Hard to Reach Places

The thing I hate about back rubs is how there's always this tacit sexual implication. I mean, guys just give better back rubs (minus a few exceptions); their hands are stronger so those knots and sore spots are more easily kneaded out, right? So lets say I want a back rub from you, and you're a boy. I don't have a crush on you, I don't want you to kiss me, I just want you use your man hands to get this kink out of my left shoulder blade. There is virtually no way I can ask you to rub my back without gears beginning to turn in your head, I'm pretty sure. If I want to get a completely sex-free back rub from a guy, I need to pay a professional masseuse to do it. It's like the inverse of prostitution. "Here, sir, allow me to pay you not to try to have sex with me. Thank you very much...


...and a little to the left."

Of course today would be the day that I forget my scarf, for the first time since probably October. I was so tired this morning that I walked out the door juggling keys and gloves and school bag and by the time I realized my neck was bare I was down three flights of stairs and out the door. So I went without it - the morning was mild anyway; I figured I'd be fine. Then around nine o'clock it started to snow and snow and snow until the blowing and squalling were so bad that school was dismissed early. And there I was, with snowflakes blowing down my collar getting snow in my shoes (the ballet flats of course...who needs boots on a lovely mid-April day?) scraping three inches of wet slush off my car at 4:30 this afternoon (school may have been let out early, but I'd stuck around, possibly subconsciously hoping that if I waited long enough it would all melt away. Plus some students stopped by to chat, an I really love it when they want to spend time in my room outside of when it's required...kind of my warm fuzzy on a cold, blustery day...and then the teacher with whom I'm teaching a really cool joint unit where my kids write scripts and her kids make them into movies came over to finish some planning, so if I were one to make a long story short, I'd say I was unavoidably detained, but we all know that's not how I do). Anyway, I'd better not get sick.

And spring break has happened, but after all the photo captions on facebook I don't really feel like writing any more about it. Most of the bases were covered anyway, but a few things escaped the camera, so I'm going to mention them, in list form, mostly just so I myself don't forget about them some day when I'm old and absent-minded. One: The used book store in Georgetown with creaky stairs and lots of old encyclopedias where I bought a collection of six Italian novellas (one is Calvino...score!) and a Best American Essays from 1997. Two (these are in random order, by the way): Kramerbooks, which seemed to stocked all the interesting and obscure books I've ever wanted to read (I bought a JD Salinger and added about eight others to my Amazon wish list). Two-and-a-Half: Gus our third-generation Swedish waiter at Kramerbooks (because it's also a fantastic restaurant) who was already mentioned in the photos but never actually captured on film. Gus didn't mind that we sat at his table forever chatting, but he did imply that we were big fat losers when he took away our plates and told us, "Quitters never win." He also brought us delicious mimosas, fine waffles and pancakes (though the waffles were comparable to something I could make any day of the week in the South Quad cafeteria) and kept our OJ glasses full. Three: Is there a three? Perhaps mixing amaretto sours with an ice cream scoop to measure out ounces instead of a shot class is noteworthy. And the diner we tried on our very first night in the city was definitely a highlight, though the waiter kind of pushed us out at the end - it was worth being rushed for a really great sandwich, I think. And something must be said about the way Kat sang, danced, and generally recreated many great scenes from Avenue Q on our way home from the Ethiopian food after the symphony.

I guess I'll add on to the list as other minutia resurface in the ol' memory. And I really ought to leave some stories for Julie to tell too, so we'll just stop here for now, as I am off to bed to sleep a solid eight hours in order to fend of any possible chance of catching the consumption after my cold-neck-wet-feet fiasco this afternoon. Achoo!

Like Water Through My Hands

Sometimes I worry that I spend too much money. But tonight I came home from East Lansing with three free bags of clothes (and one not-free bag of H&M spring dresses and their necessary accouterments) and dried eel sauce in my hair, so I figure I must be doing something right. And I can't feel bad about buying things for birthdays and bridal showers and such...or about flying to DC and classin' it up with Julie and Kat at the symphony and other, fun, first-and-only-real-vacation-of-the-year activities. I just need to remember to keep things in perspective, and also not to get in the habit of letting whole paychecks zoom from my bank account out into the abyss.

(This paragraph's content is entierely independent of the former, and subtitled "I Like Hyphens")
It never really feels like vacation until you wake up without an alarm on that third day - the decidedly non-weekend morning when you're still in bed nine hours after you fell asleep, and you're preparing to roll over into your perfectly-sculpted pillows and perfectly-warmed comforter for another hour of crazy morning-light dreams (what does putting dead birds in the garbage disposal mean?). Tomorrow morning will be my third-day wake up. I can't wait.