hannah

Despite bad sleep last night, I got up and got going this morning. I ran just over 2.3 miles in 30 minutes as a new personal record, and took the stairs up to the gym also. I visited an ear-nose-throat specialist and was told I don't need to panic, and hearing it from a professional makes that a good deal easier. I went to a coffee shop on Madison Avenue that was fancy by Madison Avenue standards, got a vanilla latte and a glass of orange juice that were unfortunately both worth the high price tag, wrote some in my notebook, deliberately overtipped, and rode a bike back through Central Park.

I cooked monster sauce for the first time in a long time - so called because it's doctored up out of spare parts. A can of this, half a can of that. Some of this, more of that. It's always tomato based and it's about the only thing I make entirely on vibes. I ate it a lot in grad school, but haven't for years. The timing seemed right to do it tonight.

I did some editing and managed to get my stuff together enough to send out a query letter. I'm gearing up to wait for the rejection while also reminding myself any submission is a good one to stay in practice for the task.

I've gotten lovely notes and great cards, and all that would make it a good birthday. But all that could have gone aside and it'd still be a wonderful birthday. Because some weeks ago, I preordered an album and it arrived today. An album I'd waited weeks for, and months, and an album I could say I waited years for without knowing it. Because for well over a decade, I'd specify the difference between my favorite band presently making music and my favorite band no longer making music. And now I can't make that distinction quite so easily anymore.

Because after 19 years, Voxtrot released their second album.

19 years ago, I was in college. I was looking out towards the Pacific Ocean, drinking a jack and coke because that's what I'd been able to get the courage to buy for myself. I hadn't written any novels, or any fics of substantial length, either. I'd barely learned how to finish what I'd started.

19 years ago, I'd only seen the world end once.

This isn't an album the band could've made back then. They didn't have the broader maturity or experience on display here. It's still Voxtrot, beautifully so, and it's as rich and tasty and filling as ever. I don't know how I'd have taken it if they'd released it 17 years ago, 15, 10. Nineteen years. I've traveled the world and seen it end and seen it come back. I've said goodbye to people without knowing it was the last time, and welcomed more into my life. I've gone dancing and singing and been kissed a few times. There's things I'd change about the last 19 years, and few of them are about my life and what I've been doing.

It took Voxtrot 19 years to make another finely cut gem of an album that I think is better than their first.

I hope it doesn't take them another 19 years.

Knowing my parents' summer plans, I don't think I'll want to attend the full vacation with them. I don't know yet if I'll want to attend any of it with them. They're staying in a town a half-hour's drive from Beacon, which is a pleasant enough train ride, so I'm thinking maybe three days, tops, would be okay.

Last time they did this, I only stayed a handful of days. It's not unprecedented in our vacation plans. I'll probably want to get out of New York City in its sticky season, and knowing I'll have a limited amount of time there from the get-go is probably one of the better things I can do to be able to enjoy myself. I've seen what happens when it's all on my parents. It doesn't end well.

In helping one of my clients sort through several decades of personal photos, we found the Polaroids of the man sitting on a bed and masturbating with his head out of frame came with a note where he extorted his adoration for her and his desire to masturbate while she watched. Our best guess is he followed her to her building and gave the doorman some story about knowing her and needing her apartment number to get back in touch.

I didn't get a good look and they're long gone by now. I didn't ask why she'd kept them these last few decades or why she decided now was the time to throw them out, either. But the story lives on, and proof positive unsolicited dick pics have been around for as long as the technology for the pics themselves. It was something I'd suspected and in an odd way, it was nice to see the firsthand confirmation.

Only slightly more surprising was seeing someone else pick a cigarette pack out of the trash, fish through the pack, pull out the last one in there, toss the pack away, and start smoking it. I didn't stay to watch, knowing it'd be rude to stare, but boy, what an addiction that is.

Feeling accountably tired today - I'm not sure of the precise cause, but there's enough of them it's probably something I can point to. The weather, the loss of community members, peeking into the job market, pick something. The effect is the same of having me struggling to focus on editing, so in the end it doesn't much matter where it's coming from.

I did manage to peek into the job market and send something out. I did manage a decent workout. I did manage to cook some congee to use up some rice and stretch out some braised chicken a couple more days. Productive in ways most people would think of, but with little writing getting done, it doesn't feel quite that way to me. The solution is to try for bed and try again tomorrow.

Someone moving out of their apartment's always cause for investigation, and sometimes, I get lucky: a couple folding baskets for my closet that replace the cardboard boxes that had been there since I moved in. I'd never gotten around to replacing them with anything, and after a while, just adjusted to their presence and got attached to them.

I'm trying to ask myself why I'm unwilling to let go of certain things I'm not using, like old pajamas. It's an unpleasant inertia. They're not even particularly nostalgic. I think some of it's just me bristling at the idea of getting rid of things, even though I know better. At least a little is there not being good places for fabric to go. If there were some, knowing that would certainly help a bit with conceptualizing not having them anymore.

This morning in the gym, a woman some decades my senior was doing a virtual training session with another woman in between our age brackets, though closer to her than me. I could hear and see them and they could see and hear me, but it wasn't an issue - I just grabbed a kettlebell and moved to the other side of the room.

The trainer let out a gasp and said, "Look at that girl's hair!" She'd seen my braid hanging down, and couldn't help but comment.

I won't lie: it's pretty wonderful to have something about myself that catches complete strangers' attention in a charming, positive way. And I won't lie: it was a superb moment to hear someone call me a girl. Affirming and euphoric.

Between the train being a while and the train being delayed, I arrived just in time to be fashionably late: I walked into the party just as the guest of honor was being introduced. The woman of the hour, a newly published author, a friend of the people whose library I was hired to organize who decided to invite me to the book party as a parting gift. I was the last person to arrive and comfortably below the average age of the guests, and even recognized a handful of people from overlapping social Jewish circles. I felt nervous about being there until the man who was introducing the author talked about how her memoir was both nostalgic and sad, not a combination that comes up - and I waved my hand to get his attention, because I knew exactly what to say.

I quoted Anya Von Bremzen to say the phrase she used for that sensation was poisoned Madeline.

When I say the host, author, and room were suitably pleased and impressed at the phrase, that also says a lot about the rest of the guests at the party.

What's even better is that my interjection wasn't my high point of the party. As much fun as it was to be invited to that kind of thing, as deeply as I enjoyed putting some goat cheese inside dates for an amazing snack, I mostly attended to network. I knew my clients, I knew who their friends would be, and I worked that as much as I could. I introduced myself and said, "I'm the librarian." I explained how I'd come to be at the party. I hobbed, I nobbed, I was suitably impressive. I said, "My card," and handed over a business card. I commented to one of the hosts that if all that came out of it was being able to say I'd said "My card" it was worth the evening. It was an amazing feeling to do that. So very grown up.

I wore one of my nicer dresses, and it definitely helped me feel like I belonged there. After a while, the feeling simply settled in. I chatted about fiction, about the philosophy of library science and the psychology of letting go of books, about cakes and baking, about public transportation. I said cabs were the luxury of the people and that they were union. I joked about wanting to show off my party trick but since the party was over, too bad. I nibbled and had some wine, and took some grapes home at the hosts' insistence, though they didn't have to try very hard. I took a bike back instead of using the subway or walking, and it was the best way to come down from the elevated state. Not all the way down, though - it'll be with me for a while longer, and I'm doing what I can to savor it for as long as it lasts.

The travel ban's up. Schools are going back to remote learning. Nobody's going anywhere if they can help it. I'd figured this was coming, and it's nice that it's settling in. The snow's coming down steadily and I can faintly hear human voices - going from where the light's coming from, the people in the next building over are either hosting some friends or having a very loud party by themselves. Either way, it's warm human voices on a cold night.

Not a dark night, though. The clouds aren't letting that happen. It's one of the nicer parts of nighttime snow.

Friday night dinner this week was still with family: out in Brooklyn. My parents weren't in town but my brothers were, so I went out to them since that was easiest for everyone. There and back was easy, thanks to not waiting long for a train to arrive and for finding one of the trains was running express that afternoon. The dinner itself went okay, and when my brother J., his wife E., and their daughter A. were around, I spent most of the time in the kitchen with my brother R. so his wife G. could spend time with J.'s family - I peeked out into the living room a couple times and they were all chatting and looking at something on someone's phone, and I thought it better not to intrude.

An amusing moment came partway through dinner. Weather came up, and I was the only one who expressed any pleasure at the idea of snow. I pointed out that this was the kind of weather we used to have, getting snow at the end of February. B., one of G.'s friends who'd come as well, said she'd grown up in the Midwest and was aware of that. At the time, I didn't think to point out I was talking pre-Industrial Revolution. It's probably just as well; later in the meal, she said she didn't want to feel like life was full of construction zones, that she'd had times of at least a couple things going smoothly, and I struggled to relate. A good person to talk to, and someone with a life fairly removed from mine.

Looking around the kitchen cabinets and what passes for a pantry, wanting to supplement a half-meal's worth of pasta, thinking about what's readily available. Some cherry tomatoes came my way, a couple onions didn't get used in last week's rice dish. There's sardines. There's an impulse buy can of kidney beans.

With one thing and another, there's tomato-sardine-bean soup that manages to do the trick and then some. Sardines and beans - affordable luxury.