So this week was awful. Everyday I woke up in a cloud. Wednesday afternoon I was crying in the bureau bathroom. Wednesday evening I was crying in front of everybody. When the nerves get shot, the shot get sobbin.

Oh, and if you can’t remember what it feels like to cry in front of a bunch of people you don’t really know, it’s humiliating. Really.

But like any good broken animal, I morosely exist at a fairly sadistic baseline until some tiny morsel of good bounces along. And it doesn’t take much to make me happy. Like a call from a viewer as SOON as my story aired at 5 on Thursday to tell me she was glad I was reporting on the juniper trees and she wants to get her neighbors together to do something about it.

“Well, well, Miss Viewer Ma’am!  How advantageous of you to call! Let me tell you more about the issue until you’re sick of me and want to hang up. I don’t care that your tone of voice indicates that you’re sorry you called, here’s just one more fact.”

So that was gratifying, at least.


Today (day off!) I got up and headed over to the animal shelter. Because I REALLY want a cat. A lot in the same way that I really want a tat(too). Is it because they can rhyme? Maybe. Is my desire stoked because I don’t reeeeally have enough money for both of these? DEFINITELY.

The animal shelter is a place where dreams come true. And also a place where animals go to die. Really, isn’t it so tragic that they have to euthanize a lot of these guys? It makes me want to take them ALL home. I found a big fluff ball named Meeko who might not shed that much. I want her. Bad. I told myself I would sleep on it, but the shelter’s open til 5 and I really don’t have anything else to do.


After the shelter, I went to the food co-op, and isn’t it sooo neat that Pokey has one? You’d think the frontier mentality would preclude entrepreneurs from establishing cooperatives, but that’s simply not the case, my dears.

I wanted milk, but they had only my-thigh-sized jugs of whole milk in stock. So: “No. Cheerios. Til Tuesday.”

I also wanted friends, and I thought this might be a good place to look for them. There was only one lady in there, so my pickins were slim, but I took the time to introduce myself and tell her I was new in town, hesitating to mention that I was a reporter. There are interesting reactions to mentioning that people can see you from their couch, even if they don’t want to. Ambivalence, admiration, adjusting of the crotch and the occasional contempt and disgust are all viable outcomes. I find myself constantly battling these reactions, but no matter how well I plan my responses, people are only persuaded that you’re not a jerk by consistent, positive interaction. (Or, by reading your blog and knowing just how thoughtful you can be!)

Cashier Destiny went for the “OH you must be trying to talk to me for a story,” route and told me she’s ALWAYS on the news and in the paper. Our conversation, though pleasant, pretty much ended there. I feel like a really lame Superman.


I got home with my un-bagged food items, and went to grab ’em from my passenger seat. Looking across the car I noticed a giant box sitting at my front door. It said PROFLOWERS on it. Dear god, what could it be.

Balancing my probiotic hummus and hummus tortilla chips (who am I?) on top of the box, I wobbled inside and set it on my kitchen table.

[Now let me tell you that about a week or two ago, Jame and I had a little to-and-fro because heee brought up the fact that he always gets ProFlowers emails, and I brought up the fact that flowerless-ole-me didn’t feel bad for his inbox. But we concurred that flowers were really expensive and that I didn’t need them to feel any good feelings about him.]

I held my breath. These could just be from my dad. I ripped the box a little. Dad. A little more. Mom? Heart pounding. The whole way. Am I still holding my breath?

(Yes these are flowers. Yes I’m this excited.)

I pulled out a green bouquet of orange tiger lilies and blue buds waiting to open, and saw a card.

“How could I ask for more?
You’re everything and something else too
that I can’t define and couldn’t find
If I dared.


Moral of the Story: Crying in front of people is not that fun. Crying just a little in your kitchen with some beautiful flowers is a whole lot better.


2 thoughts on “Keeps

  1. first of all, this sort of made me tear up.

    second of all, you should write a novella (mostly because I like the word “novella”, but also because I want to say I have a “Novelist” friend.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s