Feb 19, 2009

2/19/2009 - Plot Twist

Pizza House looks like the kind of place that would serve pizzas with hairs baked into the crust. The same beaten-up, turquoise, 1980-something Ford is perpetually parked out front and inside works a man who looks like he stumbled in off the streets, fell into an apron and picked up a broom. They serve the cheapest and most delicious pizza I've ever wrapped my mouth around, however, so I'm not one to judge.

The shop is staffed by several men whose ethnic origin I have never been able to establish. Their pizza and cinnamon sticks are a gift I give myself every once in a while when I'm particularly stressed or hungry, and when I open the door to pick up my fare they recognize me and greet me with great enthusiasm. The short smiling man asks me about my haircut/my boyfriend/my schooling, or at least this is what I think he asks me; I've never been able to understand the phrasing through his thick accent.

But Pizza House is just how my day ended; here's how it began:

7:07 a.m. my final alarm goes off like a starting gun.

Midmorning, my 7-year-old mentoring buddy invited me to go roller skating with him. My heart soars; not because I could actually accept the invitation, but because the younger generations are keeping my roller skating dream alive.

At some point after 11:00 a higher-up in the echelons of OCU refers to the pile of papers on her desk ask "this shit". I love having the opportunity to hear someone I admire employ a well-placed curse word. 

Near noon a particularly heavy box of papers headed for the recycling bin, a dolly and I ride the wheelchair lift in the Administration building.

One of my bosses gives me permission to borrow any one of the bounty of new nonfiction novels stored in her office. I die a little bit - blissfully.

Late afternoon I witness a young man in the library trying hard to peer over his dark sunglasses at the computer screen in front of him. In the library. 

Moments later, upstairs at my job, I notice a note left by a worker in the office notebook: "I turned the book into Rod Jones." I think somebody forgot a space.

While preparing a mailing list I have the opportunity to listen to the latest episode of This American Life. This is what good radio journalism/art is.

Early evening. I go into class thinking that the only thing standing between me and an all-around ok day is 80 minutes of head-nodding and note-taking. 

7:30, I leave so wracked with tension that my hands are shaking. I am suddenly reminded that confrontation makes me feel like I'm on the verge of a heart-attack.

Wasn't expecting that one.

Nighttime at last. I eat pizza.

Moxie gets his head stuck in a plastic cup. 

Hilarity ensues.

I wash the dishes.

Wash my face.

I call it a night.

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