I recently came across an
article on Summer Seasonal Affective Disorder, and I felt vindicated. I always
suspected I had SAD in reverse, so it was satisfying to discover it’s actually
a thing. Once the summer sun settles in for a long stay, I get irritable, depressed
and moody. I feel constantly assaulted by heat and light, and I have a hard time
going to sleep and waking up in the morning. I’m generally jittery and on edge.
I get fed up with the tourists, the noise, the damned festivals, the stench of the neighbor’s barbeques, and the constant
extortion to “get out and have fun!” I don’t want to get out. It’s hot and
smelly and loud. I don’t want to have fun just because there’s a big annoying
ball of yellow light blaring down from the sky. And I want to punch people who tell
me to cheer up because “it’s a beautiful day!” That has nothing to do with
whether or not I should feel good, and besides, a beautiful day to me is overcast,
slightly drizzly, and not a degree over 65. One of the main reasons I didn’t
move to LA after college is that I couldn’t stand the idea of living somewhere
with year-round sunshine. I can’t explain it, but I believe it would have
killed my soul somehow. As it is, I miss living in a place with four distinct
seasons. At least here we get a long stretch of cool, gray skies, which is just
fine by me. Summer and its attendant enforced merriment can shove it.
On a cheerier note, I only have
10,000 words to go before I have an actual, whole, completed first draft of a
novel! When I first started writing it, getting to 80,000 words felt like an incomprehensibly
difficult feat similar to summiting Everest, but now that I’m nearing the end,
I’m panicking that I won’t be able tie everything up in so few words. Also,
weirdly, I’m a bit sad about it ending. I know I still have tons of editing and
polishing to do before it’s anywhere near submission-ready, but the story will
have ended, and I’ll miss the characters, especially my “main”, Harley. I’ve
lived in her head for almost two years, and she feels like a close friend to me
now.
After years of buying leaf lettuce
for salads and totally snubbing iceberg lettuce on the grounds that it’s declasse,
I grabbed a big head of it the grocery store the other day just for the sake of
variety. And damn if I don’t like it better! It’s chewy and crispy and snappy
and crunchy and can hold up under a healthy dose of dressing. Sure, it lacks a bit
in the color department, but it’s so much more fun to eat than the supposedly healthier
leafy greens, which now seem limp, bitter and mushy in comparison. I can’t
believe I have ignored iceberg lettuce all of these years in some misguided
attempt at gustatorial sophistication. From now on, it’s all iceberg, all the
time in the Typist household. That tremor you feel is me crunching away
shamelessly on a big cold heart of pale green goodness. It turns out I’m not
the only poet who has turned on this issue. Gerald Locklin knows the score, and
he wrote a poem about it.
Finally, in the spirit of good
verbal hygiene and Gen X nostalgia, here is a grammar lesson from Weird Al
Yankovich. God, I love that guy.
--Kristen McHenry
1 comment:
Outstanding blog, my dear. Just outstanding. If I've said it once, I'll say it again: you should be writing for The New Yorker or Cosmopolitan. Or whatever is the No. 1 blog on the Internet.
Patrick
P.S. I'm going out to the supermarket later today and I'm definitely getting some iceberg lettuce!
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