Sinister: Hanging from the spoon

[MyMomSays at xxx.com]

Sinister,

    My posts are the most ridiculous things for me to type, for me to "send", 
and for me to have pop up in my own in-box. How sick! To see my own stupid 
e-mail address and then to read my abstruse rantings--so, anyway, I promise 
this will be something that isn't totally ridiculous. Ok? Allright? 
Spic-n-span.
    
    It's beginning to be the kind of weather that whenever I enter a room, 
the only thing that crosses my mind is "There should be a fireplace in 
here,": either that, or I wish I could walk around campus, around work, and 
around my home constantly wrapped in a blue fuzzy electric blanket.  I've 
actually never owned an electric blanket--I think someone's aunt told me in 
1987 that they "totally cause Cancer," and since, I just have stayed clear 
from them.  Instead, I usually take it upon myself to complete the task of 
keeping my feet warm without wearing slippers--it usually involves me bending 
my legs in such a fashion that my feet are drawn up so close to my 
heat-radiating body that they manage to stay semi-warm. But anyway, this is 
all such crap--because this paragraph was really meant to be about fashion. 
It's so hard to be fashionable under a big bulky coat--especially a huge 
orange monster that was purchased at a second-hand shop for $6.  The good 
thing about the monsterous coat was that there was a $20 note in one of the 
pockets, probably still crisp and cozy from 1967 or so.  I think I spent it 
on cigarettes and coffee and booze (the cancer-warning aunt apparently did 
not hold THAT big of an influence on me).  This year I am in dire straights. 
I am..  and please, stop me if you can, considering ordering..  a jacket.. 
from..  J. Crew. Yeah. The thought has crossed my mind--how does someone come 
to a point where he or she actually looks through such a catalogue with a 
gazing eye? Apparently I've gone through this horrible transformation. I 
might be past the point of no return--
    I cannot phantom the sort of people who fly home intentionally for such a 
holiday like Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving has never been big in my book, at 
all--I mean, it's a holiday all about gorging oneself on semi-bland food.  My 
family is already very close, I don't need to see them anymore than I already 
do, frankly enough.  A friend and I recently had a conversations about our 
parents hearing Belle and Sebastian--he said that his mother heard "Stars of 
Track and Field" and was apparently offended: "Why would anyone want to wear 
terry underwear?" His mother asked him.  My mother had a more light-hearted 
reaction.  I think she just lightly giggled and asked, "Did he just say his 
celibate days are over?" 
    Most people I know can simply sink down in their bean bag chairs and be 
excited about a few days off, some good company, and a few turkey legs on 
which to gnaw.  Me, this year, I'm all screwed up--I just can't let myself 
relax about this. Right now I have a quadrant of notebook paper sprawled out 
on my desk, a few scribblings, a few weeksworth of notes, observations, 
phrases, words, crimps, clackings, hackings, slips, bad hand writing, lists, 
hassled questions--I guess, after a few wrestles with it, it's turned out to 
be somewhat of a story. But not really. I'm trying to finish said story, but 
I cannot help but feel like it is completely, totally, un-okay.
    If I could have it my way, here is how I'd have it--I'd need a visitor, 
for one.  I enjoy showing people around Colorado. I always say that I think 
this state is boring and out-grown its too-short britches, but it really is 
beautiful when it wants to be.  So I'd take said visitor around the front 
range (and of course, if this is being had my way, it would be spring.. )and 
up to the mountains for cherry cider.  There is a little winding highway that 
leads to a village called Estes Park about 60 miles West of where I 
live--every 10 miles or so there will be little shacks perched along the 
roads that have bottles of the brightly-colored cider hanging from the roof 
like bizarre christmas lights.  Only a few times in my life have I stopped 
for the cider. And my god, is it sweet nectar.  
    So instead of eating and watching a thanksgiving parade, I'd be showing 
this person this beautiful state, and how somehow, I don't know how, this 
would make me totally interesting--that really, if I were from, say, South 
Dakota, I would just not be me--that this cherry cider is all about me, that 
these mountains are totally my thing, even though all I really do is walk 
down 42nd Avenue which looks like any ordinary street displaced from any 
ordinary town.  

    Besides all that crap, I have some info that will drive you all mad with 
jealousy--guess who gets to meet Ms. Lindsey Baker on November 30th? 

                    *******
                mandee  m a y
                             "inconsolably okay"
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 +-+       "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper           +-+
 +-+  "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+
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 +-+               Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa                 +-+
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