| Day 17 |
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September 17, 2004 We are at something of a loss to draw any meaningful conclusions from this month's Day 17 entries. Like a twelve-tone piano composition, themes flare up briefly and then disappear, replaced by something else entirely. We detected a common fear of weather, perhaps brought on by the near-endless barrage of hurricanes and news reports about hurricanes. Our contributors also seemed to be drinking more this month. Possibly this has something to do with the weather as well. Sarah Lyon (Washington, DC)
Jill McElmurry (Minneapolis, Minnesota)
Puja Telikicherla (New York, NY)
Meredith Bragg (Alexandria, VA)
Elizabeth Edwards (Champaign, Illinois)
Jenny Miller (Washington, DC)
Pete McClymont (London, England)
Kirsten Carleton (Amherst, Mass.)
SARAH LYON
Mostly, I sit in front of a computer all day, bleaching under the fluorescent lights. I type things, I open mail. I look at the internet. Today I clicked on a million websites and waited impatiently for emails that never came. I checked the weather report and gossip columns hourly. I can tell you anything you'd possibly want to know about: 1. the Olson twins
I can understand why people feel the need go to happy hours. The hour immediately after work when you're seeing spots in front of your eyes and need to drink away the fact that your life is just like everyone else's. Pointless paperwork, small talk, making money for other people. Tonight I am running away to another state and drinking hard until I fall down; maybe it will be far enough away from my desk to make me feel like myself again.
JILL McELMURRY
Today I realized I was running out of money and might have to get a part-time job. I realized I'd better not spend $3.50 for a double soy latte even though I want one. I'd better not go to the bookstore. I'd better not click on *recommended for you* at Amazon. Oops, I just did. "Daddy's Girl" by Debbie Dreschler looks good, if you like naively drawn graphic novels about incest and child abuse, which I do. I'm not used to curbing my appetites and now I feel cranky. Why don't I have any money left? Why does it cost $100 for 50 minutes of therapy? Why am I still neurotic? Why did I spend all that money on fancy cheese last month? Why did I always spend my allowance on toys and candy? I'd better talk to my therapist about it. :: website ::
PUJA TELIKICHERLA
The rain that was supposed to start at noon came barraging down at seven p.m., onto the rooftops of Harlem like angry sneezes from above, or from New Jersey, as water seemed to fly sideways across the river, arching around the bridges and roads to hit the wide avenue outside my window. It was unclear why the weatherman, looking so dry and unimpressed, promised us a light tapering by the evening hours. A lover was out there in the rain, the small Odyssey that took him past rivers and streams, gullies and lakes, and lands of foreign speak and eat. He called from afar, not lost, but unfound. The water came rushing from the West, and with it, brought the lover. Standing together on the streets where the waters rushed, our hands held tight, we are dry, and unimpressed. Asleep at two a.m., though, the lightning was so bright it woke the city in its sleep.
MEREDITH BRAGG
It only takes a few local tornadoes to start questioning the Jenga-like construction of your office high-rise. :: website ::
ELIZABETH EDWARDS
Three words for Day 17: Anticipation (like woah). It's late on a Friday night, and nine people are standing on a tiny cement porch, holding a honey cake with five candles. Mark is across the street in his car, and at the top of our poorly-coordinated lungs we sing "Happy Birthday to you!" as he honks his horn in response. The girls blow out the candles before he can get out of his car, and there is honey cake, vanilla ice cream, and apples and honey for all. Dinner party. Laughter with friends, both new and old. First dates and third dates and together-forevers. Emergency trips to the doctor, and everything coming together just in time. Standing at the door with my hands shaking. Somehow things are never what you expect, and yet they always end up being just what you need. :: website ::
JENNY MILLER
On Friday morning I met with the National Milk Producers to iron out details of their new website. They've launched an initiative to drive up milk prices by getting dairy farmers to kill a zillion or so cows. The PR lady's job is to make language suggestions, like replacing the word "slaughter" with "retirement." As in "The voluntary retirement of entire milking herds." Happy retirement! Thanks for the cheese! The guy in charge has photos of himself with Gerald Ford, Ronald Reagan, Colin Powell, and Donald Rumsfeld. I have direct access to this site, and with a click I could switch out their homepage with anything I wanted. Like PETA's Intro to Veganism or something. But I'm a big coward. Moo. :: website ::
PETE McCLYMONT
Not enough time. Work. Deadlines. Boss (normally 100 miles away), hovering around the office. Deadlines. Vacation starts tomorrow. Stressed out. No down time, no time for blogging. No time for surfing. Phone rings. E-mail box fills. Boss wanders up to the office. Boss leaves. Colleague returns to office. Finally, peace. Work finished. Cool cocktail awaits. Mind switches off. Vacation. :: website ::
KIRSTEN CARLETON
The day didn't even really start until about eleven that night. I put on a skirt and made some calls, and a little while later the gang from Marsh pulled up in front of my dorm. They gave me a ride to the Zu, the co-op dorm off campus. I hadn't been there in about two years and couldn't even remember how to walk there. We rolled up just as it was starting to rain. Inside, a table was set up for Baghdad beirut, a kind of three-dimensional version of the game. I left my heels and sweater on a chair and got myself a beer. The scent of apple tobacco seeped out of the hookah and wafted through the room. The great thing about parties like this is that it's so easy to meet people. The problem is that it's so hard to remember them. When the keg kicked, I did some slugs of whiskey and tequila, and then we went down to the basement to smoke pot. Franz Ferdinand and The Smiths were playing through speakers hooked up to someone's lap top, and we danced in between cigarette breaks. A friend drove me home, they told me later. We had just raided the kitchen, and I had been giggling wildly, a wedge of brie tucked into the pocket of my rainwatered sweater. :: website :: |