it. It's my time.

I'm going to send them two short stories and an excerpt from a novel I'm working on. I'm fairly confident about my material. I'm fairly hopeful about the whole thing. And I've got three weeks and three days to get it there.

the element of surprise

I was completely baffled by a man yesterday. He came out of nowhere. He took the sheet of my armor and flicked it away. He made me feel instantly comfortable and witty, smart and beautiful. He put me so at ease that when he kissed me I was surprised. I wasn't expecting it at all.

Because technically speaking, we're friends. About two years ago, when I first met him I thought he was absolutely gorgeous and smart to boot. There was one big problem though. He was still in love with his ex. It was so painful for him that it completely gripped his entire identity, and there was nothing left for anyone else. So I settled for being his friend.

And then Eric and I got back together. As he was beginning to loosen the noose of his ex's grip, I was slipping mine happily back on. And so I watched him take home my smiling friends, who reported that it was fairly ho-hum and they never spoke to him again. I tried not to be jealous or unkind. I simply observed.

Recently, he's hasn't been around the nightspots. Or on the weekends he pauses at the coffeeshop when I look my worst. Once I was riding the bus by the cafe and I happened to see him look in the window of the cafe and walk on, because I wasn't there. He often waves as he walks by.

The last time I saw him before yesterday, he was with a girl young enough to look like his daughter. He refused to come over to talk to me. He smiled and cajoled from afar, but he was on a date. And it was obvious that he was not going to be interrupted by my antics. The next time I saw him at the cafe, I teased him mercilessly, something I love to do. He was amused and unrepentant. We both blushed.

And then there was yesterday. Yesterday, he was a guy at the table with a buddy. He was having a beer and a slice of pizza. He was already there when I arrived. I arrived drunk. I didn't notice him at first. My friend pointed him out to me. And I was indifferent. Oh him? Whatever. We talked a bit and my friend pointed out that he wouldn't even catch her eye. I said, he will look at me if I look in his direction. And he did.

Outside, we smoked and he tried to strike up a conversation with me. I teased him. Oh now you want to talk to me...I see how it is. We laughed. We talked. I met his friend. I thought his friend was great and we had a lot in common. Slowly, I transitioned from my friends at the bar to a seat at their table. We talked, we drank, we smoked. We had a great time. And amazingly, I never once imagined being kissed by either of them. I thought they were both great, but that was that. I'm still holding out hope for my quiet french major. At least, I was.

Now there is the familiar tailspin, the sense of regret, the feeling of uncertainty. I could see us falling into each other fairly easily but I'm not sure either of us wants that. I think we might be able to get to what we what if we can just get past the fact that I was in his house and we stayed awake til the sun rose. Also, I've seen what happens when he takes someone home. They never talk again. I'm worried about that. I'd rather be friends with him than awkwardly not talk to him at all. It will all come about in time. Thankfully, I made my feelings known straightaway. I'm no longer hiding behind what if's and what could be's?

And if he does turn out to be as great as he promises, then I look forward to losing myself in someone else for a while.

first snowfall

proximity

There he is, far away, a random occurrence in my world. His initial reactions to me were always cold, mean almost, a stern meeting of the eyes, a quiet fuming. For the longest time I thought he was a huge snob. A force to be reckoned with. And then I spoke to him. What I discovered is that it was all a cover up for someone who just wasn't very bright. There he was surrounded by verbose, loquacious folks and he had nothing to say in response. Half the time he was probably trying in great earnest to keep up with the swirls and whirls of our conversations.

Once I learned this, the power he had over me expired. I was no longer set into a trance when I met his eyes. I was no longer nervous about the uncertain man at the bar. I stopped being immediately clumsy because he was so mysterious and handsome. I didn't care what he thought of me because he could barely think!

About the same time his appearances at the bar tapered off. He'd moved away. He still came, but infrequently; I rarely saw him.

Then one night, we happened to both be there at the same time. And we both happened to be alone. And we happened to be in close proximity to one another. We had a very long, very nice conversation. I realized I'd been presumptious yet again. He could and did think, in fact, he had quite a lot to say and most of it was coherent and structured thinking. We talked so long and so much that the next day everyone assumed we'd spent the night together. Our conversation was so deep and connected that everyone else fell away.

I would never go home with him because he has a girlfriend, despite their obvious arrangements (I often see him escorting women away from the bar). And, I would never go home with him because I imagine I would fall harshly in love with someone that couldn't really be with me.

And yet, it is fun to play with him. Before, we stared at each other with blank faces, now we stick out our tongues at each other across the bar. I discovered that his knowledge of music is vast, but he has similar tastes to mine. We choose songs at the jukebox together. When I arrive at the bar and he is there, we greet each other warmly with smiles.

Lately, we've taken to hugs. Sometimes the nicest thing about the range of human contact is a hug. This last time I received a hug from behind, his long arms swooping across my chest, his head nuzzled in the crook of my shoulder and he whispered in my ear, "I'll see you later. Have a good night."

I turned to ask him about a band I made him promise to listen to. He'd forgotten it. He told me to text him. I said I didn't have his number and "who are you (one of my favorite jokes, because he seems to be a new person to me each time)?" He saw my phone sitting on the bar and reached for it, typed in his number and said, there, now you have my number.

And I have to admit, even though I know it's nothing, even though I know nothing will ever happen between us, it sends a thrill through me that I'm embarrassed about.

dollop

good riddance

Their voices carried across the street and up to my windows, where I sat staring out at the sky, smoking a cigarette. The words were meaningless, it was the tone I recognized, the fervent, angry yelling was what I heard. And it was the first time since we were done that I felt a sense of relief. I'll never have to take part in another screaming match again.

As I've been unpacking, I've found things from the first time we were together that I held on to, for some reason, but now no longer feel the urge to keep. It felt good to get rid of the letters, notes and pictures that marked the time we shared.

At first, I wasn't angry. I think I was more shocked than anything. Once that wore off, once reality began to sink in, one unpacked box at a time, as the days became weeks and the weeks became a month, I was really just sad. I was just disappointed. I hadn't gotten angry yet.

The first strike was the phone call. His voice was terse and angry. I hadn't heard it in a month. Among the things he'd decided we needed to discuss were the phone bill, some leftover mail, and the few things I couldn't move. He set a limit on the phone til December 4th, which I was grateful for.

The second strike was his ultimatum that if I wasn't able to move them by a certain date, he would give them away. I've done nothing but make this easy on him. I left immediately. I got a new apartment within two weeks. I hadn't called him at all. I moved my stuff in three trips in my boss' car. I couldn't take a couple things and just figured I would get them eventually. The idea that he would demand something else out of me was just too much.

Lastly, of course, was money. I'd given him almost five hundred dollars in one month to cover the expenses from the half of the month I was there, the phone bill for November and what I was sure was coming, overages in my minutes. I gave him fifty bucks for that. It turned out that my overages cost $170 and he wanted me to pay as soon as possible and get off his phone plan as soon as possible. Well that was just too much. I had to borrow $1400 to get into an apartment and he wanted me to happily cut him a check for $120?

All of this has made me realize that even though I was disappointed, I still imagined that we might be able to be friends at some point, but now I don't see that even being possible. I've always thought the phrase He's dead to me was a little ridiculously dramatic, but I finally feel the urge to say it.

The things that tied us together were so easy to cut. I got my stuff, the post office knows my new address, my phone number is back to being mine. Six weeks and it's like we never knew each other and never will again.

the unlikely francophile

As I linger in giddy thoughts of him it is hard even to know where to begin.

Him is the one that is quiet, focused, his physical body perfect for me, his personality a little too unformed, I suspect.

Babysitting for the kid affords me random hours with nothing to do and nowhere to go but I have to stay in the neighborhood, so naturally I go to the cafe. It was in one of those hours that I was able to speak to him again. He smiled when he bounded up the steps. It was like he knew I'd be there. He said a cheery hello and ordered his coffee. We talked about school, that it was ending, what he still had left to do, etc. His main worry was a twelve page essay on terrorism. He's a political science major, I learned. And then, he said the words I most dreaded. After school was finished, just a few days away, he was going to go home for the six week break.

I told him to stop by when I was working next. I worried the desperation I felt would drown out my words. He left with a distant air.

I didn't expect to see him again for six weeks. I hoped he would come in when I was working. I planned ahead. I got a postcard and wrote him a note with my number on it. I didn't know if I would get a chance to give it to him or not. I didn't know if I should give it to him. It seemed really very dorky.

And then, he came! I was so excited I had to turn away from him and smile at the coffeepots. I turned back to his smiling face and what followed was too much to recount. He stayed for over an hour. We chatted constantly unless a customer was there, and even then he often joined in the conversation. His volume went from a quiet two to a six. He talked about himself a lot more than he ever had. He didn't just nerd talk me, like I was someone he went to school with and had nothing better to talk about.

And I found out the most amazing thing ever. Not only is he a political science major, he's a french major. He's been to France. He speaks French fluently. Fluently! I asked him, really, not like a parlor trick? And he mused, no, not like a parlor trick...

Things were going so well that I didn't want to spoil the mood by giving him the postcard with my number on it. Walter suggested I give it to him before he left, and I'd even decided against that while he was there and we were having such a good conversation. I was hoping he'd be able to do the job on his own.

Finally he began to leave. He made this little speech about how he didn't know when he would see me again, so I gave him the card. A customer came in the interim and we both awkwardly said goodbye.

And even if he doesn't call, if we never go out, if we aren't even friends someday, I just loved that he turned the volume up and seemed more comfortable being himself than he had ever been before. That is what makes me smile about the whole thing.

prospect decipherings

I feel I should preface this with a slight disclaimer that I a) do not go out to bars with the intention of meeting the perfect guy for me, and b) I do not expect to meet a guy at the cafe either. That these things will happen seems likely, since both places are festering with lonely, available guys; and finally c) I'm in no rush to be relationshipped again.

The first time I met him I was drunk. I was mad. I was manic. I had been out all night and arrived at work that morning with no sleep and booze on my breath. It was one of the stupidest things I had ever done. That day the marathon passed by the cafe, my boss was already waiting for me at six a.m. and I had stopped drinking at 5:30 a.m. To say that I was fucked was just putting it lightly. But somehow, my boss did not catch on that I was drunk.

He arrived at an hour before the marathon passed through to do his homework and without his foreknowledge, to laugh at my many hilarious comments which I delivered because he was there. His presence made my shift palatable. His stoic focus on his homework was strange and intriguing. Here were twenty thousand people running by, another few hundred spectators ringing cow bells, yelling and clapping and he was not distracted at all by them. He was distracted by me. But not by them.

After that, it has been a desperate climb on the the sill, my fingers barely able to hold on, his presence is so far and few between and unpredictable and his demeanor toward me different, as if that day had never happened. I adore him but I think there is no way he could love a girl like me. I imagine so many scenarios, but I can't imagine how it will ever get off the ground.

He suits me most as a physical being. His personality is strangled and muffled and too quiet for me, I suspect.

As for the other one, he suits me most personality wise, but his physical being is not my ideal. And yet, where others have failed in this department, he has somehow snuck in with such vitality that it doesn't matter to me at all.

He is a regular everywhere. I have often seen him, noticed him, drank with him. Not long ago, I began to look forward to his visits. I sought him out at the bar. And what I found there was better than I could have imagined. He sat with me a long time after he'd paid his tab and I tried maybe too hard to play it cool. When he finally left the entire bar had invented that he had a crush on me and I was too mean to notice. I countered, it doesn't matter that you think he likes me, because I already like him.

The next time I saw him I surprised him with these revelations and we managed to clumsily meet somewhere in the middle, between chin and nose. He was tender and sweet and loud and wonderful and we spent the morning laying in a bed he made from a box with instructions. And now he says he will call me to discuss a date. Except he hasn't called at all.

I realize that I was not even on his radar a week ago. In fact, his presence on mine was a surprise to me as well. He's the kind of guy I usually avoid because I know his type. I've dated his type. I'm not interested in being that girl who's with That Guy. You know, the loud crazy guy at the bar who buys everyone shots... And yet, he expressed great admiration for someone who'd read the seven volumes of Proust. He actually knew that there were seven volumes. He'd actually tried to read them and only made it through the first two. So I must relent my stereotypes, I must let down my notions and admit that he may not be That Guy.

The fact that he's a know-it-all only makes him all the more enticing.

So I snuck into his life and into his bed with the element of surprise on my side, and I wonder if he's thinking too hard about it all instead of just getting to know me.

It's exciting to have some prospects. I imagined that it would be a slow road in this area, that my heart would be too cold to even let someone near me. I've been accused of doing this all too soon, of setting myself up to be hurt again, but in the end, I know myself better than anyone does. I know that I wouldn't even bat an eye if they weren't something worth seeing. I also know at the end of the day an empty bed awaits me in my apartment by the lake and it doesn't make me yearn for anything but sleep.

je sais tu

The smells alone transported us to France. Hot cheese, baking bread, a mingling of herbs and fresh produce, it was all just so quintessential France. They didn't have to tell us that they imported all their ingredients from France, their flours and sugars, their salts and herbs, we could smell evidence of their locale immediately as the door opened.

The grouchy woman behind the counter made us a baguette sandwich, and it was truly a baguette. It was only puffy in the middle, with a big oval dent where it resisted rising anymore. The ends were pinched in and pointed, the color of the bread was a dirty grey and the crust was thick and dense. Inside though, it was soft and airy, the dough lightly pounded to leave in pockets of air.

Diane was there to do business with the caterer and she came out to speak to us. She spoke decent English, but it was evident that she was new to our language, for it was twisted and gnarled with pauses, wonderings and many miscalculated words. Whenever she fumbled over a word, she quickly smiled and sometimes laughed. She was absolutely enchanting. She wore clothes that I'd never seen on anyone else, down to her shoes and eyeglasses. Her glasses were name brand (of course) but they were a soft raspberry in clunky frames that suited her face perfectly.

Most of the time when I accompany Diane on her many tasks and errands, no one ever speaks to me. No one includes me. No one talks to me. No one wonders who I am. Diane takes charge of them and they pick up on the subtle clues that I have nothing to do with what is actually going on.

This woman, however, was compelled to figure me out and even included me in the conversation, which ran the menu gamut from appetizers to dessert* and never once treated me like I didn't exist. She even wondered if she had met me before today, perhaps we had seen her there before, or perhaps we had met somewhere else. I admitted that I seem familiar to many people. She asked me my name, but that did not ring a bell. As we were leaving she asked, "Can you remember for me your name?"

I remembered my name for her and asked hers. Neither of us had asked her name. As Americans, a name is something private, almost personal, a way of connecting someone to you. Anonymity is the beginning of indifference.

"Elodie," she said, in a deeply happy way, and she gave us her business card and wished us well, and we left feeling delighted by her countenance.

[* le menu: asparagus mousse in martini glasses, vegetable brochettes (French ka-babs), a cheese plate, brazillian paella with shrimp, chicken and coconut milk in clear plastic cones (like ice cream cones but not edible), crepe brochettes with fresh fruit and mini cakes.)

cheers!

The wii fit has informed that I have lost six point six pounds since the last time I ventured on to it about a month ago.

Some part of me has been somewhat aware that I've lost weight, but I just chalked it up to stress and what not and figured since I wasn't eating a ton of meat late at night, a natural by-product would be some inevitable weight loss.

So I was pleasantly surprised when the wii fit was actually polite to me and congratulating me on my improved stats.

Here's to getting back to being myself, weight and all.

the view

a general filling in of the blanks

: I love my new apartment. I sit and look out the window with great pleasure, on a horizon of trees and buildings lower than my vantage (the fifth floor) and an ever changing sky. I leave my blinds up and the southern morning light wakes me every morning, no matter how reluctant I may be. I still have a lot of work to do to make it my home, but it has great potential.

: I still have four jobs. I babysit for the kid, I am a Rent-A-Friend, I work at the cafe and I'm a housekeeper. I quite like the diversity and the varying degrees of "responsibility" I have acquired. Sometimes I don't know how I can keep it all working, but somehow it works. It helps that everyone I work for is excessively delighted by my abilities.

: I am still applying for Iowa. I've begun to craft an entirely new manuscript. It is still early in the process, but my writing partner and I are trying to meet more regularly and I feel good about this new material.

: A random freelance article I wrote for a friend's magazine is going to be published on oprah.com. I wish I was kidding. It's at once exciting and repulsive.

: Of course I've already begun to attract guys to my side. I find that I've been open for novelty's sake, but there's nothing I am rushing into. I have a new crush who drives me work on my least favorite day of the week. Seeing him makes me glad, smile, giddy. I have no reservations, but no worries either.