Wednesday, February 02, 2005
3rd jaw anniversary, Beth's birthday, and the box skirt
I feel curiously guilty when I notice that the Blogger URL disappears from my browser's address bar history record. Suffice it to say, then, that I'm terribly pent up by schoolwork at the moment, to such a degree that computer use outside of academic purposes is almost laughable. It's early, though, and I have yet to meet my daily quota of screen time, so I ought take the opportunity while I have it.
Three years ago, almost at this exact moment (Central Standard Time, of course) I was busy breaking my jaw in a spectacular car accident on the I-30 bridge over the Arkansas River. After the cars involved spun and scraped to respective halts, I remember bumming a cigarette from the guy whose blowout had incited the mess, thus ending my blissful cigarette abstinence that had begun one month and two days prior. I also remember watching the contents of my inverted trunk, including a friend's tent and a portable filing cabinet filled with my research, yielding passively to pulverization in the impatient active lanes. My ear hurts, I thought, and the remains of my car are pointing the wrong way into traffic; it felt like the beginning of a long day. After the towing and writing of reports, I chose to continue the day by going in to work to avoid dwelling on the misery of the inevitable insurance claim process; it was a good distraction, as it were, because it was my manager's birthday, and I let cake and beer (it was a comfortable workplace) soothe my sore head (I wouldn't notice the specificity of the injury until the following morning, when the delicacy of a mouth swollen out of alignment and into total stiffness had a chance to shine).
I just sent one of those "hey, remember when..." messages to my former manager, wishing her a happy birthday and decrying the long-time, no-see. I'd like to be there again today, taking advantage of the morning lull to laugh with the gang over a.m. ale from a Vino's growler, turning up the stereo as we partition the morning duties, shouting from all sides of the store in a familiar ritual of conviviality. I mentioned all of this, of course, and moments later I've got a response: "Jeff, hey! Beth says hi and thanks, and we want to see your haircut! Send pictures A.S.A.P. We brought the picture of you holding car fragments in your box skirt so you can be part of our cake party in absentia..."
I'd forgotten about the box skirt (a simple garment consisting of a small box with a perimeter approaching one's waist size to be worn over one's underwear alone to give the impression of a thigh-high skirt), but, obviously, not about the beer. Happy birthday to Beth.
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Three years ago, almost at this exact moment (Central Standard Time, of course) I was busy breaking my jaw in a spectacular car accident on the I-30 bridge over the Arkansas River. After the cars involved spun and scraped to respective halts, I remember bumming a cigarette from the guy whose blowout had incited the mess, thus ending my blissful cigarette abstinence that had begun one month and two days prior. I also remember watching the contents of my inverted trunk, including a friend's tent and a portable filing cabinet filled with my research, yielding passively to pulverization in the impatient active lanes. My ear hurts, I thought, and the remains of my car are pointing the wrong way into traffic; it felt like the beginning of a long day. After the towing and writing of reports, I chose to continue the day by going in to work to avoid dwelling on the misery of the inevitable insurance claim process; it was a good distraction, as it were, because it was my manager's birthday, and I let cake and beer (it was a comfortable workplace) soothe my sore head (I wouldn't notice the specificity of the injury until the following morning, when the delicacy of a mouth swollen out of alignment and into total stiffness had a chance to shine).
I just sent one of those "hey, remember when..." messages to my former manager, wishing her a happy birthday and decrying the long-time, no-see. I'd like to be there again today, taking advantage of the morning lull to laugh with the gang over a.m. ale from a Vino's growler, turning up the stereo as we partition the morning duties, shouting from all sides of the store in a familiar ritual of conviviality. I mentioned all of this, of course, and moments later I've got a response: "Jeff, hey! Beth says hi and thanks, and we want to see your haircut! Send pictures A.S.A.P. We brought the picture of you holding car fragments in your box skirt so you can be part of our cake party in absentia..."
I'd forgotten about the box skirt (a simple garment consisting of a small box with a perimeter approaching one's waist size to be worn over one's underwear alone to give the impression of a thigh-high skirt), but, obviously, not about the beer. Happy birthday to Beth.
