inthelouvre.org

Jimmy’s Mail

The person who delivers our mail may be dyslexic. We live in Apartment 201, of course, but we always get mail for Apartment 102. And it’s not just a few loose articles here and there - it’s all of this person’s mail. The first and second time this happened, I just had Richard deliver it to the leasing office, so I’m not sure what transpired. The third and fourth time, however, I delivered it myself, and the woman who works there (who I shall call T for the sake of not saying “the woman who works there” or “the leasing office lady” every time I refer to her) was completely taken aback by the occurrence, as if it’d never happened before. She’s like that, though. She reacts to everything you say as if no one has ever said it before, thus making you feel absolutely brilliant.

I usually get my mail right before work as it seems like the most convenient time, so I leave a little early to anticipate the need to drop off Jimmy’s Apartment 102 mail at the rental office. T always makes a fuss out of it - in a customer service-y convenient way, but I don’t usually find it all that appealing when I only have 10 more minutes until I have to be at work. In any case, she opens almost every mailbox to find our mail. She never starts with Apartment 102, but goes straight to 202 or 203, which are the boxes located just above and below ours. By the end of it all, she’s opened five or six mailboxes searching for junk mail, because we rarely get any real mail. Not only that, but she doesn’t just bring these five or six keys to the mailbox at once; we have to walk back to the leasing office to retrieve each key individually, back and forth five times only to learn that hey, maybe R and I just didn’t get any mail today.

Whenever this happens I regret not making a copy of the mail key for R, because then I could send him to get the mail and play the game of musical chairs.

Today, like many days, we got Jimmy’s mail. I had the idea that before we send it to the post office, we should write down what it is he receives, so that we can figure out what kind of a person this Jimmy really is, and whether or not it’s worth all of the above giving his mail back. Maybe we should just leave it in a plastic bag hanging from his door handle. However, when I saw what Jimmy’s mail was, I decided instead to break the law entirely and keep it. It’s a catalogue.

This may not seem exciting to you, but we don’t get catalogues. I like catalogues. I like to look through them and circle the things I want but will never get, and point out cute things to other people. A few days ago R and I were at my parent’s house and I was showing him an awesome doormat. It was in the shape of a target - a circle with rings - and right in the middle it said “You are here.” Absolutely brilliant. I want catalogues to come to my house that have things like that. Instead, it’s bills, junk advertisements from Walmart and shoe stores, a free trial to Time magazine, and things I had to pay for like McSweeney’s books and renewed license plates. But today I got a catalogue for BBC America and not only am I going to keep it, but I’m going to use any coupons Jimmy may have acquired in his experience of ordering products from BBC America. Or, you know, I’m going to think about how I could’ve used those coupons if I had any money at all after those four McSweeney’s books I just bought…

20% LESS Than Other Supermarkets

In the frozen foods aisle at the grocery store we visit to purchase our food, there’s a large yellow sign with black print that says something to the effect of: “SAVE 20% LESS THAN AT OTHER SUPERMARKETS.” Less? Really? Should we stop going there?

Tonight I had a conversation with a friend about grocery shopping and I somehow feel the need to put down my thoughts about it. I grew up with a father who was awesome, sweet, caring, and amazing. Sometimes he even let me have ice cream before dinner, and if I was really pouty, ice cream instead of dinner. But as I appreciated a full understanding of money and how it’s spent and what sort of devastation it means when it’s gone, I started noticing the 50 boxes of Raisin Bran, macaroni & cheese, paper towel containers, and food that expires within the next two months. Four gallons of milk because they’re buy 3 get 1 free, and at the end of the week when the milk inevitably expires all at once, the kids are getting yelled at for not drinking it in time. I love my parents, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not sure how often it crossed their minds how much some kids don’t like Raisin Bran.

For a while when I started living on my own, the concept looked very attractive. You’re technically saving money when you buy a 24-pack of Diet Coke for $5.99. That’s roughly 25 cents per can, instead of the $1.25 that’s charged most other places. But it turns out to be money you don’t need to spend in the first place, because you really don’t need those extra 24 sodas to rot out your teeth. In fact, that first one isn’t even useful. You’re still thirsty and now you’re sticky, because it’s hot and you’re drinking soda that will somehow get all over your hands.

When I realized how silly those deals were after buying an entire package of $1 instant soup and never eating them, somehow misplacing them in the move from apartment to apartment, and not missing them (though missing that $30 I spent for no apparent reason), I was pretty proud of myself. But now I’ve started to notice certain qualities that the BF and my father share: namely, buying things just because they’re on sale. With the Raisin Bran, you don’t end up saving any money because you have to get those four extra gallons of milk just to get through it all. Sometimes, even, you start to get sick of having Raisin Bran all the time, so you buy a box of Lucky Charms, then some Cookie Crisp, then some Cheerios and Honey Bunches of Oats, and pretty soon those 6 leftover boxes are forgotten in the dusty corners of your pantry until you uncover them a year later. Finally, you’re in the mood for Raisin Bran again - but guess what? They’ve expired.

Sometimes what we try to do is go in without a shopping cart or basket. Carts are fun. He likes to mount himself and roll across the grocery store and I like to roll my eyes. We make a good team. We’ll avoid the disaster with the stacked cans of Batman SpaghettiO’s and the out-of-control shopping cart while at the same time limiting what we can pick up while we’re shopping. It requires us to only grab what we can carry. The cart provides an opportunity to pick up whatever looks interesting or is contained within a shiny package. It’s not a big hassle to buy it, so we might as well. Lately, though, we’ve managed to carry a lot between the two of us - garlic bread, various flavors of Hot Pockets, topped with ice cream, a box of cookies, some Raga muffins, bananas, milk, and three boxes of General Mills cereal.

Again with the cereal. Last month our grocer was doing some sort of deal with General Mills - three boxes gets you a gallon of milk. Yet, when we’re in the self-checkout line and our free gallon of milk doesn’t pop out of the coupon machine, we still get these three boxes of cereal knowing full well that we’ll have to buy another gallon to get through them. We eat through cereal fast. We eat through everything fast, except canned food, lunch meat, peanut butter and jelly. Every time we buy bread it expires before we’re even halfway through it. It’s sort of like getting sick of Raisin Bran after four boxes.

And why is it always junk food? I was hoping that this no-cart deal would get us in and out quickly, and that our “extra weight” would be provided by a bag of apples instead of a pint of ice cream. A bag is easier to carry, right? I was hoping this brilliant idea would improve our eating habits. Instead we continue to consume our fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt, but end up eating flavored marshmallows and chocolate pies as side dishes.

Is this what apartment life is like? You move in with your boyfriend and suddenly become broke, only able to afford, it seems, food that will kill you quickly? I keep telling myself maybe if I didn’t have a $777.08 lab bill looming over my head, maybe if I had a better-paying job, maybe if I stopped buying so many books…. But you know what? Maybe the real reason is because at my supermarket I’m saving 20% less than at other supermarkets. Thanks a lot.

What It’s Like When You Leave

To my left, an empty space. There’s a pillow that once had a head on it, a body snuggled close to mine expecting nothing else but to lay in bed all day. But it’s empty now because that body had to go to work. The bed sheet is rumpled in areas where curves once were; the blanket is pushed aside after removal of the being. My left side feels void without you.

To my right, the bedroom. A tv-stand with Q-tips and deodarant, $300 cash pay-back for rent. On the floor lays our miscellaneous things: my dream journal, some socks, various cords and cables, some books which we haven’t read yet. Further out still, the floor is occupied by clothing sprawled in shapes and patterns undiscernable to the female eye. But you always know where things are comfortable. To me, it just looks like a mess.

In front of me we’re still unpacking. Boxes contain video game equipment, more cords and cables; a printer sits on top of it, triumphant as if it holds a flag conquering Christmas Reeses and Nintendo games. Pokemon Adventures, Volume 1, sits lonely next to the computer desk wondering its purpose now that you’ve found the series in DS-viewable format.

This is just one room, but this is our life together. This is the beginning of trials and accomplishments, of fights and bickering ending in hugging and smiling; this is the start of a new world of possibilities - all contained in one apartment room. A few nights ago I told you how wonderful it was that the rooms extending beyond the bedroom door were ours. I said I was thinking of my parents’ house; how easy it would be to sleep in my bedroom there, but that the rooms outside would not be ours, that it wouldn’t be a life together - only a night. But what I was really thinking of was the previous apartment. We paid half the rent but only used two rooms. Our bedroom and bathroom were nice, of course, but the living room was overtaken by evil beasts who looked at us dumbly when we used the kitchen. Now we can walk naked to the kitchen and there’s no one else there claiming rights to rooms and things that are properly ours.

When you leave this empty spot to my left, I am thinking of how exciting it is that tonight that spot won’t be empty. I could fold myself in half and smell the lingering musk you leave on the pillow, I could wrap myself in that position you usually take. Sometimes you tell me that’s what you do after I’m gone to work. Today, though, I’d like to hold you in my mind and think of how wonderful this empty place next to me is. It’s your place, and no one else’s. It’s where you belong.

Nice.

Really productive day, which I always like. I organized the living room and one of the hall closets, unpacked nearly all the boxes and bags and put things in their places (things have places now!). I broke a good sweat listening to Neutral Milk Hotel and Belle & Sebastian records, stopping every once in a while to sing along to the last song then flip to the other side. I also sorted and put away laundry in anticipation of all the work I’ll be doing tomorrow - organizing the bedroom and unpacking boxes there. I’ve been here for over two months and I finally get the sense that I’m “moving in,” rather than just “setting things down.”

This Won’t Make Sense

We were sitting at the Chinese food restaurant table talking about our coworkers, just then summing up Ronique. Sometimes it seems like she is the only female who really does what she wants to do, who really doesn’t care too much about what other people might say about her. She does her own thing. I say “I don’t know if it’s entirely the astrology thing or if it’s a personality trait but,” she can connect with almost anyone, even people who don’t connect with anyone on any level except video games (I think the prime example here was Ricky). We moved on to some of the new people and he said that Pam reminds him of - what’s her name? You know, the really thin one - that’s part of the reason she reminds her of her; they were both really thin. But he can’t think of her name. She worked in the cafe, do you remember? “Angelina?” I ask, with unhidden disgust on my face. “I never really disliked her,” I say, “but all the same, she was one of those stick-thin girls who always came up to you at customer service and said, ‘I am SO fat in these pants.’” To which I always responded: If you’re fat, I must be gigantic. Thanks. (The token response: You’re different. Right. Just because I’m 50 pounds heavier than you and you want mass amounts of attention.) But I disagree with him. Pam isn’t so much like Angelina. You always flirted with Angelina; there were days, even when we were dating, that you’d have touched her more than you even looked at me. Sometimes I wondered what you really wanted. “I didn’t flirt with her!” he insists. I say, “yes you did,” and he replies, “no I didn’t.” We stop and sit in aggravated silence until our fortune cookies arrive. He hands me mine and I read “You have a lively family.” Why do I always get these non-fortunes, I wonder? Then, with a clear harumph and a sigh, he tosses his fortune on my plate, and all that nonsense about that past coworker who has been out of our lives for 4-5 months now was over.

The majority of my life is totally unpoetic and sometimes it really depresses me. I wish I could always write well or at least well enough not to crumple the paper and let it find itself in oblivion. I wish I could describe that feeling I had last night at the Dale Blvd./Neabsco Mills stoplight, being able to see clearly for the first time ever straight across town at the shopping center near Minniville Rd. It was sad, but tinged with a sense of appreciation for development, how if we don’t grow we will never progress; but sad nonetheless for taking the scene for granted on all previous occassions. It seems that trees are becoming increasingly nonexistant and I wonder sometimes whether or not my children will want to learn different tree-types if I stay in the suburbs. I wonder if they’ll know a “real” Christmas tree or if they’ll see an oak that has been growing for 100 years. Will we have to visit national parks just for them to smell nature?

I find it difficult to properly express myself when I am unhappy. I wonder if it will be better when we move apartments, or will I just be more stressed over my job?

I feel uneasy with my books in boxes. Is it a mental discomfort or am I really that concerned? Sometimes I think I might be fake. I don’t have enough time left in this life to read all those books and yet I buy more.. Will my kids appreciate them as much as I do, or will they be sold away immediately after I am disabled or dead? Thinking these things makes me no less sad, but I feel like my dedication to collecting books - my life would be a total waste if they were tossed aside like unimportant objects. I’m torn between “but you didn’t even read most of these” and the thought of important books and the importance of reading. Do I deprive someone else of this edition by having it gather dust on my shelf?

I’m so into Michelangelo’s life right now that I actually started spelling his name correctly.

His fortune read: “You and your wife will be happy in your life together.” It was the perfect touch.

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