August 26, 1998
Moon Paint & Glad Bags

Tired. Still sick. I have just enough *juice* to provide you with two scenes from my day.

Scene #1:

*Someone* gave me a ride home from work this afternoon ... partly because he's trying to be a nice guy during my period of Temporary Unfortunate Utter Destitution, and partly because he wanted to pick up the WinFax manual I borrowed from him three months ago. (And partly because he needs me to sew some buttons onto a couple pair of pants for him).

He hadn't been here in a few days, so it was his first *glimpse* of the fluourescent graffiti I've put on everything ... my computer, my phone, my refrigerator, my furniture. (I used "Moon Paint." Ever heard of it? Me neither, until last weekend. It comes in little squeeze tubes, which you can use to draw or scribble all over anything. It cost me $4.89, which I probably should have spent on pantyhose or mayonnaise or the phone bill ... but the instant I saw it, I had to have it.)

Anyway, he took one look at my computer monitor  --  now freshly Moon-Painted with my *SecraTerri* screen name in hot pink and orange, artfully festooned with little neon daisies and happy faces and dancing waffle irons -- and dourly commented, "It looks like a teenager lives here."

I started to protest. It's in my nature lately to protest against anything he says. But then I looked around my apartment  ...  at the collection of wind-up toys on the top shelf of my desk, the messy little piles of books and felt pens, the CD's and floppy disks, the empty Dr. Pepper cans and overdue library books, all over the place ... and how the hell was I gonna argue with the guy?

Which sort of allows me to segue into Scene #2:

... Me leaving for the bus stop this morning at 7:41 a.m., in my natty little dress and blazer and high heels, enjoying the first goddamn Good Hair Day I've had in weeks ... lugging my purse, a plastic bag of library books, my lunch, my bus fare and two garbage bags the size of bean bag chairs up the narrow concrete steps in front of my apartment ...

...  feeling, in that all-too-fleeting way I have every morning, almost in control of my life/my destiny/my garbage ...

... when all of a sudden I caught a glimpse of myself, reflected in a neighbor's window. I was still having a Good Hair Day, thank God. But I was obviously a woman alone and fending for herself.  And even though *I* happen to be perfectly fine with that concept, most of the time, I couldn't help but wonder what anyone watching me struggle up those stairs must be thinking.

(Old Bald Guy In Apt. 11: "I wonder if she's ...*burp* ... got any recycleables in those garbage bags?")



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