My day is like a seesaw.

I was happy to hear French spoken at Whole Foods, and then elated to summon up enough French in my memory to wish my cashier a good day.

Then there was a dead skunk in the middle of the road, and if you'll pardon the Louden Wainwright III reference, it actually was stinking to high heaven. And it was cute, it was so sad.


And now I'm at work. I feel like I'm being yanked by the scarf.

Best lines from 12.5 hours of work.

It's rush. In college bookstore lingo, that means that classes at Northeastern are starting this week and my life at work is sheer hell. Though not so much this fall, which is eerie and unnatural. I provide you with quotes of the days as they go - these quotes bring me angst as they happen and joy as I reflect on them.

A girl, looking for her Third Year Writing (ENG U301) books, disagrees with one bookseller when he advises she look for them in the English section: Is it English or is it W?

A girl, after my friend Chris helps her find what she is looking for (meant to be statements, both): There is an insect on my hand. Would you please remove it. [NB: Chris is still not entirely sure if this exchange happened, but if it did, he removed the ladybug and flicked it to the floor, then walked away in a medicated fog.]

A girl, to whatever boy she was dragging with her so she wouldn't be talking to herself: Omigod, this books is so tight, you know?
Some other friend starts talking to her, then, and says she would love to see her apartment. In reply, the first girl says: My apartment is sweeeet. [No irony should be implied here. In either case.]

Me, stirring lentil soup at 10:30PM, to the tune of "Hot Cross Buns": I hate my job, I hate my job, one-a-penny, two-a-penny, I hate my job - fuck, I've LOST it.

I'm sorry that I can't include any Northeastern boy quotes. They don't seem to talk so much as grunt and slur.

Best Voicemail Ever

I skipped my usual Tuesday plans at Whitney's in Harvard Square because I got tickets to the Best of Boston party on Carson Beach. This morning I got the Best Voicemail Ever.

Jonny K:
So, --Lindsay Lohan
You are going to some party in Southie...on the beach?
You ditched your friends?
Do you know - do you know what you're making me do? I have not smoked
In six weeks
And I am going
Across the street
To 7-11
And I'm going to buy a delicious delicious pack of Camel Lights
And then I'm going to smoke them outside
In your absence
And every single one of them, I will be like
Mmmm, Jess. Mullen.
And then I'm going to put on that fucking CD that
You owe me
Oooooo
I'm dumb, she's a lesbian
Yeah, the Pink Triangle song?
Josh says I'm so drunk but this is the only way
I can get you to feel
GUILTY
Yeah. Yeeeaaah.

So yeah, I'm gonna smoke outside
And sing the Pink Triangle song
And be like so.......

Alright.

Whatevuh.

You can be in Southie.

You better be wearing a bikini
Because, y'know, that's uh
That's what you uh
I mean, honestly, that's what I'd wear, like
A bikini and a sarong
And like five-inch stiletto heels
Like that'd be hot
.....in Southie,

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
HAHAHAHA!!

You should hear like what everyone's say--
No
Anyway alright bye
Wha--
No, but like
Bikini Southie sarong?

Yeah you're working that party
Yeah
Yeah
That's good

Oh my god
My goodness my Guinness
Where's the Guinness?
There's like a lobster--

Emma:
Goodbye. Goodbye, Jess.

Exeunt.

Smell? Oh, that's my new perfume...Bog.

When I got home last night, my key didn't work in the door, my dad wasn't home, and my roommate was asleep. My roommate is the lightest sleeper I know. I rang the doorbell, I threw myself against the door, I called the house twice, and I was yelling on my porch, which is right under her (open) window. I was BEYOND pissed. Eventually I called my dad and he came home from Brighton and figured it out, but basically my day started off on the wrong foot at midnight.

This morning I got to work and the office had flooded, rendering all my books on hold trash, the carpet wet, and the air mildew-tinged.

I can't wait for this day to take a good turn.

It's been a long, long, long time.

I can't say that I'm going to describe pretty much any of my journey in this entry. I am still in Paris, it's my last full day, and I'm very sad to be leaving tomorrow.

10 days is a long enough time to get really used to a place, and I consequently have gotten really used to this place. I have 20 euros left to my name, have to pack all my things back together in some semblence of order, and do something that makes me happy today. And I don't know what that something is, but this melancholy I feel just has to stop.

I don't want to go home tomorrow, and it's nothing personal to the folks at home.

But come on - Paris.

Four days!

For those not entirely in the know, I am leaving for Paris in four days. On the 15th. Two weeks from today, which is not so far away, I will be returning.

Surely from reading an entry or two, or even my profile, you know what a francophile I am. And I've been itching for an excuse to go to Paris for a couple years now. Out of nowhere, three excuses appeared: my friend Rachel, from New Zealand, has been on a research grant there all year, my friend Emma is visiting her mother, who has been teaching a course at the Sorbonne all spring, and when I got my tax refund it covered airfare during peak times such as this week. It seems to be in the stars (dans les etoiles, si vous préférez).

What's been on my mind recently is this: Why is everybody telling me that about the love I will find there when I say I'm going to Paris? Even my mother and her boyfriend are telling me to be careful with those French boys. As if I can speak enough French to talk about more than the weather, to begin with. I told my mother that, and she said she's not worried about me speaking. I got an email today from a friend that had love as the subject line and closed with "love awaits - bring a good camera!" And naturally I will bring my most useful camera, if not my best, but... Honestly, a publisher rep who I know and like, but don't know well enough that his saying this would be normal, told me he hopes I fall in love and can stay forever.

Who wouldn't want to stay forever?

As much as I would love for an easy way to French citizenship (in spite of this Sarko nonsense), acquiring it by means of anything romantic - or by any other means - really hasn't been a part of my thoughts in the four months I've been planning this trip. It's an impossibility - MY FRENCH SUCKS.

In the meantime, my clothes are all over the floor, my passport's over here, my ticket is over there, who knows where I put my Paris Moleskine last, and I've had a little wine and am more than a little tired. I hope I make it on the plane in one piece.

The morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball.

Certain readers have expressed an interest in reading a brief recap of Sunday's game. The way I've been telling my friends is this:

There is a mercy rule that says you can call the game if you're 12 runs behind or more. They told us about it at the end of the first inning, because we were 11 runs behind. There are five innings. The game is 45 minutes long. We shaped up a bit after that, but the score (which refs stopped counting after 20) was 21-1. Eek.

The blurb I wrote for the newsletter was this:
What can we say? What we lack in sheer talent we make up for in enthusiasm! It goes without saying that our MVP would be the scorer of our one goal, Greg Kindel, but that doesn't mean that we weren't all thrilled to be playing the game for the first time since Jurassic Park came out! We denied the mercy rule, which was offered to us at the start of the second inning, for the love of kickball. Thanks to Josh Lavin and Seth Opitz for stepping up to the mound when the rest of us were mildly afraid, and a very special thanks to all Lemurs that showed up and waited in the rain for two hours with nothing but Irish coffee to warm them. A good time was had by all, and we look forward to being pantsed by Fourth Base this Sunday. It is also worth mentioning that our kickball skills cannot hold a candle to our staggering flipcup ability.

It was fun. I'm looking forward to tomorrow's game.

And now to get some color, so I don't blind the field tomorrow or next week, and so that I don't blind the nation of France in THREE WEEKS.

I bring you good cheer...

Huzzah!

My computer is back, functioning at full capacity! I am pleased to announce to my two or three remaining readers that I plan on writing a whole lot more, starting today. This coincides beautifully with the end of my class for the semester, and the start of an official summer off...from school.

While I do plan to spend four hours less of my week in Boylston Hall, possibly just as much time will be used at Nunziato Field, on the corner of Summer and Vinal, in Somerville. My friend Sarah and I started a kickball team, the Space Lemurs, as a part of the Minuteman Division of the World Adult Kickball Association. In addition to our captainly duties, causing a ruckus with our team (of 20!), and generally losing every game we play (but with gusto, because we know what we're getting into), Sarah and I have also joined our division's board. She is our charities chair, as I am the editor of the weekly newsletter, Ghost Man On Third (GMOT). I'll let you know how that goes.

Our first game is tomorrow, it's rainy and too cold to be spending multiple hours outside, and our team shirts are a) not in the color we wanted, and b) not available til next week. I can't say I'm terribly optimistic, but I'll be there at 1:30, as planned. With many layers of clothing under my brown Pink Floyd shirt from Target. Why doesn't anybody sell brown shirts anymore?

GO SPACE LEMURS!

Say it ain't so!

Tell me a drag queen didn't win America's Next Top Model and that Melinda did not just get kicked off American Idol and that Bob Barker is not done hosting"The Price Is Right"!

This is why I try not to sit down and watch TV.

No news can be good news. But so can good news be good news.

It sure has been a while. To make up for that, I have two pieces of exciting news, and they are totally unrelated!

First of all, I just got word that my friend Rachel, with whom I will be staying when I go to Paris in 65 (that's 6-5) days, lives on the same street as the Cafe des Deux Moulins. You might remember it from my favorite movie of all time, Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain. I do. This means that my base will be in Montmartre. I am SO excited.

Secondly, and I mention it secondly so that you can go check it out when you're done reading this, I was interviewed by Leila Cohan for the Boston chapter of MenuPages.com's recently launched blog. Leila's blog also covers such important pieces of Boston gastronomy as the Tasty (RIP), food review haiku, and seasonally relevant restaurant tips (eating around Fenway, for instance - GO SOX!)

Excitement abounds, and Spring has sprung! Sort of. In a New England kind of way.

Please, let me explain!

1. My computer is currently on bed rest.
2. It has been since late last week.
3. My father's computer, which I have been using in the meantime, does not go to sites I find important, namely Gmail, NEUmail, and Blogger.
4. It really isn't right to update at work.
5. I am sorry.

The problem with Lent for lapsed Catholics.

I don't know if this is true for real Catholics, but for me, Lent is a second shot at making a New Year's resolution. It's shorter than a year, and for that reason it's less daunting. At the same time, it's long enough to form a habit. Best of all, nobody will sabotage your goals of giving things up, because for all they know, it's for religious reasons.

This year, I thought it would be a good time for me to give up cookies. Not that I want to go the rest of my life without cookies, but I'd like to feel like I could live a day without Famous Amos. It's a weird addiction of mine, one that I don't really like, one that actually gives me the shakes if I try to stop. I've been doing well, except...

IT'S GIRL SCOUT COOKIE TIME.

I mean, hello, forget Famous Amos. I woke up this morning with visions of Egg Beaters and toast dancing in my head, and sitting on my kitchen table were two boxes - Caramel deLites (misleading!) and Thin Mints, my two favorites. I told my roommate about my predicament, the green box already torn in my hands, and she told me her mother bought her some she didn't want. Lemonades. The ones they just came out with that I wanted to try so badly but didn't want to blow four dollars on in case they suck (which I'm sure they won't, because Girl Scout Cookies categorically taste good and have crack as an unlisted ingredient, I'm sure).

Sabotage, I tell you.

I don't feel guilty about it, but damn nevertheless.

Readership at historic lows.

Why is it that as soon as I pledged to my dear readers that I would post regularly, both for their entertainment and my need for masturbatory ramblings, absolutely nobody visited this site at all?

Not that anybody cares that much, but I had grown used to getting about 10 hits a day, if mostly for the lyrics of "Would You?" and "Spooky". It's as if the real joy of people who read my blog is finding only purely accidental entries made by me, and that even Google is boycotting One Falling Star on account of its recent resolution to ramble on purpose.

I bought a new CD!

It's been a while since I've done this. And it took me a long time to realize that I needneedneeded "Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of Eggs". Two years, in fact.



I don't know what I like most about this CD. Could be the Rufus Wainwright-esque voice, or the fact that M. Ward is thanked in the liner notes (which, by the way, are peppered with drawings as delightful as the cover). It could just as easily be the song "Fake Palindromes", which Jon had me listen to in the text office at the Coop, and which was still the only song I'd heard off the album until about ten minutes ago.

With that in mind, I'm sure it's too early to pick favorites. I can, however, say that this CD is already ranked among my favorite CDs that I own, and it isn't even on my iPod yet.

What's scary right now.

Bodily concerns are not something I worry my head about too frequently. I do alright for myself. I play by the rules, may cut a few corners, but for the most part, I'm a healthy individual that doesn't give her body much thought because I can almost guarantee that I'm [physically] okay.

I recently discovered that a friend of mine is at risk for cancer. Cancer.

Oh, my grandmothers both died of it, my mother has had countless biopsies that came out negative, but somehow I am so much more detached from those situations than I am from my friend's.

Possibly it is because she is so near to me in age. Possibly it's because I am suddenly one to rely on. My mother secretly relies on me, but I was born, conceived, in her care. There's something almost unnatural about the idea of her leaning on me in a time of personal struggle. Not the case with my friend.

She is in many ways my rock, and I hers, though admittedly not as often as I should. And now, being put to the test leaves me wishing there was something more personal, something more, period, that I could do to make the fear and the scarier speculation disappear.

You see, I think it's hard, in a way, to be the one who isn't going through it. I can see why she's upset, I can see why she's afraid. Already she is handling this better than I ever could, but I can't help in such a way that I know what it is like for her, can tell her everything will be okay - who am I kidding, I wouldn't be able to do that anyway. But I really wish I could try.

In like a lion...

Without a doubt, it has been too long since my last update. I hereby announce my new month's resolution (because, in spite of evidence to the contrary, I am quite often a realist): For the month of March, I will update my blog at least three times a week. I'm not counting this wimpy half week.

I started this blog so that I would have an outlet for my more structured commentary and otherwise creative writing, but it doesn't work so well if I do not apply myself to it. It is with this in mind that I pledge to you, dear readers, that you will hear a whole lot more from me.

At least for this month.

I must have a fever...

...because I talked to the boy on the train.

And I am sick, and I look it, because my hair is a mess, my skin is dry, and my eyes are all watery. But when I saw him on the train for the first time in a month I thought nothing of going up to him at Mass Ave station's turnstiles and asking him if he played the trombone.

Miss him, miss him...

At around 10 tonight, a call came through. I checked the caller ID and saw a Maryland number. Martha Mullen. Aunt Martha. My cousin calls her his stepmonster. I like her, but I can see why he'd feel that way. She's my uncle's keeper, and as a result, I never see him.

That's not entirely the fault of Aunt Martha. I only get two weeks of vacation, and I spend one with my mother in New Mexico, one with my father's family down the shore. Unless Uncle Jimmy shows up during that one-week window, another year will pass in which I don't see him. Usually, though, the reason he doesn't make that trip is because they're visiting Martha's kids in Myrtle Beach, or something.

He moved out of Chesapeake City about nine years ago, and I still haven't seen his new house.

This mostly sums up our relationship at the moment, I think. I love my Uncle Jimmy, enjoy his rare company, laugh and cry at his stories, and take the few things he says to me to heart. But he's never there, and in a family that is otherwise so tightly knit, it hurts to even admit that ours is a made-up relationship. One that should be, could be, but isn't, unless feigned in an awkward phone call.

That's why I wasn't going to pick up the phone. He was going to ask for Dad immediately, and Dad wasn't home, and so he'd be stuck making small talk with me for a whole two minutes. On the other hand, it was late, and it might have been an emergency. I picked up.

Me: Hello?
He: Jess? That you?
Me: Yeah, hi! How are you?
He: How you doing?
Me: I'm doing -
He: Your dad home?
Me: - alright.
He: Good, your dad home?
Me: No, he went someplace to watch the game.
He: Oh, he's not back yet, okay. I thought he would be by now.
Me: Guess not. Haven't seen him since he left, so...
He: So how are you making out up there?
Me: Alright, I'm making out alright.
He: Well good. You sound like you're doing alright. I'm gonna try your dad on his cell. Goodnight! Love you.
Me: Love you too.

I wanted to cry.

He's my godfather, and while that doesn't mean he would be particularly close to me (for instance, my other two godfathers never pay me any mind*), I would think it means at least that he somehow should be keeping track of what I do, to some degree. Occasionally my dad will tell me with much enthusiasm that Uncle Jimmy asked for me. When I ask for elaboration, it's usually, "we were on the phone, and he said 'How's Jess doing?'"

That's not enough. I miss my uncle, who I'm not sure I know anymore.


*Yeah, I have three godfathers. This one is the only blood-related uncle I have, so that makes sense. The other two were dating when I was born, and my mother thought it would be cool to have two gay godfathers. Since then, they broke up. One got married (to a woman), had kids, and moved to Wisconsin. The other is kind of a recluse without the first.

Thanks, that was fun.

The annual trip to Philadelphia this year was more fun than usual, mostly because I could escape the family and experience the city proper as it should be experienced by somebody my age. You know - ordering lagers like it's your job, not going home, clicking your heels in the street.

Well I click my heels. I think that's normal.

The family wasn't so bad, either. In the grand scheme of things, my family is not really one of those intolerably nutty and smothering clans that people make holiday movies about ("Fuller, go easy on the Pepsi!"), but since I am used to an unusually small family most of the time, entering into the loud Irish rabble can be jarring. Fortunately, Emily and I have made a habit of taking wine and cake into her room and listening to music while laughing at the drunken nature of our relatives. This year there was a lot of Yo La Tengo and Povel Ramel*.

Re-entry has been kind of ick, if only because everybody's stressed out and a day ahead of me in work acclimation. On the plus side, Andrea made me some new friends to add to my growing desk menagerie:

The big owl is Armen, named after our former buyback manager, who is the sweetest old Armenian I've ever met. The little fuzzies have yet to be named (any suggestions?), and the shark is due to be shipped out to New Jersey tomorrow.

*We bought his CD at Swede Things, since we had so enjoyed our last Scandinavian CD purchase. Because we didn't understand any of the titles on any of the CDs, we had to buy it based totally on his face.

An Open Letter To the Conservatory Boy On My Train Every Morning.

Dear Sir:

Every morning you race onto my train at the last minute. We sit or stand within ten feet of each other, usually looking straight ahead, but often enough making eye contact and looking away abruptly. We both get out at Mass Ave, go up the back stairs, and head down Gainsborough Street until we reach St. Botolph, at which point you take a right to St. Botolph Hall, and I take a left into Northeastern territory. The same thing happens every morning. And I'm not complaining.

Well Ill say it: I like you, and I know I don't have any real reason why. Remember that time you smiled at me as we stepped off the train, and I grimmaced? I'm sorry. Really I am, but I was flustered. Because I like you, and since I decided that, I haven't been able to smile at you or talk to you or anything, because what happens if I grimmace again? And anyway, it's been damn near impossible.

It's the angles, you see. The angles are all wrong. I'll stand next to where you're sitting, or vice versa. Smiles exchanged at these angles are creepy. Or that fat guy who stands in the open doorway blocks any possibility of nonverbal communication. For pete's sake, I always have a seat free right next to me. Sit down! So much easier!

On top of that, we move in parallel lines. Always we are side by side. We step off the train in tandem, walk up opposite sides of the staircase, only getting mixed up when we reach the turnstiles. And no, I can't talk to you at the turnstiles, because it's just too late. If I'm going to talk to you at all, it has to be right at the get-go. Am I right, here? We go down the stairs on the other side, this time you on the right and I on the left, matching each other's down-going patter. I walk down the left side of the street, you on the right, and at one point we are on the same line, going in oppposite directions. Someone should write a poem about that.

I'm not sure what to say, but this isn't working. And I'm too much of a neurotic perfectionist to be comfortable initiating conversation with you in anything short of faultless circumstances, so I'm afraid it's up to you.

My heart is still a-flutter from this morning,
The Other Redhead In the Car.

ALTERNATE VERSION: Picture me standing on the orange line with a boombox over my head playing Touch and Go's hit single, "Would you...?":

Um
I've noticed you around
I find you very attractive
I've noticed you around
Um
I find you very attractive
I find you very attractive
Um
Would you go to bed with me?

I've noticed you around
Um
I find you very attractive
Would you...?
Um

I've noticed you around
I find you very attractive
Would you...?
Um
Um
Would you go to bed with me?

I've noticed you around
I find you very attractive
I've noticed you around
Um...