Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Short notes on short stories.

- My boyfriend Ash tried to leave me this week because, among other things, I left two pairs of clean pants atop a basket of dirty clothes. He freaked over it, leaving the apartment because he didn't want to live his entire life as my therapist, mother and/or slave. (I wasn't home when he came to these decisions, and I found out about these decisions over the phone, while I was at dinner at my boss's house.) The next day, he returned to the apartment to tell me he'd made a rash decision. We went to see a movie about a wife abandoned by her husband. Things are better, but I still haven't given him back his key.

- My mom told me that I shouldn't mess things up with Ash like that. She said, "Mess up again, Benjie, and you'll end up doing your own laundry. You watch."

- I've been reading short stories like crazy, and I've come to the same conclusion of millions of other readers. John Cheever is a mad genius. I wish I could write like that.

- Vic apparently quit or lost her job this week, though I'm not sure which. I didn't know about her job situation until yesterday. I thought she'd just taken some time off because one of her best friends is in the hospital.

- Kacoon, five months pregnant, is leaving her job on Friday. When Ash met her this weekend, he brought her a box of Do-Si-Dos to immediately get on her good side.

- That Fulton County Courthouse shooting completely freaked me out over the weekend, but then the inspirational Christian witness story that came out of it just annoyed the hell out of me. It turned a horrifying incident into a Lifetime or PAX TV-movie.

- Last week, I printed out a couple short stories before heading to AID Atlanta for routine testing. They used to actually let you sit in the waiting room, but now they've moved the waiting area out into this narrow hallway. The only thing to read there now are pamphlets on abstinence and how to be an HIV-positive mom. I brought along stories printed from here. As people realized what Ash and I were reading, they asked for copies of the stories. (I tried to hand this one cute guy a pamphlet on abstinence instead, and he said, "It's too late for that." So I gave him something by Guy de Maupassant instead.) The scene eventually erupted into a dialogue about what we'd read and liked, how the whole waiting room experience made us feel, how much the Hawks suck and what we liked about living in Atlanta. I felt like Phil Donahue. Since that day, Ash will mention, at random, how much "Willa Cather rocks."

No comments: