Sometime last summer
I don't believe people ever truly eat calamari because they like calamari. I believe they only enjoy the dipping sauce and the breading, and the fact that they are putting squid in their mouths is something they're willing to overlook in their pursuit of deep-fried appetizers.
"C-sections are sad. I've never seen one where all the puppies made it."
A normally bubbly senior technician makes this morose proclamation as we're prepping the surgical suite for the arrival of an emergency cesarean section. The owner called about ten minutes ago. Leia the miniature Dachshund has been in labor for two and a half hours with nary a puppy to be seen. X-rays taken a month or so ago revealed 6-7 puppies resting comfortably in her uterus; if not one of those precious little Dachslets has made an appearance yet, we're at the point where surgery might make the difference between life and multiple deaths.
Trembling on a steel exam table, Leia looks more like a wire-haired basketball than a dog. Her belly is impossibly swollen, her normal weight tripled, veins standing out like writhing worms against the turgid earth-toned skin. She's straining with all her might, but nothing is produced save a foul brownish liquid. Something is blocking the birth canal. Dr. Homie - his first cesarean! No pressure, though, of course - gently probes the orifice in question, and makes his proclamation. "There's a puppy turned sideways. We need to go to surgery."
ed. note: all the puppies made it. I photographed them afterward. The mother is glassy-eyed, in a morphine daze, probably just glad to not be feeling anything anymore, not even the grasping mouths of the six healthy bundles of soft squeaking life latched onto her; the bundles themselves are wriggling, wormlike, all crinkled ears and silky fur and tiny jelly-bean toes, taking their first breakfast in great gulps, unaware of their dramatic entrance, unaware even of light or sound (eyes and ears tightly shut for weeks still as they are), aware only of warmth and sustenance and brother and sister.
Sometime in July
There is a fun adventurous thing that happens sometimes where I'm all
Let's go to bed. It's late.
and then I'm all
1. The entire internet.
2. My best friend lives in Switzerland. What time is it in Switzerland? Is he awake yet? Let's send him a text.
3. I'm kinda hungry.
4. This movie is due back at the library tomorrow. I should probably watch it.
5. No response yet? Fucker must be sleeping in. Oh no, what if he's ill? I should text again and ask if he is feeling OK.
6. Maybe I'm not that hungry. Maybe I want a beer.
7. I don't have any beer. OK, I'm hungry.
I am a lucky woman. No one wants me to have children.
For many of my unlucky sex, it's considered a waiting game from the minute they manifest ovarian activity; when's the baby coming? Oh, I'm not sure I want to be a mother. Don't worry, you'll change your mind. You'll be sure soon enough, once you realize it's your entire
purpose
in this world.
literally, biologically, it's what you DO
so you ought to get down to the very important business of Doing It.
..but not until after marriage and with a pre-approved heteronormative partner if you'd be so kind thank you goodnight.
ed. note: he is still my best friend, but he has moved away from Switzerland and to parts nearer yet equally objectionable in some ways, and he does not require me to have babies, only to occasionally rub his shoulders in their particular sore spots, and to participate in partnered crossword puzzles, and to let him accept my idiosyncrasies with more grace than I myself do.
8.11
Friday: hunting food
Saturday: high AF, amazing dinner
Sunday: mushrooms, sassy waiter
Monday: recovery, chill'n, Indonesian food, UH OH
Tuesday: space cake on the plane was the best idea
ed. note: this was the bones of the body of an account of a fragment of my trip to Europe. I invite you to use it to construct your own account of events that transpired.
10.26
Nothing happened yesterday. Read all about it today.
On Friday we got lunch at Sullivan Street Bakery. This bakery has the unique distinction of being chock-full of BREAD, glorious BREAD, which is my favorite. I got a sandwich that involved soft-boiled egg, broccoli, and plentiful cheeses, and devoured it messily, joyfully, with little regard for the well-being of my clothing.
Later, after K had finished cursing at his computer for the day and I'd had a beer, we browsed apartment listings in Manhattan. Here is what I learned from that experience: whoever is photographing apartments for lease in Manhattan has a severe fetish for corners and radiators. They don't seem terribly interested in providing an actual sense of the space, but holy cows, if you wanna see some pictures of the corners of rooms, they have got you COVERED, son.
Saturday I was born 29 years prior to that date.
Nothing happened yesterday. I reveled in it.
Today, we look at apartments. May God have mercy on our souls, feet, and pocketbooks.
ed. note: there are indecipherable things happening here involving dates. All that needs to be known is that Sullivan Street Bakery makes incredible sandwiches and you ought to try them if you're ever nearby. That's the take-home message here.
It always feels like these trips last simultaneously forever, and not long enough.
ed. note: this was very likely all that needed to be said at this point. I consider this entry complete.
ed. note: there are indecipherable things happening here involving dates. All that needs to be known is that Sullivan Street Bakery makes incredible sandwiches and you ought to try them if you're ever nearby. That's the take-home message here.
11.4
It always feels like these trips last simultaneously forever, and not long enough.
ed. note: this was very likely all that needed to be said at this point. I consider this entry complete.
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