So I feel like ranting all over this page, about how I dislike reading all the "potty mouthed" and gross bodily stuff I get the privilege of commenting on in my Grad Writing Class. I find myself wondering if high art is about base experience? I get a lot of funny "poop" talk with my three year old and it sounds more comical than the twenty-something male versions. The language is the same for all of them, but somehow each thinks he is the first to stink up the page with the details. Why the obsession and push at this topic as if it is new and enlightening? I know that art is rarely comfortable or appropriate and I guess in the end, we spend a lot of time smelling our own "shit," and politely keep it to ourselves. As I write this I realize that though I still hate reading about it, it is fun to write about, o here I go with my own story (stop reading if you too hate reading about human waste).
When I worked for Citigroup, I flew to NYC on a regular basis. One winter night, I arrived at my hotel at 11:30 pm, tired and happy to be in the hotel my husband and I stayed at on our first visit to the big city together. It was perfect on the first go and just being there, I called him to talk and then unpack and then just lay down in the luxury of the space. About an hour in to the night, as I got ready for bed, I opened the bathroom door and then lifted the toilet seat and found a HUGE surprize sitting inside. I was horrified and then moritifed as I called the front desk to ask for some assitance in handling the mess. As I explained that the toilet was clogged, I kept wishing I had checked the bathroom right away, so no one would think I had made the mess. A guy in a suit showed up with a plunger and almost puked as he stepped into the tiny closet-like space and experienced first hand the colored water. Without saying much, he plunged into with his implement, because I suppose he had to. Somewhere in the middle of his efforts, he paused and wiped sweat off his forehead. As we had not made contact and I was nervous, I started talking. "When I opened the door I could not believe it was there," wanting him to know it was not mine. He got red and apologietic and more energetic in his activity. The next day I found a fancy terrycloth bathrobe on my bed with a hand written apology from the hotel manager. I still wonder who left it there. Someone big I would imagine. Someone angry? House staff in dire straights? Or maybe just an embarrassed guest who shut the top and left the cleaner to believe it was never used during his stay.
Ah. I loved telling that story. Thanks for reading if you got this far.
Now for all the things I wish I were writing about:
- Dying my hair, except my three year old is angry and keeps saying not to because "That is a joke, mom."
- MFA programs - I am going to apply to EMU
- My NANOWRIMO (the novel I am writing in November) is a remake on Jane Eyre, if I ever get my character to be as good as she was (so hard for me to do!)
- Why all my stories have to be in NYC, even though other cities would be easier and perfectly legitimate. My other city could be Detroit, except I have never experienced it and can't even tell you one road that runs through it
- How I am scared to talk to anyone right now (I am really insecure - except in my words on paper (as you can tell). I just don't know what to say, though I know that I am not just talking for myself, but because I really love and want people to know that I value them.
- The lady who was standing in between the highway and onramp at 8 pm last night talking on her cell phone.
- How I am terrified to have my 20 page essay critiqued on Nov 21 (AHHH)
