So my daughter calls me EARLY yesterday morning and asks me to call her health center at school to tell them that she needs to stay home for the day, because she is sickety sick sick. I think to myself, “yeah, right… must be late with an English paper or something,” but I dutifully call in and say I’m keeping her home for the day. I am in New York at this point, and she is in New Hampshire.
And then I get on a train to come home to New Hampshire, and am suddenly sooooo tiiiiiiiiired that I curl up on my little Amtrak seat on my side, with my feet up on top of my bag, and pretty much sleep from Penn Station to New Haven.
Get off at Back Bay, take the Orange Line to North Station, get on the train for New Hampshire, and am soooo tiiiiiiiired again that I lie down across my seat with my feet up on my bag, and sleep until the lady sitting behind me starts talking on her cellphone about how she’s been getting all these weird calls all day that are actually intended for a phone number that’s one digit off from hers. She is telling this to whomever lives at the phone number that is one digit off. And she is really, really boring, and they kind of don’t believe her. And then she has to call someone else and tell THEM all about this problem with the phone, and by this point I want to grab the cellphone from out of her hands and just whack her upside the head with it until she stops talking. But I am too tired, so instead I jam my headphones into MY phone and listen to opera and Patsy Cline for a while.
In New Hampshire the leaves are now unfurling, and the tulips are up outside my building, and even though it was snowing about three weeks ago it’s eighty fucking degrees out, and I know they won’t start the air conditioning in my building until Memorial Day, because they have to turn the heat off before the AC will work and once that happens they can’t turn it back on again or something and sometime they have a bad frost in, oh, JUNE, and they don’t want anyone to freeze to death so instead we just sweat miserably.
But luckily this happened last year too and I managed to snake the very last two fans at Walgreens, so I know I can just lie down under my fan when I get up to the third floor and recover a little.
And when I get into the apartment, my daughter says, “I’m so sick, but it’s really weird. I don’t want to barf or anything, I just feel kind of off and get really, really dizzy whenever I stand up. And I’m sooooo tiiiiiiiiired.”
And still I am such an idiot that I think she is utterly goldbricking, until I woke up this morning after about thirteen hours of sleep and felt totally exhausted and then tried to stand up and got really, really dizzy.
So here we both are, stupid and dizzy and really tired and weird, and I’m wondering if there are tsetse flies or some kind of shit in New Hampshire, because this sucks and apparently whatever is causing it is going around my kid’s school, as I discovered when I called in to the health center again this morning to say I was keeping her home again.
I had all these big plans to write a groovy blog post this morning, but my brain is more steel wool than steel trap, so, um, I slept most of the day. I am heartily sorry.
Instead, I offer you the best book trailer I have ever seen, made by Gary Shteyngart. I first watched it a while ago because my pal Jordan Foster said it was amazing, and that he had been the coolest teacher when she was getting her MFA in writing at Columbia, and she sent me a link.
I remembered it this morning because my kid asked if I knew anything about any of the people teaching English at Barnard, and I did not, but I said, “hey, wait a minute–there is this really cool guy at Columbia, and you should watch this video on Youtube, and also take a class with him.”
So here it is:
This man may have single-handedly restored my faith in literary fiction writers. And even Jay McInerney. Which is saying something.
Although I think they should have used me and JT in the deb sequence.
Okay, now I’m going to go drink more iced Theraflu. O joy, o rapture.
And also, Jordan has threatened to actually buy and send me this:
To which I responded “ewwwww… Gaggenau!”
I am soooo not a royal wedding person. Surprise, surprise.
My sister and niece got up at two a.m. in Berkeley so they could watch the whole thing, though.
So here’s my question for you ‘Ratis this week, because I’m utterly boycotting that whole topic (other than from the major-appliance angle), and I’m still sickety sick sick:
If you had to have someone else’s picture decoupaged to the front of your refrigerator, whose would it be? And why, of course.
I’m thinking I’d like these guys on mine, if I had to have an image of two strangers: