The weekend is over, morning tears rubbed back into cheeks, the lotion put on its skin. There’s work to do. It was a good weekend to watch the Olympics; you needed to see people fail as much as you needed to see people win, without your involvement.
But it’s Wednesday now. It’s time to get serious.
One of your tendencies is to make food for people, even when people aren’t hungry—even when you have nothing in the house that would interest anyone, not even you. It doesn’t matter: you need to cook. You will grate cheese and open a can of cream-of-something. You have leftover pasta noodles and a can of mushrooms.
You need to make hotdish.
If you could bring a covered dish to yourself in your own house, you would. It seems like everybody is either dying or leaving, or they’ve already died and left. The processes that other people are undergoing in changing entire lifestyles, homes, careers and relationships is lost on you right now: thinking about today is hard enough.
At this ripe moment, a Facebook status sails in from a friend you actually know, and have known for thirty years: an accomplished businesswoman, she is now for some reason selling pornography and Cialis. Her Facebook account has been hacked again. You smile and remember that other people have problems too. You text your friend, “Hey girly, your FB account is sending out porn again.”
You return to work in the dungeon chamber where no smiles ever existed in the first place. Your friend texts back, “OMG, I can’t believe it!” An even naughtier note takes the headlines on your Facebook feed; you know your friend is mentally in businesswoman-shambles. This too pulls your frowny face up, just a notch. You kind of like to see proper people shudder, just a little.
Your mood enhanced, just as your friend’s advertisement promised, you continue with Wednesday. You walk onto campus and the police are there. A stray four-year-old boy wanders into your classroom and charms everyone. Your colleagues argue in the hallway. A co-worker is sick. The customer service lady at your Albertson’s died last night. This last part you learn by buying next weekend’s groceries because you happen to ask your check-out person if he’s drawing anymore—you talk briefly about the difference between interpretive art and technical art, illustrating vs. actually being an artist. He doesn’t look at you as he helps take things out of the cart onto the conveyor belt, but he starts with “I don’t have time anymore,” and he’s probably glad to see you go when you’re gone.
For the die-hards: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xdrq1m_dean-martin-everybody-loves-somebod_music