angels

on the way to book club on tuesday i left my wallet at jewel. i bought a bottle of wine with it, then i left it. the next day, i got a phone call from a branch of chase in a tiny polish neighborhood even further west than our school. someone had turned it in i will have to come and get it.

i'll need to see some id.

you have them all in there, i say, gesturing to my bright yellow wallet. i start thinking about how much i hate that wallet. partly because of its color, but mostly due to its sheer size. it's the kind you can slide unfolded bills into. if only i'd stuck to my old wallet from the thrift store i wouldn't be sitting here, because it would have fit in the pocket of my jacket and i never would have left it at jewel.

oh she says as she unsnaps it and peers inside with the stealth of a poker player holding his cards. she sees that the picture looks like me and smiles like mona lisa.

she references my account and asks a few very detailed questions before giving me my wallet.

did he leave his information? the man who turned it in? i ask.

no. he smelled so bad. he looked like he was from the street, like a bandit. she goes on to mention once more that he smelled. but i guess there are angels among us.

i make a mental note to take down anyone's information if i'm in her situation. no matter how bad he or she smells.

sick day love song

staying home sick from work is like winning money that you know u have to spend on that credit card bill you got last week. whatever good comes from being able to stay home is spoiled by the stuffy nose, the scratchy throat. it's my second sick day in a row. i try not to do this, usually. i always feel bad. i apologized to the woman who finds me a substitute. she said "oh, it's okay. now who is this?"

on sick days i watch morning shows. i bobble between the today show and good morning america and realize how much they're both written for the stay at home moms, the elderly. toys and toxins, how to spend retirement money, 2 minute meals. so, i try ifc, which is more my speed. born into brothels. i've always wanted to see that from beginning to end. i watch it and cry, which takes my nose from plugged to throbbing. i recognize one of the boys, realizing i must have watched part of it before and forgotten.

during commercials i write in a notebook. it doesn't usually matter which one. i've come to terms with my writing, which i've decided is most beneficial to me in the moment that i do it. saving it in chronological order is never the intent.

i make breakfast. two eggs and a piece of wheat toast. chai tea instead of coffee. with a plugged nose it tastes like hot water that isn't clean.

all i day i feel guilty for never stepping outside. i see the sun - an old friend who never visits me here. when she does, i feel obliged to run outside and stare at her. thank you for stopping by. i know you've been busy in miami and san francisco and brazil, but i think chicago suits you. you should try to see us again tomorrow before you leave for another month. i think we need you more than they do.

i usually try out oprah, but she doesn't do it for me like she used to. sometimes i wonder if growing up means seeing through everything. she's making money. a stone's throw from my apartment, she's filming her show where she hardly knows the names of her crew. commercials are trying to make money. everyone's just trying to make money. is it realism? cynicism? am i just crabby 'cause i'm sick?

i check my email for a message from will. i realize he's probably still on his way. it's early.

i need to dye my hair again. i like it darker.

i'm trailing off. i'm going to go lay down.