I am off to Colonial Willamsburg for four days with my family. Please join me in saying a small prayer under our breath: deargodkeepmesafefromcolonistsandtourists
andmycrazyfamilyforthedurationofthistrip – amen.
Other people like typewriters, too. (Although this person owns some that actually function. Details!)
Chicago’s super-cool typewriter repair shop (“no e-mail,” the owner says)…
The Post tells us about typewriters and typewriter collecting: “Although the machines date back to the early 1700s in Europe, the first commercially produced typewriter was the 1870 ‘writing ball’ invented by Danish pastor Malling Hansen.” Who knew?
Things to fret about at 3am:
–The Commonwealth of Virginia sent me an application to renew my food stamps. Which reminds me I have not cancelled said food stamps since my AmeriCorps term ended, but I have not used them either. Will I be prosecuted for larceny?
–Why is my room so warm?
–Why is my leg so itchy?
–Why am I so thirsty?
–What if I am alone for the remainder of my life?
–Are there things I should be worrying about that I haven’t thought of?
–Why am I thinking in a British accent?
Some of the above, especially the British accent, may be explained by the fact that I’m reading High Fidelity and that…hmm, I don’t know how to finish this sentence. Nothing clever comes to mind. Time to go back to bed.
Oh, the irony… The morning after I got locked out, I didn’t go straight to work. No, I went back to my apartment to change. Not because I was feeling gross and unclean. Though that was true, I could have tolerated it. Instead I wanted to change so no one would know I was wearing the same clothes that I wore the day before, thus requiring me to explain that I’d been locked out. Yes, I wanted to cover up the fact that I traversed the entire Washington metropolitan area in search of a place to sleep, due to my own stupidity. But then what do I do? I post it online. Thank you to the five people who’ve told me they enjoyed hearing of my ridiculousness.
I was locked out of my house last night, without a cell phone. (I’d left keys and cell phone at work.) It was 10pm by the time I arrived at the house and realized my keys were at work and my roommates weren’t going to be home that night. I immediately went back to my office building, but all maintenance people were gone and no one could let me in to my office’s suite. (Though the nice front desk woman was very very concerned and advised me to always keep a set of keys in my pocketbook.) Then I headed to Kirsten’s and showed up at her door at 11pm, scaring her to death when I rang her buzzer. We hung out for a bit with two of her awesome friends (from Germany!) who were staying with her… Around midnight, I crashed with Mark at my old apartment down the street from Kirsten. The middle couch cushion dropped out from under me at about 4am when part of the frame collapsed. (Oh, Ikea.) I fixed it and fell asleep again at 6am, then went home to change when a roommate was home to let me in. It’s been one big, long day.
I found an antique typewriter yesterday. It was lying next to a beat-up square case at the end of Duke Ellington Bridge in Adams Morgan. I almost ignored it. (Rationalization: I did not need a third broken antique typewriter.) But then I slowed down. And I stopped. And then I stood there, next to it, like I was guarding it until further assistance came along, just casually waiting for a tow.
After about five minutes with no sight of an owner, I declared it to be abandoned. As I scooped it up, the ribbon came loose and unspooled into the road. I bent down and gathered the ribbon (“Nuthin’ to see here folks, my crazy typewriter is misbehaving again.”). Then I draped my sweatshirt over the machine and cradled it in my arms. As I walked, the broken carriage slid back and forth under the sweatshirt like a live thing, dinging sometimes.
I rode the Metro back, thinking this would be a good beginning to some kind of story. Girl finds mysterious broken typewriter on sidewalk. Writes murder mystery. Then the story starts coming true.
It is an Underwood Finger Flite Champion. It says “Underwood” in that crisp, clear font on the front of its metal body. It looks elegant even though it’s broken. All the keys are coated in some white chalky substance. Cleanable. Fixable?
Sometimes finding something really cool can make you feel like some benevolent force in the universe is watching, taking notes and dropping down bits of comfort when necessary.
See also: Found Magazine.
Tasia (singing softly): “Hey Mr. Postman…”
Kirsten: Oo, Tasia’s got a thing for the postman!
Tasia:That’s a song.
Kirsten: Just the way you said it, though…
In other news, one of my other co-workers has discovered that she has chicken pox. For the last two contagious weeks, she had been thinking it was an allergic reaction to something.
Feeling rather out of it today. I walked the wrong way to the Metro because I was day-dreamily following some person in front of me instead of looking where I was going. Then later, driving the company car, I missed 14th Street and then H Street. Sigh.
Hmm. I hate change. Why move, then? Not sure. I think I was looking for someplace to land, an island in this ocean… a house in Southeast D.C.? Are you it? It’s a three-level townhouse with wood floors and a broad kitchen and a dining room where I can spread out the Sunday paper. Are you it, house? I don’t know what a house can do. I don’t think a house can calm the nerves… I don’t know…. It’s across from a cemetery. That’s always good for a little bit of perspective. Eh?
Anyways, before rumination gets the better of me, so far all is well. Sarah has offered me her chili, cereal, soda, tea, bagels, watermelon and probably something else I’m forgetting. Kat has introduced me to Six Feet Under on HBO. Unfortunately I haven’t unpacked at all. That’s fine.
Time to go, little apartment. Time to go. I’m moving tomorrow to Southeast D.C…fingers are crossed that all will go well. But who knows.
[Brooke cracks up]
Me: What? Everybody hiccups.
Brooke: Yeah, but yours sound different.
[Brooke cracks up]
Addendum, 10:38pm: For much of the day, one of the places where it now says “Me” said “Lindsay”
instead. So it looked like I was talking to someone named Lindsay. No. That was also me.
Getting ready to move on Sunday. Anxiety runneth high and spilleth over. (Says quiet voice in dark recess of rib cage: Everything will be okay.)
Back from my weekend in the Shenandoah Valley to celebrate the birthday of my soon-to-be roommate, Sarah… It could have been a t.v. show … “eleven strangers, picked to live in a chalet without cable, internet or cell phone reception, and told to waste as much time and alcohol as possible in a 48-hour period…”
We were a funny, random bunch. I only knew about half the people, all friends from work. Others were Minnesotans who work on Capitol Hill, others somehow knew people in one of those contingents. We played a bunch of drinking games, although some got so intense that people actually forgot to drink. For example, during our three-hour game of speed quarters, we eventually reached such a magical still point of speed quarter nirvana that we didn’t even bother to pause.
Other highlights: being in the second row of a cheerleader-style pyramid, canoeing without falling in, hiking through lots o’ mud, running through a field towards Emily in slo-mo, Twister at 3am, napping in front of a woodburning stove and reading just one chapter of the four books I brought. Every now and then I’d just stop and think, “Wait. Am I having fun here? Whoa….”
If someone could just help me out with something, I’d really appreciate it: How is it that I’ve been out of college for almost two years now? I’m not entirely sure what happened to the last twelve months of my life. Thanks. Bonus question for super-duper problem solvers: Every time I talk to my Italian grandmother, she asks me how school is going. Why?
Co-worker Brooke: What if you were born and raised in Hawaii?
Co-worker Reco: You’d be Hawaiian.
Caller: I’m doing a phone survey of single adults. Do you happen to be single?
My roommate Mark: I’m married.