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Jett Superior laid this on you on || January 27, 2007 || 1:21 am

a day in the life of

I ingested one-hundred, thirty-five-point-four ounces of water today. At times I am overzealous, at others I am scatterbrained. Oftimes the two have the same result.

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Once upon a time, there was an ice cream man. My introduction to The Ice Cream Man came by way of phone call:

“My doctor is out of town, can your doctor see one of my doctor’s patients?” She was possessed of a voice that indicated leathery wrinkles and too much nicotine over too long a period of time. I made arrangements for The Ice Cream Man to come in. He was a big guy, tall and rough around the edges but his eyes screamed of something spectacular lying within. Spirited discussions of ice cream ensued: Three women and the one ice cream man. That was yesterday.

Today found me in the company of The Ice Cream Man again. He came through the door wearing a knubby hand-knit watch cap, beat-up denim coveralls and carrying a box under each arm. One was a case of popsicles; the other was a mess of Ben and Jerry’s pints. Seventy bucks-worth of Ben and Jerry’s pints, to be fairly exact, and they were all in my favorite flavor (“Maaaaan, I love mint-chocolate anything.”).

“How did you do that?” one of the laydeh patients in the lobby asked after The Ice Cream Man was seen to and freshly gone.

I raised my eyebrows, confused. “Do what??” Tess smiled at the laydeh, just smiiiiiiled and smiled.

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Fridays are a half-day. I needed a half-day today, as I’ve worked into an unusual amount of lunch hours and evenings this week. This morning there was a text:

“3 hrs sleep last nite. sleepinglate, fuck the gym. Going afternoon”

so got the kids off to school and went back to bed for a blessed forty-five minutes more. Aiming toward the gym this afternoon, I was lost in wicked trance and loving life. There was a curve. Just beyond it was an intersection. There was something there. It was backing in an impossibly slow fashion across said intersection. Backing up. Across a relatively major thoroughfare.

The truck was so huge that it made the road look pregnant with it. It was blindingly shiny, or would have been had the sun been set on the appropriate level of ‘blaze!’. It had ‘Air Liquide’ plastered across the forward end of the tank next to a swoopy, almost-comforting blue logo. The other signs? Not so comforting, since he was going five miles an hour –backward, I need to say again– across the intersection I was approaching at a healthy forty-five or so: CAUTION, CONTENTS HIGHLY FLAMMABLE and DANGER, WILL ROBINSON and shit like that.

I might have said all sorts of neat curse words and creative combinations thereof had I not been so busy swallowing my tongue.

It was the first time since the (really. horrible. debilitating.) accident in two-thousand five that I’d relived the thing in my head. It was a strange combination of slow-mo replay and pictographic representation, colors eaten away at the edges. All this time and I’ve not envisioned the wreck even once. No dreams, no conscious recollections, nothing. The liquid air truck fucked that up. By the time I got to the gym four blocks later, I’d more adrenaline than I’d need in a week, so I biked, ran, did strength work (leg day! oh how I hate leg day! my caaaaankllllle!) AND hit the swimming pool today. I was starving when I left.

I had forgotten lunch completely. Sometimes in my haste to do ten million things, I do that.

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Hormonal teenage boys should be assigned handlers upon arriving at the gym. That, or mirrored sunglasses. If I can’t see them seeing me, Ima be okay. If I can, then I do things like grit my teeth around the neckline of my tank top (which is clenched between the ole uppers and lowers) so as to not let all of my cleavage do all of my talking for me. At least [most of] the old[er] guys make a conscious effort to not let you see them ogling. I can do that dance.

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There are a gaggle of geriatric laydehs at the gym that are not so much fun to be around. They mostly participate in the light bobbing and bouncing that is laughably called ‘Water Aerobics’. They do their hair and make-up before showing up and never, never muss either/or. The very presence of me and Tess irritates them, and they are downright rude in the face of our ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘have a nice day’ decorum.

We call them The Swimming Pool Bitches because of their propensity to try and bully or overrun us, The Young And Thus Very Obviously Stupids. One thing the SPBs do is to hop in the shower, do a pre-dip rinse (as is mandated by Teh R00lz) and not towel off in the least prior to exiting the shower. Quite generally, they don’t pull the curtains, either; the combination of these two things leaves a fucking lake all over the tiled floors. This both freaks me out and disgusts me, because ‘ewww standing, fecund marshes of germs’ and ’somebody’s gonna get hurt, damn it all’.

Their towels are just so much arm decor, as they don’t dry much after exiting the pool, either. A MESS, for fucksakes, A MESS AND A DISASTER WAITING TO HAPPEN. I’ve been passively pointing this out for weeks-cum-months now.

I have a large scrape on my left palm and a massive knot/blooming grey-green bruise on my left buttcheek. I walk in a slightly gimpy fashion. This is all because I just wanted to put my bag and sunglasses in. a. lock. errrrrr.

Ice cream, potential explosions (oh, but what a fitting obituary that one would make!), sidesplits pratfalls. Someone is wishing me dead today.

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The last thing I cut-and-pasted before I started this entry:

“As a result of the damage caused by the treatment, Pete has been unable to fully pursue his career in music and in the media,” said his solicitor, Auriana Griffiths.

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Hey North Dakota,

Quit camping out here and crawling my archives. I had nothing for you then and have nothing for you now, you creepy fuck. Still burning up the phone lines?

Heh,

Jett

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The children scattered to the three winds today: Piper to work, Mathias to the ready arms of Great-Grandparents, Sam to his best friend’s for the weekend.

The fourth wind was still and quiet, and left Scout at home. While she thought I was doing something that occupied my attentions completely, I got the bright idea to bring her a snippet of something I thought she could use in an ongoing project. She sat in front of the computer, Augustana shaking the speakers, fat tears rolling down her angel cheeks.

I could only see a third of her face, but I knew that her already-amazing eyes blazed phosphorescent and otherworldly. I knew this because that is what my eyes do when I cry. I forget how much alike we are sometimes, me and this Scout. I ached for her ache and exited the room the way I came, but backing out, not bothering to turn around.

Sometimes our grief wills itself further in. That’s what this smelled of, and I’ve no right –not even the one that is signed motherly license– to scoop it up out of her. She loves so hard and so steady and so deep and so quiet as to sometimes appear cold. Should you ever run into her on the vast expanse of planet, please do recall this.

Oh, Scouty, this world. I wish I could convey the things to you that are the Very Most Important Of All, but my role as your mother precludes this. That’s why, upon the occasion of my death, I’ve willed my letters to you. All of them: The silly notes passed between second-graders and the lovesick, loaded-barrel pages of heartspeak passed between me and Him. And Him.

After a respectable spate of time had passed, I called to her, “Let’s go eat, I’m starved.”

“Me too,” she sighed, and I was grateful, because she has been eating poorly as of late; the healthy weight is speeding away from her face, her hips. Her migraines have come roaring back. Hearts that hurt, they hurt further outward than the chambers they possess.

She wasn’t playing around; she ate ravenously once the pretty waitress set the plate of chicken and dumplings and greens in front of her. Two-thirds of it gone, she made a sick face at me and said, “Meh, I’m stuffed.”

My own heart sighed relief. She now sleeps deeply above my head, The Damnwells a sweet lullabye for her tired and wanting innards.

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There were drinks tonight, but none for me. I just sat and, quietly sipping ice water with lemon, listened. No one asked me what was wrong and there was palpable relief in that. I simply wanted to be, and the people that surrounded me know me best, know me well enough to understand that being caressed with their own laughter and words is well and truly enough.

There is an important cog to my makeup that I’ve never really addressed here: I trust few people with my silent moments.

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Sometimes getting the RPMs and the BPMs to synch up is the hardest fucking thing in the world. I miss who I miss, and there’s no helping that. There’s only the matter of sitting on the backwards bench, gratingly uncomfortable and dying to get up, but not being able to because this is something you have to do.

Even if you could be getting laid in the meantime.

afternoon art: a lover's letter

:: cut, but not yet pasted ::

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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