The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Grate

Woke up to a throat infection. I'll call it that and won't worry if my diagnosis is correct. The only one infected is me. I have decided that I know enough to deem it 'infection'.

My fat, furry sausage of a cat, Flynn, was crawling all over me last night. Head nudges, paws clenching my cheek, incessant Evinrude purring. So cute, if not for the fact that I was trying to sleep. Such a finicky human, always wanting love on my terms, and mine alone. I pushed him away, he'd come back with a loving vengeance. He'd crawl atop my chest and I'd flip dramatically to my side, sending him rolling. Undaunted, he would return, perching his upper half on my side, his round little bottom on top of the mattress. Purr, purr, purr. Love, love, love. Goodnight! I whispered haughtily, to which he responded with blinking, glowing green eyes. I don't know when he had enough, when he realized he'd lost the battle, but when I awoke I was covered with black fur. Are the throat infection and the love assault connected? No. I felt it coming on yesterday. I wonder if he knew, if he was nursing me with his limited, cat-like view of humans. Whatever the case, he did not beg for milk this morning, somehow knowing I was rubbed wrong by all the loving.

I will go to meet with the employment counsellor this morning, to discuss options. I am trying to have no expectations as they always tend to pull me down. I am easily daunted by challenges, often moving in the direction of what is easiest, no matter if it is the wrong choice for me overall. Will this woman tell me that my life is about to become more productive, more interesting, more lucrative? Or, will I find myself standing in line with my resume trying to find a job in which my sole responsibility is to convince people to buy something that they don't need.

Anita said to me yesterday 'Why do you overthink everything? Why do you put so much pressure on yourself to be the best all the time? Who cares if you're selling doughnuts as long as it's honest work?'

I cringed at the idea of selling doughnuts, because that's how I roll.

I told her I was annoyed at M. the other day because while visiting a local art gallery, he decided to tell the owner that I was a 'poet'. I flinched, and the gentleman looked at me closely and asked 'you write poetry?'. I dabble, I said quickly, cheeks pinked. He then went on to tell me that a good friend of his is an art critic for one of Canada's more prestigious newspapers and that one of his very favourite things is poetry. Oh?, I managed weakly. Why did M. say that? What made him decide to make me into someone I am not. I'm sort of an old standard fellow,, the gentleman continued, but what this man likes is that free...uh, free..., he searched the ceiling for the word. Free verse?, I asked meekly. Yes, that's right. Do you write like that?, he asked, brow furrowed. Yes, actually. I don't like rhyming poetry at all. It's insincere, I think. Too pretty. Cheerleader poetry. He smiled before letting out a deep, ripping laugh. That's funny!, he said, delighted. He then asked me what my favourite piece in the gallery was and I chose a very colourful, ethereal piece of a tablecloth on a clothesline. Well, how about that! That's my friend the critic's favourite piece, too. I then had to go on about what I liked in this particular painting, and I knew I sounded hopelessly uncultured as I did. I was too aware of M. standing to my right, listening, knowing that he was on to me, that he probably hated this particular painting because of its messy brushstrokes and excessive oranges and reds.

When we left, I hissed at M. as we walked along the stone brick street toward the cafe with the hot chocolate the wee one likes. Why would you tell that man I am a poet? Do you know how stupid that is? How needlessly pretentious? I'm just someone who likes to write occasionally. It's a vanity thing, nothing more.

He stopped, looked at me and said, You're a poet. You write poetry. You read poetry. You think in poems. You're a poet. Get over it.

Whatever.

I am also pissy about the fact that my throat hurts, that I am considered a poet by my man largely because it makes me seem more interesting to him, when in reality my daughter has nicknamed me 'Cleany', because I clean so often. I am unemployed, uninspired, and I haven't had sex in ages. I am nervous about this job counsellor, and I am meant to be with her in less than an hour. Here I am, typing in my underwear again, and my hair is slick and wet, and I haven't decided what to wear. I am avoiding, because it's what I do.

It's what I'll do
until I'm through,
avoiding that which scares me.

I'll sit and type
sidestep the hype
until I'm old and empty.

What? You were expecting Plath? Like I said, I'm in a hurry and I'm in my underwear.