He Played A Tight Elastic Band

It’s a funny little moment in life for me. It’s the first night of Zappadan. What’s that? Look it up. The unnamed university’s anti-hunger project ended its donation phase on Friday; my inventory, packing and waiting phase begins tomorrow morning. Miss Sasha, Mr. Sasha and the little Sashas are driving home after an eventful ten-day visit, taking with them two cases of jarred foods that cleared a whole shelf in my pantry. The temperature’s dropped to the tricky range in which some days are too cold for bicycling so we use the exercise equipment in the attic. The seemingly interminable baby blanket project for a local hospital is finally almost in the rearview: sometime this week, I’ll hand over the April-fresh good deed. It’s very soft. I can’t wait to never see it again. Frigging transition periods. I hate ’em.

Pete bought me a new phone. My last phone was a step above a tin can and string, which was A-OK with me since I did not and do not want to talk on the phone with the other humans if I do not have to. The fact is: sometimes in life you have to talk to other people.

Sasha: Aunt Daria’s frantic. She prowls around her house and paces in her living room. She runs upstairs and back down and sneezes the whole time.
Me: She’s allergic to you. Dab some Nasonex behind each ear and spritz your children.

Technology brings us all closer.

Me: Sorry I hung up on you. What’s your mailing address? I’m going to mail your adorable daughter’s Christmas present savings bonds.
Cousin Sandy: Blah number blah blah street, blah town, NJ blah blah zip code. That’s really nice of you.
Me: Merry Christmas. Also: I’m hanging up on you again.

Setting up the phone was a miserable experience in which a young dude in customer service repeatedly told me what I was seeing wasn’t possible. My natural hostility mushroomed. I’m going to have to dedicate my next yoga practice to uncursing that bastard’s ancestors to, you know, mop up untidy karma. I spent a few hours on Saturday discovering fun and interesting aspects of the phone like that Cold War microdots were printed in larger fonts than my phone uses for Crooks & Liars. Phone numbers imported from my old phone matched with pictures from Facebook, sometimes of the wrong people. I had to ask our housemate for help dialing a phone number, because apparently I am 900 and technology takes practice.

Poor Impulse Control appears without color and text is atrocialiciously tiny. Who can thus apprehend the gigantonormosity of my personality and talent? I might as well carve sculptures inside quail eggs as be bombastic in word and deed. Images, however, may be spectacular. Once again, I have to rethink what I’m doing and adapt it to what’s really possible right now.

Crap. That sounds like work.

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