Weekend Report

I had a pretty good weekend here in the Burg. At least most of it happened in the Burg.

Friday I set up shop at the Rivervews Artspace "First Friday" event. It was a bit of a personal flop. There was a good crowd of folks there, but nonetheless, I sold a mere $4 worth of merchandise. Factor in the $10 a spent on a spot, and the $3 I spent on a cup of wine, and...well, I'll let you do the math. And just to rule out the proposed theory that people just aren't sending cards anymore, I checked in with a couple of friends who were there. One sold nothing, and the other sold only one item. So what's up? I don't know, but I will not likely be paying for spots again any time soon. The highlight of the evening was getting to watch my friend Karyn perform a solo bellydancing routine. It was exotic and lovely, and can go on my list of things I wish I Could do.

Once I packed my sorry self up and got out of there, my good friend Suzette picked me up. She lives in Baltimore now, so I just see her every few months or so. We went by Big Lick to meet up with a couple more people, and stayed for a few drinks. Then we left there and went by Bull Branch-much more my element, and surprisingly, not too crowded or noisy. I'd say my eyes didn't begin to burn from the smoke until about midnight. It was, as it always is, a treat to hang out with Suzette and Trisha. I like how we talk about the past, but we talk about the present too.

I didn't get home until about 1:15, late for an old bore like me, but thankfully I wasn't drunk. We had a drive to make to Warrenton, about 3 hours away, to pick up a car from Joe's parents. They were in Warrenton because Joe's dad has been playing his trumpet with the Washington DC Salvation army band and they were performing there. I love hearing bands- it always captivates me the way everyone is doing their part at just the right time and it all comes together perfectly. And this band sounded quite good considering they are an amateur group that practices only 2 hours a week. There was a 17-year-old trombone player who was thinking about trying to get into Julliard. He did an outstanding solo.

It was 5;30 pm by the time we were outside swapping the title and getting the cars back on the road. The ride up was nice, just Joe and I with 3 hours to talk. The ride back was threatening to be dark and dull, and I knew I had to find some tunes on the radio. I got onto one of those "generations" stations that plays old stuff from the '70s and '80s, and they drive went well. Only alone in the car can I sing along to "Margaritaville" and U2's "Pride" in pure freedom. I didn't even stop for coffee.

Today I worked on the state of the house, knowing I have a 9 to 5-er to work tomorrow. Les Temps Per Due, my favorite radio show, was on from 12 to 2, and I turned it on and burned some incense and got a lot done. I realized I was missing the Birth Matters Virginia awards event. Last year I was there as the MC and giving over my position as executive director. Suddenly that seems like ages ago (a forthcoming post, for sure).

And the weather was simply amazing today. Joe forfeited a day trip to paddle in Richmond so he could do a job on his "new" Honda, which is exactly like the one we lost, down to the color. I am glad the weather was good for it and that kids could get outside and enjoy it. I stayed in, but I put some windows up- it will probably be the last day of that for some time.

At the prenatal clinic

I want to scoop these young, pregnant children up in my arms and cradle them. I want to give them the love they seem to have never received- the love they were looking for when they opened their legs to boy-children who knew nothing of love, who gave them only sperm and warts. They look fragile as glass with their flea-bitten legs in the stirrups at the clinic, frightened and alone, clutching their cell phones beneath the paper drapes.

They are so young. They have no idea what they are inviting in when they open their legs. They just want to be loved.

The Bottom of Everything

I can't remember the last time I let the fridge get this bad. Soupy, rotten remains of produce gone to waste down in the drawers. Every storage container I own had something festering in it. It was like morgue in there, or maybe like a lab at the CDC where they are probably supposedly cooking up a cure for cancer and AIDS.

I keep using the excuse of being in school to justify my habits, but we all know the truth. I am just a domestic loser. I think I kinda sorta got it from my mom; no offense Mom, but it has to be you. My dad is the organized one; he keeps his expired items in a neat pile in the fridge like chilly inmates on death row, awaiting their fate on garbage night, when he tosses them in the last bag and takes them straight outside. Me, I'll throw something stinky and goopy into the bottom of a brand new trash bag, never learning the consequences or considering a better way.

And yeah, my fridge is about all I can think of to discuss these days. My brain is wrapped around my state board study cards and how I'd like to make some more holiday cards for art market which is on Friday, and how we have to return the rental car today and we have no replacement for it yet.

How all those thousands of people signed up for National Novel Writers Month are embarking on a great journey into writing, and all I can think about is my filthy fridge.

And I do think I have one book in me somewhere. Just one. if I could figure out how to get it down on paper. Surely there are countless books in countless heads all over the world.