Back from a phenomenal interview this morning in Chantilly (The Boy feels it's his calling to sing the first six words of "Chantilly Lace" every time I say that word, and now I find that I hesitate before saying or even typing it. Talk about a conditioned response.). I'm forced to re-evaluate the priorities again as it turns out that this job might be a lateral move financially. Which, let's be honest, has never left anyone jumping for joy. But it was the first time I've been excited about anything, professionally or otherwise here lately, so it was nice to feel normal again. The Boy said, "Oh there you are! I've missed you!" Tell me about it. I missed myself. So I think I've got another sit down next week, but it's yet to be scheduled. Needless to say, I have not yet begun stockpiling my eggs, but I spent three hours in a car this morning in D.C. traffic and didn't even feel the need to complain. And that's not nothing.
The wedding dress accidentally sold on eBay for $32 and I had to tell the "buyer" that wouldn't fly. She was pretty irritated and I found myself typing, "As I'm sure you can understand, an unfortunate circumstance led to my having the unused wedding gown in the first place, and I refuse to add insult to injury by selling it for $30." But I guess that would really be adding insult to insult? I'm pretty sure I'll be getting negative feedback on that...transaction. Guess it's time to find a new eBay screenname?
Do crickets appreciate poetry? (Aside from Tara, a.k.a "Jiminy," whom I think should now be referred to only as "The Fan.") Outraged by the horrendous poetry I have seen highlighted by MSN in their blogs of the week, I feel compelled to post here occasionally. Not because I honestly believe anyone wants to read it. Just because I realize that unless I put mine out there and give anybody the opportunity to read it, it seems a little disingenuous to complain about poor writers with guts. So today, a little poem. And it doesn't have to rhyme, so don't you feed me a line.
Seeking Hallelujah
Uninspired revelation today
from a back porch boy's book of rhymes
and thinking back, that girl inside
who thinks but does not do
meant to send him a letter to tell him
she knows what's missing.
I wish she'd written it
so I could read it now.
But what can be done
if I know what's missing
and where to find it
but it's still not here
and I still don't try?
And it's still not here.
I cry in my bathtub
that isn't metaphorical,
as if divinity waits there and bubbles
can rinse away more than dirt.
But I emerge gaining only
scents of coconut, lime and cilantro
and wrinkles on my hands,
the day's mascara lost.
Suds collect at the drain where
I didn't find my hallelujah
that isn't really missing,
but really isn't here.
© 2005 Christina H.
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