in which I have the completely original idea that it would be pretty okay to be the godhead

In the book I just finished copyediting, people, semipeople, dragons, and other beings have prophetic or otherwise knowledgeable dreams. People have powers deep within them and then they use them at just the right times. I've probably copyedited a hundred books with the same general premise, and they never fail to be completely cathartic. What if I had a superpower and I could use it at just the right time? Simply put, that would be rad. Many pizzas would be eaten in celebration.

In the typical dichotomous poll of whether being invisible or flying would be better, I unpopularly always vote for the former. First of all because there is nothing better than knowing everything -- but everything -- about what's going on everywhere, particularly when you are not meant to know. Imagine sneaking around invisibly, hearing and seeing all! Way too good to be true. Let's be frank: Invisible = omniscience, if wielded correctly. Flying would be neat, don't get me wrong, but in my case would likely result in a deadly collision with a stork on its way to deliver baby pandas back into nonextinction. I'm not exactly known for doing things gracefully.

The best power, though? Would be to be a healer. There are healers in this book (legal sidenote: this is a series already in circulation, so I'm not breaking any contracts here or telling you anything you wouldn't already know) and I just think that's the best. I would constantly be like,
"Oh, sorry, I'm too sick to come out OH WAIT NO I'M NOT."
I could wander around to hospitals and be like, boom, you're outta here. Boom, you're outta here.
I know what you're thinking now: I'm having a Jesus fantasy.
Fine. Be that as it may -- that I am openly having a Jesus fantasy, so sue me -- I just can't imagine anything better. I'd be like, BOOM! You're well! Have some Yellowtail!
I mean, I could make water into wine, but I'd probably still be a writer and therefore you'd have to settle for your health and a glass of the bodega stuff.

Is this what it comes to when you get really scared? You start to imagine how rad it would be to be a modern-day Jesus? Somewhere my family is needing a therapeutic reminder that it's okay, he was totally Jewish.

the mysteries of floridex

Have any of you tried Floridex? What do you think it is? Do you think it is a special salve engineered to get rid of the state of Florida? Sadly, no. This is what I thought, too. I thought it with great hope and a bright vision of the future. Instead it is a drink, consumed in lieu of iron supplements, supposedly gentle on the stomach and hailed by pregnant people everywhere. I am looking for it. I would like it to cure me. I would like it to knock the Florida right out of my sails.

I am anemic as well as a variety of other things; RIP, Humira shots. We barely knew ye and you aren't working. I have three weeks at home to write before I leave again on another one of these Department of Homeland Security gigs. To write, hear me, not to lie in a heap in the closet all day. But that's what I appear to be capable of doing. From a health perspective, things are not going at all well. The fevers persist. I have put myself on a regime of milk, plus vegetable pills and one slice of toast a day -- if successful, add one egg. (Plus what I refer to as the Abby Special: Tea with some manner of sweetener it. Tea with sweetener! I'm surprised that groundbreaker Abby isn't as rich as the Post-It magnate.) I broke this regime last night at Michelle and Nate's to see, by virtue of absence, whether it was necessary. Um, it's necessary.

Floridex! Will you give me strength, even if my food is not going through correctly? Will you make me hardy and hale like the pregnant persons of America? Will you, as a bonus, at least try to wipe out the state of Florida?

in which, with disappointment, i see no buffaloes during a week in buffalo

I'm so sorry. I didn't tell you a thing while I was in Buffalo for work. I didn't tell you about the tornado we were caught in (metal fans flew! we got soaked and ran around screaming!), or the weird stories I heard while sitting in the booth with the Customs and Border Patrol officers. I didn't tell you about Niagara Falls, and how weirdly easy it would be to simply step over a one-foot patch of grass and into the downdrop itself. I didn't tell you about the old lady at Tim Horton's who massaged my back and put a napkin in my ear (internal monologue: I hate you I hate you). Why not? Because I was sitting in a booth at the United States Border for a week. And the rest of the time I was gulping down Advil and developing antibodies against work clothes. Did you know how exhausting it is to sit in a booth eight hours a day and sleep in a hotel room? You didn't? That's probably because it's not, unless there's something wrong with you. Mom, I think I have Crohn's Disease.

I maintained a champion low-grade fever of about 100 degrees for the entire week as I sat in the booths with the officers. Some of them used to be teachers and now they wear guns around their waists. Why? The pay is better, they told me. One used to work at a Men's Warehouse. One told me he likes to pick up the girls who drive through in their cars. I saw so, so, so many people in their cars. The things they keep by their feet. What they pack. What they eat. What they do for work. How they knew their companions. How they'd met. On a little sheet of notebook paper under my data collection form, I wrote it all down, which is probably 100% illegal.

I'm so relieved to be back in beautiful, foggy San Francisco, I'd kiss the sidewalk outside the Fort if it weren't covered with piss, semen, and blood. Phillip had stacked his pizza boxes neatly in a corner of the room for my arrival, not wanting to upset me with the debris of my absence. According to the damage, he ate six pizzas while I was gone over the course of eight days. There was a note for me on the pizza boxes, in case I required further explanation. MY METABOLISM, it said, IS OUT OF CONTROL.

low-grade

I have the low-grade fever that just won't quit. I woke up from a brief nap around 630 tonight, planning to ready myself to take BW out for a well-deserved ABD drink, followed by a sojourn to Laura's party. The theme of the party was supposed to be San Francisco, and guests were encouraged to come as their favorite San Francisco stereotype. I didn't know how to dress as "No Bagels" (both a stereotype and a truth) so I was going to go as myself (probably also a stereotype and a truth). Instead I did not go at all, nor did I go with Ben for his celebratory drink. I'm leaving town on Monday morning for this new job (joblet?) and so I am guarding my already precarious health carefully. I can just imagine myself at the US Border at Niagara, which is where I'm going, covered in sweat and barfing into the falls. Like Mother Nature hasn't already taken enough shit from me.

One thing I worry about when I am unexpectedly sick and cancel on people is that they won't believe me. It's easy for me to say I'm sick and don't want to go; everyone knows I have Crohn's and no one would argue with me. But I wonder sometimes if people think I'm milking it, since everyone also knows that I'm a total humbug who basically hates to come out of my hole. I don't know how to rectify this without protesting too much. But whenever I stay home, I'm glad I do. If you have a fever and you go out, it never breaks -- it just goes up. Then you vomit into a shopping bag and end up curled up in the back double-seat of a stinky city bus at midnight, hoping you are not-nauseous enough to sit up before your stop. Um, I mean, that's never happened to me.

Through Shaina, I found this contract job doing data collection at the US borders (not the bookstore, as I've had to explain to confused, disappointed people several times -- people who undisguisedly seem to think that taking a year off of teaching to finish a book is tantamount to flushing one's turdesque life down the toilet). One week a month I'll go to these places and collect data. I honestly don't really understand what I'm going to be doing except that I signed some contract that makes me a subcontractor for the US government. That's right: Fiction writers are working for your government. Take a moment to contemplate how totally safe you feel right now.

I have a badge, too, with a clip on it. The badge contains a very unflattering picture. When I was asked for a picture for the ID (a "headshot," they said) I didn't have anything resembling said headshot besides the photo I'd sent to Narrative, where my head loiters oafishly next to my story proclaiming that I am from Washington, DC and have never accomplished anything in my life. The response from the new employer was a sort of very polite ha-ha: Actually, they wanted an unsmiling picture of me against a white wall; not, like, an author photo. (Note: This is what you get when you hire fiction writers to work for the government. Just saying.) I hauled my laptop into the hallway and set it up on a precarious pile of student textbooks and novels. I pressed myself against the wall, and, frizzy-haired and just out of the shower, unsmilingly approached the laptop camera. That is how I will forever be seen on this ID. I imagine that I will get to Niagara and find out that the other employees' badges feature pictures of them at picnic tables, joyfully hoisting beer steins or grilling brats. Joke on me.

In the meantime I will repack my barely-unpacked suitcase and wait for The Bay to get off of work. I think I will tell him that my fever is because of him.

change in weather

Today is the most beautiful day San Francisco has had in months. That is all.

five weeks' post

When you are out of town for five weeks, you accumulate a lot of mail. You accumulate more than one electrical bill, as well as a lot of crap informing you about deals on credit cards, discounted meat at Safeway, and Hot New Sandals. I woke up very early this morning and began some hard-core crying. That's not actually accurate, as I fell asleep crying, too. Also I cried most of yesterday afternoon. It's probably not appropriate to talk about it in depth on the Internet, so let's just say I'm having a highly upsetting personal problem, not health related. I am very, very, very upset. I have managed to ruin things for myself once again.

Therefore, crying in my underwear, lying on the bed opening mail, I was gratified to find a few very uplifting pieces of mail: a birth notice of my friend P.'s new son, complete with gallant pictures; two wedding invitations (with guest, they said on the envelope, which caused me to commence extreme crying and ultimately vomit dramatically and Crohnsianly -- don't say I never caused myself any drama); an ID featuring a totally unflattering picture for my new job, which I start on Monday (more on this later); a check for my oldest story, like a check for money -- so weird; and then some weird letter I could not fathom that had apparently come from a very bigwig literary agent who had read said story, liked it, and wanted to know if he could read my book. "This story made me feel that you have the talent to write a publishable book," it said. Talent? Publishable? Did he know that story had been rejected like, uh, eight million times? I checked the envelope to make sure it was addressed to the right place. It said me. More confused, I read the letter again, my primary confusion coming from the idea that anyone besides my family had read the story at all.

Even this was not enough to stem the weeping. I put my face into the pillow and wept copiously. I imagined what male writers would do at this time. They would probably forget their personal problems entirely, pump a fist, and begin pulling up trees from the sidewalk by their roots, roaring, shaking the parking meters for change and then eating that change. Instead I cried and cried. Then I turned over and looked at the date the letter was sent: a month ago. While I was, unknowingly, probably petting my dog in Maryland. Oops. I began to draft an immediate response, through tears.

Dear ___ ___: Is this true?

No.

Dear ___ ___: Hilarious! Thank you for your joke/mistake letter. I will happily reimburse you the 44 cents you paid for postage in appreciation for the noble laugh you have afforded me.

Then I remembered that most people react better to confidence.

I ended up writing that I was so pleased this person had enjoyed my story and I was almost done and I would look forward to sending this person all that my loins contained in but a short period of time. I reiterated how pleased I was. I wept, not about the letter.

DC ladies of the highest quality

I have been on some pretty good dates in my time, but none are ever as pleasant as a date with Sarah. Have you been on a date with Sarah? If not, and you're not married, an international playboy, a lower back fetishist, an anti-Semite, or someone who considers himself the living incarnation of vox populi (to name a few of the ennobled characters I have encountered on such outings myself), I suggest that you do.

We saw a modernized production of King Lear downtown. She looked very elegant and was wearing a dress and baubles. I, in pants and a ponytail, bore a striking resemblance to Cappuccino, the bull who has recently killed people with his noxious tusks in Pamplona. This particular performance offered a deal on tickets to "Young Professionals Under 35." It was lucky, therefore, that they did not ask for my "Young Professionals" ID, as I have only a fake one, and usually my "Young Nobodies" ID doesn't work as a substitute in such situations. The Young Professionals filed in.

They'd clearly segregated the young people from the old, we noticed, as we made our way to our seats in the balcony; bands of smartly-dressed just-came-from-work girls and their dragged-here-unwillingly-hope-I-get-sex-afterward dates were seated all around us. Below were the telltale heads of the usual theatergoers: gray and unswivelling. I decided that two very hot men would sit beside us: One who lived in Dubai or something and was therefore unavailable, and one -- the hotter and more intelligent one --who would live but a mere distance from Sarah and enjoy goat, traveling, musical performances, and gelato. Our reverie was broken as a smartly dressed young lady and her date plopped down beside us. The man turned to us.
"This is gonna be awesome!" he bellowed. He pumped a fist.
Thus unfolded Young Professionals Night at the Shakespeare Theater.

The play, which was three and a half hours long and contained some U2 and several gratituous penises, was all right but somewhat confusing. For someone who has read King Lear (although I only realized this during the intermission, which we used to snicker at other members of the audience), I was completely confused about the plot points until the end. The Young Professionals rose into a standing ovation, their uncomfortable high heels be damned.

We took the Metro back to Sarah's (after all, no gentleman lets his date go home unescorted in the once-and-future murder capital of the nation) where my sister, also gallant because it runs in the family, was there waiting to pick me up and take me back to Maryland. This was after midnight, but because my sister is energetic and free, she had already been out anyway and it was no trouble for her. I bid Sarah good-bye for a day and climbed into the car.

The DC area, as you can see, is a zone of Ladies of the Highest Quality. If you're jealous right now, you should be. Cappuccino over and out.

but I will miss everything else

Things I Will Not Miss About Maryland:

1. Mosquitos. Five bites have resulted in dark welts and a full-body rash, which seems like a clear breach of the idea of the punishment fitting the crime. Please also note I have committed no crime against the mosquitos of Maryland, who visibly abide by the state motto, Manly deeds, womanly words.

2. The Inner Loop of the Beltway. It took me 75 minutes to make what is usually a 15-minute trip to see my cousins in Silver Spring tonight. Once I got there, we unwittingly ate at a restaurant where a bellydancer was to perform for half an hour, dancing to extremely loud music and balancing swords on her hips. At one point my cousin leaned over to me and asked me what she thought the dancer did during the day. Since I am a writer and therefore have a wild, deep-reaching imagination, I suggested the far-flung "dance instructor" as a possibility. She looked deeply disappointed.

3. Poor Showings of Popular Summer Pastime "Drinking in the Park." Does no one drink in the park here? No, they do not. Why do they not? Because they all work for the government and fear the Lord. What Lord? you're now wondering. What. Lord. Touche, my non-Maryland friends. They fear Sir George Calbert, Lord Baltimore. Sir George Calvert founded Maryland, and he can take it away. That's right, young man: The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. There are certain perks to living in a state that the Lord clearly has nothing to do with. California, I'm obviously looking at you.

in which my mother helpfully puts me in situations where hot men are present

As though to underline my unsuitability for young modern life, this morning found me at a pool in Maryland with my mother, clad in a borrowed swimming suit and borrowed "water booties" (process this image and then please, quickly move on), ready to participate in water aerobics. It wasn't my proudest moment, but my mother seemed to really want me there -- and besides, I was among my spiritual peers: old people. The women (there were no men) were for the most part varicose, loose-skinned, grinning women with not only the water booties but also the water gloves, sunglasses, and in some cases, the ever-prized water belt. My mother was by far the youngest among them. I got into the water, feeling highly weird.

First of all, is it just me, or are pools kind of gross? Because you know people pee in there. And shed and whatnot. Shed hairs, skin. Who knows what else. It seems like the best possible place to contract the bubonic plague is in a public pool. Maybe what I'm saying here is that my real spiritual peers are so old, they don't even know what a pool is.

The instructor, who I immediately sensed was mean, turned on the music: showtunes set to techno. "There's No People Like Showpeople," to a techno beat. "And all that Jazz," to a techno beat. Poised atop some foam "noodles" we had secured between our legs to keep us afloat, we began flapping around to the music per her wolfish, unpleasant instructions. Many of these involved entreaties to "engage" and "push," like we were giving birth. Water babies! The women, including my mother, clearly found this sublimely glorious.

I would like to add at this moment that we were sharing the pool with a class of 8-year-olds who were having some swim lessons from a hot, tall, tan, toned hunk of an instructor, probably about my age, who intermittently regarded us with confusion and/or disdain. He was wearing a tiny Speedo and moreover appeared friendly to children. Our instructor's voice cut through any possible reverie.
"Upright torsos, ladies! Headlights! Give me headlights!"
He looked over at us.
This was the perfect time to be observed flailing around with a bunch of old women to "The Phantom of the Opera" set to techno, straddling a foam noodle and doing frog kicks.

The water aerobics must have taken some toll, however, because when we returned home I ended up falling asleep somehow. When I woke up, it was time to go pick my sister up from the Metro. Juan and I retrieved her, and then stopped for a quick errand: I was in need of new running shoes. I have been wearing the same running shoes since I began training for the marathon over two years ago, which, mileagewise, is like eight shoe lifetimes. My mother knew a place that discounted shoes and fit you individually, and that is where we went.

Let me back up to tell you that my appearance post-water aerobics and nap was not exactly enrapturing. I had couch marks on the side of my face and my hair looked like a bird had alighted there and then whipped up a batch of egg whites with its beak. No makeup, needless to say. Dressed partially in pajamas. Lookin' reeeeeal fine. So of course it stands to follow that when we entered the store, we were greeted by an outstandingly attractive man, specialist in shoes, who my mother, from previous shoe purchases and because she makes friends everywhere she goes, seemed to somehow know personally. Chit-chat ensued, and quickly became a horrible, friendly interaction between my mother and the man, me standing at daughterly attention to the side. I tried to rally by acting offhand. Ho, ho, just here for a shoe, please! Regard this fine shoe, and that fine shoe! I am interested only in footwear! My sister sat on a bench and began furiously texting, no help. My mother informed the man and me that we have the same marathon in common. Then, clearly oblivious to my plight, she departed the store, leaving me with the man, my sister, my bird hair, and a bunch of shoes. While he watched me walk (undoubtedly like someone who just finished water aerobics to showtunes and then spent an hour dozing on a check-imprinted couch) I tried to make small talk like a bro. This is my usual MO when I know I look bad: I speak to attractive men like I am their bro. That way we can all be on the same page, like: I KNOW I look like shee -- I would never attempt to flirt with you! Why, the very idea! Why don't we suck down some Natty Lite, kick dogs, and then bang some hos?

The shoe store episode ended with my mother reentering, like some television producer had instructed her to do so, and making more small talk with the hot man while I cowered at her side, a vision of brohood. On the plus side, I got some shoes. And I think those frog kicks in the pool may have done something positive for my medieval posterior.

california dreaming, and a visit to the big OH

The sky in the Big OH (note how all states have somehow become "big" -- all, that is, except for California) is huge. Why is the sky so huge? Because everything is flat and low. Juan and I went there to help my grandma move into assisted living. I'm going to go ahead and say that the assisted living apartment is... oh... a good seven times the size of the Fort. Frankly I would need assistance navigating my way around a space so large. ("Hello? (Hello? Hello? Hello?) Is anyone using the bathroom? (Bathroom? Bathroom? Bathroom?)") You stick someone in a box for long enough and that's what happens: They can't function in regularly-sized housing arrangements. For my grandma, however, this was a downsize. Someone there explained to us that when you put someone in a small apartment ("small"), they're more likely to get out and socialize. As someone who lives in a box, I can categorically say that this is not true. I spend basically all my time lying in the closet crying or writing short stories, neither of which counts as socializing. Maybe if I moved into half a studio! Or a quarter of a studio! I mean, I'd practically be the life of the party, probably.

Here in the Big MD I'm already dreading my return to California. I know this because every night I have terrible dreams about people I know or knew in California. Often the events of the dream happen in DC, but the people are Californian. Last night's dream featured someone getting a hold of my diary (in real life, I don't have one), reading it, vomiting into my mouth about it, performing a musical montage of how stupid and pathetic I am, and then appearing in an unlikely white suit with a woman who was also wearing a white suit, and spitting into my eyes while the woman did the same. Once satisfied that I couldn't see, they left me in a ditch that had conveniently appeared by the side of the road. In the next day of the dream, I received a disturbing telegram -- a turd, STOP -- with the message you can't write for shit (something in my subconscious clearly considers itself hilarious) after which I was sucked into what appeared to be a hole in the Earth where I burned amid a spunky, upbeat sea of hot magma. I know what you're thinking: I've been watching too many trailers for ABC's Wipeout. That's true. (Why anyone would ever willingly go on that show is beyond my understanding.) The real truth, however, is that I have dreams like this all the time. Usually when I wake up it's just me and Phillip there, and there's pretty much no way to get the taste of the dream out of my head. Here in Maryland, though, there's no reason to believe that there's anything to the dream besides figments of my imagination. Except that in California they seem real, and they are.

In some recent correspondence with one my advisers from grad school, I've been informed -- in kinder, more diplomatic terms -- that I should give up on my book of short stories and just try to plow the shit out of Mother Earth by soiling it with my novel. (If she had read any part of my novel she might give me different advice.) For years people have been saying that stories don't mean anything, and frankly the whole argument back and forth about it is pretty boring. Is the short story dead? OMG! It is! It isn't! Resuscitate! It's flourishing! O, Lazarus! I'm sorry, I was just taking a light doze over here. Whatever: I like to read stories and I like to write them and I'm going to. Still, there's some real truth in what she says: That without that novel, ain't no crap going to happen to nobody's stories. I think this just means working twice as long every day, on twice as much. Sorry, Mom Earth. Pay you back.